 *Shenoda, Dr. Sherry, The Lightkeeper, Chesterton, Indiana: Ancient Faith Publishing, 2021. Edith Hamilton, classicist and author of The Echo of Greece, once said, “Greece's great men let all their acts turn on the immortality of the soul. We don't really act as if we believed in the soul's immortality and that's why we are where we are today.” I read The Echo seven to ten years after my misspent undergraduate career and my belated studies of Athens and Rome. However, as they spoke to Hamilton, so the ancient philosophers, historians, and poets spoke to me. I strongly suspect they had a similar influence, formal or autodidactic, on the author of The Lightkeeper. In a book about Deuterocanonical Biblical Wisdom, the wisdom of the ancient thinkers is on display at the beginning of many chapters, also being embedded within them in an instructive, narrative fashion. Among other things, it is a book about the immortality of one particular unusual soul. Dr. Sherry Shenoda, originally from Egypt, is a California pediatrician, wife, mother, and extraordinarily gifted storyteller. Learn more about her at her website. And please purchase a copy of her sublime novel from the Ancient Faith storefront. The philosophy of it all: there is a noble degree of Orthodox (Coptic) Christian apologetics behind the plot and message of The Lightkeeper. It is a beautiful and original explication of the very concept of (Lady) Wisdom, exploring the mysteries of that proverbial truism with stirring elocution. Herman Melville once noted that in addition to the tenants of Old Testament Hebrew faith, Wisdom is also laced with an appreciation of Platonism. More recently, Professor Alexander Dugin likewise explained a strain of the Platonic running through Judaic philosophy, as well as in Islamic reasoning, and, of course, the underpinnings of Eastern Christian Orthodoxy. The same strain grounds The Lightkeeper and provides deep impetus for the story, especially as to the protagonist’s journey. It is a book riddled with time travel. And it opens and closes with an entertaining, or even breathtaking loop (a Closed Timelike Curve to make Seth Lloyd smile) that provides closure for the characters, the reader(!), and for much of the apophatic trust through and beyond questioning that both hammers home the philosophy of the book and narrates the first two parts of the tome. From the outset, Shenoda’s Lightkeeper wrestles with questions about her identity and her purpose. She even wrestles with Wisdom in the literal sense. But via her righteous perseverance, she is eventually gifted true wisdom of the kind only God may dispense. And the entire storyline is incredible as it teaches, without lecturing, the value of patiently trusting and enduring; the twists and turns and mysteries presented eventually cobble together a compelling rendition of the lessons lived and learned by Solomon and Adam. Again, there is recurrent time travel throughout the tale, which, on its own, curves here and there, seemingly chaotically at first glance, but with an ardent purpose before the end. And the story even ends with a form of “wave collapse”. The ending, or rather, the third part through the satisfying conclusion, provides multiple completions both within the story and within the mind of the reader. Per the Biblical sapiential, the protagonist, already immortal, though still suffering doubt and mental anguish, finds true Life Everlasting in addition to the fulfillment of her real intended purpose. “It’s all for me,” she keeps repeating. And it is, though it is not without the influence of the Lady of Wisdom and the permitting glory of He Who is Above. And another he! He who tends the favorite lighthouse. What, really, are we mortals without a love story? And to that end, Shenoda delivers in a rather surprising, though very gratifying, disposition. I do not dare spoil the romance, instead, I advise the reader will find it riveting and rewarding. Of course, that latter description is one I shall apply to the entire work. If I am not mistaken, The Lightkeeper is Shenoda’s second book and first full novel. One truly hopes for a second, third, fourth, and so on, as the author exhibits a keen ability to provoke thought and emotion with her exceptional literary fiction. The Lightkeeper is a gem for any Christian, any philosophically-minded individual, anyone seeking pleasant complexity, if within a gently read format, or anyone interested in a touch of eccentric fantasy or traditional romance. I applaud Shenoda and highly recommend her book. This piece was published on Perrin Lovett on May 9, 2025.
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 I knew the answer, of course, but a man sometimes likes a second opinion. And, in a world first, I think I got a completely succinct, unbiased, and accurate answer from an AI bot. I asked Brave’s browser if it is considered crass to write a review of one’s own book. The machine quickly told me, “Yes.” I knew it was right because the yes didn’t have any extra fingers. And because it is crass, as everyone already knows. So instead of being an oaf, I’ll just tell you a few quick things about my new romance novel and provide a short preview section. Judging Athena is available from Green Altar Books and Amazon (there are substantial previews linked at both sites, by the way). Why not buy ten or twenty copies?! In addition to being a wonderful, innocent love story of the kind the literary world has seemingly forgotten, the book provides a healthy dose of Christian apologetics aimed at fostering romantic connections between men and women and the joint salvation found in the small church of the family home. There’s also copious treatment of general salvation along with a variant of extreme rarity. Here’s my “what makes this book stand out” statement from an (unsuccessful) literary agent query:
Furthermore, the explicated or championed return to tradition and family life is exactly what is desperately needed to keep places like America, Russia, and France French, Russian, and American. After all, ideology and culture are downstream from identity, and identity comes from people. People come from families. You know, moms, dads, and children? We’ve got work to do, friends, but like the book, it will be fun and rewarding. For what it’s worth, also know ye that the little book features such treasures as a philology riddle, a few very light instances of action, a modicum of space travel (way faster than Warp Drive), roses by the bushel, a funeral for a spider, and more. There’s also a creative (and licensed) inclusion of part of this lovely tune by the lovely Sima Itayim! By the way, if you happen to be a member of AALA, I’m honestly looking for marketing, foreign translation, and potential film rights assistance. Pause for the cause??? Next time, I think I shall return to the geopolitical with an eye on America’s new place in the global pecking order. My working title for that is “Breaking Ranks”. You’ll know it when… Blabbity, blabbity, blah. Here’s the first short, sweet chapter of Judging Athena. Enjoy, and as always, Deo vindice. One - Made of Finest NickelThe temperature slowly descended as the oppressive gray of twilight gave way to another early New England night. The young man sheltered beneath the lofty portico, between sturdy stone columns afore the entrance of the impressive structure. He looked some distance down the long, dark sidewalk and across the street, back towards the parking lot and his car. The distant lamp was well-placed and provided nearly ample lighting, though, of course, the time and the weather failed to fully cooperate. At just a tad after six o’clock, the afternoon, or the evening, held a darkness better suited to a damp midnight. It was, after all, if he had reasoned, the middle of November. And the chill threatened to give way to hard cold, a stern preview of the approaching winter. Not the first snowflake had he yet glimpsed that fall, but that afternoon, or since he’d left work some thirty or so minutes earlier, a healthy if depressing sleet had presented itself in force. Even where he stood, the rise, fall, and whip of the wind brought more tinkles of slush to his face and coat. The resulting sensation, along with a semi-long squint of a look at his older Honda Civic, brought recent words back to his mind. ‘Yeah, you’re gonna need it sooner or later. Maybe sooner than later,’ the mechanic had told him. ‘For you, I can get a new radiator in there for, lemme just say, give or take, about seven-fifty. Could do it in one day. If they got the parts, of course.’ ‘Seven-fifty,’ he’d quoted back somewhat hazily to the kindly man. ‘Give or take.’ ‘With the— If I needed any related tuning or if something else needed replacing, would I be safer budgeting a flat thousand?’ ‘You know your car, young feller,’ the mechanic said. ‘Heater core, worn tires, et cetera. Eventually, it’ll be more like a couple grand. But, yeah, a thousand would make it easy for now. And just so you know, I think she’s got a few more miles and maybe months left in her. I do know money is tight. Just keep an eye on the gauge and the reservoir level until you’re ready. I’ll be here, so lemme know.’ ‘Thank you very much.’ ‘And back to the flakes,’ the mechanic said, ‘nobody claims they like ‘em, but in a case like this, I say just sprinkle as needed and trust the good Lord to get you through.’ They both laughed at the time. Back under the awning, the young man suddenly wondered if he had any flakes left in that little jar. He simply couldn’t remember. He needed to budget—even more than he usually did—but the poor man’s antifreeze fix was pretty cheap. He looked and squinted again now that the wind had died just a bit. From his vantage point, he didn’t see any steam coming from under the hood. That was well. He didn’t have a thousand dollars or even the suggested seven-fifty. The situation made the Lord’s trust mandatory and, accordingly, something else to be grateful for. Turning to go through the large, heavy doors, he thought a little more about his finances. Once inside both sets of doors, he stopped just inside the little entry alcove before the main landing and rotunda. After shaking slush from his hair and water-resistant medium-weight jacket, he momentarily took out his phone. In a jiffy, he’d punched up his meager checking account. Based on what he needed to set aside for rent and the basics until the next payday, he simply didn’t have the money for major repairs. Not just yet. He said a quick trustful prayer about it all and then turned off his analytical mind; he had a different kind of necessity to purchase, one that wasn’t about him, and, thus, to his mind, far more important. With a sigh of determination, he pocketed the phone and walked deeper into the main hall. Fully surrounded by its environment, he was reminded how much he enjoyed the Gallery. In addition to so much visual detail and subdued excitement, it had the pleasant smell of a good museum or library, and the temperature and humidity were always perfect. But on that evening, and at that hour, he felt like he was all alone there. He saw no one else and he couldn’t make out the first voice or footfall. Regardless, he walked on toward fulfilling his little mission. Just before taking his next step, he thought, perhaps prophetically, certainly fortuitously, to pop a breath mint into his mouth. A turn to his right and he saw the main reception desk. No one was there. Walking just past it and turning again to his right, he found the gift shop. Still observing no one about, he slowly walked inside. It was as he remembered it: well-lit, modern, comfortable, and full of interesting merchandise, though he understood more than a few of the wares were a little pricey. He was just beginning to earnestly look around, wondering exactly what he wanted and how much it would set him back, when he thought he heard sweet, soft music playing. As if in a dream, he tried to listen to the melody. Suddenly, he realized the song had lyrics. Or were they plain spoken words? Something suggested they were. In fact, he almost thought some enchanting voice was speaking to him, saying, ‘Just a moment, and I’ll be there.’ And just like that, someone was there. He saw her coming from the corner of his eye. ‘Hello,’ she said, approaching him with a smile. ‘My sincerest apologies if I’ve kept you waiting.’ He just looked in the direction of the voice and froze, staring in disbelief. The sound of her speech was enough to bend time; it was clear, concise English, but it bore the supple hint of an accent he simply could not place. Given enough time, he might have reluctantly, unimaginatively decided it could have been a French accent. But the temporal temporarily evaded him. If her voice slowed perception, then the sight and beholding of her brought time and space to a complete standstill. Before him was, as best he could describe her, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Or even dreamed of seeing. In fact, he instantly decided he was looking at the most beautiful woman in all the world, maybe of all time. He discerned a nearly supernatural being, one of impossible, definitional, and divine beauty made or forced to be painfully visible, almost palpable, visceral. She was tall for a woman, about his height. He wasn’t sure if she was wearing heels. If so, then she might have overtopped him by half an inch. Her proportions were simply perfect as displayed by way of proffer through the elegant gray dress or skirt suit she wore. She had the longest, silkiest, blackest hair imaginable. Piercing eyes shined forth from an angelic face without flaw. Her irises flickered like lightning, though he was unsure of their exact color, at one imperceptible millisecond appearing blue, then gray, then hazel, and then some alluring, undefinable combination. If she wore any makeup, it was minimalistic. Her face and body defied any sign of age; if he had to guess, if his life depended on it, he would have said she was a little older than him, perhaps in her late twenties. She was a young woman in her utter prime, the ideal specimen. And somehow he felt as much as saw a glow about her. She was smiling, friendly, honestly, and kindly with rich red lips as she slowly advanced towards him. Before her wafted a smell sweeter than any flower, a scent that, even as it demanded attention or even adoration, almost physically pushed him away like the strong breeze at the edge of a hurricane. Helpless and deprived of his clear senses, he took a step backward. He felt his pulse begin to race. The rapid beat felt so good, if the feeling did cause him additional slight confusion, possibly alarm, something between fear and glee. Yet, truth be told, it was probably much closer to pure glee. ‘How may I help you, sir?’ she asked. ‘I, I—’ he stammered even as he felt his back touch something. Quickly turning, virtually in a panic, and with no time to spare, he was just able to grab the little green porcelain vase before it fell off the short white marble stand. As he handled it, he caught a glimpse of the price tag - $999.95. ‘Oh, wow,’ he stuttered as he gingerly replaced the vessel. ‘I, I, I—’ ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,’ she apologized, still through a bewitching smile that now intimated kind laughter. ‘No, I’m sorry,’ he said as he turned once more to face her. Maybe it was the lighting or a trick of his mind, but it appeared that she had melted into a more ordinary form of extreme beauty, still seemingly too perfect, but, at least, earthly. ‘I, I— I’m just looking for a little g-g-gift.’ ‘I’m Athena,’ she said, extending her right hand to him. He nervously took it and then openly if thinly gasped. Upon their touching, upon the grace of a short, formal handshake the kind proper ladies receive and dispense, he was taken by a sudden calm that swept his whole body, mind, and soul. And just like that, he was back to being himself, back to being able to see, think, and speak again, and back on his minor gift quest. He was keenly aware, however, that he felt greatly gladdened, or joyous even. ‘Athena,’ he said with a warm smile and a subtle blush. ‘Athena? Like the winged Nike Athena? Wow. I’m Josh.’ ‘It’s very nice to meet you, Josh. And, yes. Shhhh—I’ve never heard anyone guess my secret identity before,’ she said with an open laugh, soft, sincere, and perhaps flirty. ‘Now, you’re looking for a gift? You’re in the right place!’ ‘Well, yes,’ he said more affirmatively, finally feeling like he’d come back to having his feet on the ground. ‘I’m looking for something small and simple for a lady friend.’ Athena strolled a few feet into the assorted shelves and stands, one finger to her lips as she thought. ‘Your friend, is she a special lady? I take it she is.’ ‘Yes, very much so, very dear to me. My sweet Isabella,’ Josh said. ‘I suppose I want something she can wear, something to remind her of the exhibit and our seeing it. It’s also for her birthday in a few weeks.’ ‘Are you coming to see it together, the Gallery, or have you recently browsed?’ she asked. ‘Oh, I’ve been here before. But this will be her first visit. We’re coming tomorrow, about this time, as part of a little group. We’re taking a guided tour of the Patterson prints.’ ‘I see,’ she said with another delicious smile. ‘Please give me a second while I think. With the flu season hitting early, we’re a little short-staffed tonight. The shop, while I know most of what’s here, isn’t my usual station. Patterson— I fear we don’t have anything directly related to his works, certainly nothing like apparel.’ She paused as she looked around thoughtfully. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean to keep you from anything,’ Josh said. ‘Do you work at the desk, or back in the gallery?’ ‘Yes, the latter. I’m the curator,’ she said, still looking and thinking. ‘Of the whole museum? Wow, that’s impressive!’ ‘Yes, and thank you,’ she said, turning again with that smile. ‘Something she can wear. But I take it not a hat or t-shirt, correct?’ ‘Well, no, maybe something a little more special or formal than that, more meaningful.’ ‘I’ve just the thing!’ she said, snappily striding towards the back wall. ‘Or, just the set of items. How about jewelry?’ Josh joined her in front of the wall and a case full of adornments and treasures. His money woes uneasily hinted at the back of his mind. ‘Maybe something, uh, something affordable? Small?’ He looked at her hopefully. ‘Just the thing!’ she almost sang. She reached down to the end of a shelf and picked up a short necklace with a small oval locket, the assembly of which appeared to be made of slender loops of some shiny if slightly tender metal. ‘This is our Doris Harper limited collection. Mrs. Harper makes every piece by hand in her Maine cottage. No two pieces are ever the same—each is a unique triumph. And she only makes them of the very finest nickel. A gift to thrill Miss Isabella for a lifetime.’ Josh understood exactly zero about jewelry, or metals, for that matter. But he instantly loved what he saw and happily envisioned it hanging around someone special’s neck. ‘Nickel?’ he asked somewhat timidly. ‘Not so brash or commonplace as gold or silver. Or platinum. And there is great art in these designs. The craftsmanship, the presentation is what sets them apart. We regularly ship them coast to coast and to Europe,’ she explained. ‘I don’t know what it is, some secret, but they’re treated with a patented clear protective layer or electroplating that preserves their so-slightly muted luster and prevents any unwanted allergic activity if that would be a problem. I just happen to be wearing one of her bracelets.’ She raised her other hand in demonstration. Josh looked at the bracelet, not knowing exactly what he was supposed to look for. He also took the chance to observe her left hand, seeing smooth lineless skin, polished hard nails, and, he noted with a quiet thrill, no rings. He gave a quick glance back to her neck and head. He couldn’t see a necklace though he saw she wore simple earrings that complimented the bracelet, her outfit, and her flawless face. ‘I do like that locket,’ Josh said, his thoughts still resting on her appearance and bearing. ‘Dare I ask how much it costs?’ ‘Far less than one would think,’ she said knowingly and kindly. ‘This is only one-fifty!’ Josh quickly calculated he could afford it, that it would only delay his repairs but a short month if that, and that the purchase would be well worth it. ‘Isabella will love it forever,’ he happily thought to himself, her sweet, cute face temporarily replacing Athena’s in his whirling mind. He smiled at the notion of presenting it to her the very next evening around the corner in the traveling exhibition room. ‘I’ll take it!’ As he reinserted his debit card into his wallet, he watched Athena wrap the little white box holding the locket. They were both smiling throughout the transaction. But through the whole process, Josh thought to himself: ‘I wonder what Isabella would think of Athena? I wonder what I think? What do I think?! Is this love at first sight?! Oh, my Lord! What, if anything, do I say? What do I do?’ He felt his heart rate accelerate again. Still with that smile to thaw any heart, Athena handed him the little wrapped package. ‘I’m sure she’ll love it. I will be in, this time tomorrow. If you get the chance, I’d like to see you again, Josh. I’d like to meet you and your special little lady!’ ‘And that will be something!’ he thought. ‘It’s a deal,’ he said. ‘We’ll, hopefully, see you tomorrow.’ He turned to go but then paused. Turning back to her, he reached out for her hand. Shaking it lightly, again feeling that delightful calm and warmth, he said, ‘Thank you so very much, Athena. Well met, and I look forward to seeing you again.’ She smiled once more, though this time the look went much deeper and higher than before, a touch of giddiness added to her existing pleasant transcendence. He left and she watched him until he exited through the main doors. As a matter of common courtesy, she immediately decided against further observing his movements outside. ‘Wow,’ she said openly. She then reflected on their brief meeting. He was an inch or so above average height for a man in those times. His hair was dark brown and well matched his keen sparkling eyes. She could tell that beneath his blue coat he was slim though not thin. Below his coat, she’d seen clean, neat casual slacks over well-loved walkers. He was, to her eyes, very cute, adorable even. She had, even when she first approached him, sensed he was sweet, kind, gentle, and pure. That boy. That man of what? He’s probably only in his early twenties. Yet he seemed so timeless. And sincere. Wonderful. And … she then thought very deeply: ‘Could he have actually seen me? Even for a second, could he have seen me as I really am? As best his eyes might contrive? If so, he is a great rarity. Regardless, his lady friend is most fortunate. He didn’t say what kind of special friend she was. He wore no ring, nor did he mention her romantically. I dared not read his thoughts, settling for a woman’s guess instead. And what do I now guess? Isabella. I know not about her, but is this? For me, is this? Could this be love at first sight?!’ A feeling she had not known or even thought of in an age took her for the barest moment. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Then, as she gave thought to the night’s closing, she decided to check the computer registry for the following evening and any scheduled guest groups. Outside, seated in his small, older economy car, pelted by more sleet that, by the sound, hardened as the temperature continued to drop, Josh thought for a quiet moment. Then he spoke to the night, ‘I know Isabella will love this gift. And our visit. All of them will.’ He smiled, crossed himself, and then spoke to his Father, ‘Thank you, O Lord, for this gift, for Isabella, and for my meeting Athena. I don’t even know what I want to ask. Or even what to think. You know my heart and all things. Thank you, thank you, thank you! For all this and Your continuing mercy. Amen.’ He smiled just before adding, ‘And please, God, please keep the wagon wheels turning!’ With that, he turned the key and watched with relief as all the gauges rolled into place. He backed out and drove on and all was well in the deepening night. A few hours later, at his bedside in his little apartment, he said another prayer. It was one of thanksgiving for his life, his blessings, and for tomorrow evening. He almost sang it out, so glad was his heart. This piece was published at Perrin Lovett on May 4, 2025
 Twenty years ago, the late, great Thomas Moore published a fantastic action novel, The Hunt for Confederate Gold. One of Tom’s themes was the domestic terrorism of the then-new Yankee Department of Homeland Security (DHS), another imperial gift to the “land of the free” stemming from the September 11th false flag attacks. DHS was nominally created in 2003 to secure the homeland from nebulous terrorism or some such hysteria. Fears immediately grew that DHS would instead morph into yet another agency dedicated to making the lives of the innocent miserable. The fears were well-founded. These are, after all, the people who practice amateur proctology at American airports. In Tom’s book, DHS agents run roughshod over the civil liberties of Dixians. Charles Sheehan-Miles captured a fictional phenomenon similar to Tom’s in Republic (2007), wherein Yankee stormtroopers are so abusive that West Virginia has no choice but to risk war via secession. Today, DHS is back in the news in real-life, for a variety of reasons, none of which have anything to do with making Americans freer or more secure. When the department isn’t rounding up anti-genocide protesters from US college campuses and deporting them under rather specious circumstances, they’re evidently “gangstalking” US citizens. Just like the good old Stasi! Rounding up those who oppose the wanton slaughter of entire populations is also what the French do, and they don’t even have freedom fries. So far, the American street-nabbings, secretive hearings, imprisonments, and deportations have been limited to guests, residents, and Visa holders. So far. There are more than a few people residing within the US desperately in need of deportation. About half of them appear to work either in Congress or for the Trump administration. Trump ran for his second term partly on immigration reform. He even issued a stern and proper-sounding Order back in January regarding Protecting The American People From Invasion. As Americans place a nearly divine faith in and around the power of mere words, this grand proclamation, only six decades too late, should suffice. Something tells me that beyond mere words, nothing else of substance will happen. Incompatible invaders only become a problem once they’re a problem for the elites. The elites celebrate the core values of “democracy”, one of which is genocide. Protest that, in any way, and off to El Salvador with you. Now, the Trump hints that he wants to deport Americans to foreign prisons or torture centers. It wasn’t exactly clear what he meant when he spoke to Nayib Bukele the other day at the White House—and nothing the Trump says is ever that clear—but all-in-all it would appear someone is in the crosshairs.
One might suspect the monsters the Trump mentioned, none of whom commit crimes within the federal purview, probably aren’t his targets. The real “monsters” he’d really like to ship away are the kind who dare defy or object to those lovely values of the Talmud or any associated evils. And the law has nothing to do with it, with anything. The law in the US has always been a fiction, words on paper, quickly disregarded whenever deemed necessary to maintain elite control. Think the law is a barrier to the deportation of US citizens? Then, just type “Clement Vallandigham” into the search engine of your choice. Decades before Sinclair Lewis wrote It Can’t Happen Here, it already had happened. It has happened since. And it will happen again. No, I’m sure it won’t happen to you, so don’t worry. Things like this always happen to someone else. Maybe the unlucky dissenters of tomorrow will be shipped off to Trump Camp in Somaliland, the proposed future home of the surviving Palestinians and future imperial regional military meddling center. Breakaway Somaliland is yet another place most ‘Murikans couldn’t find on a map, but it may receive official recognition from the Trump in exchange for allowing the use of its land for Trumpian madness. No, fellow Southerners, they will never recognize Dixie. Nothing in America is ever what it seems. Trump’s tariff scheme isn’t about trade barriers, which would if enacted properly, be a good thing. It’s probably not even coherent economic warfare. It fits with the Trump way: much talk, muddled action, and rank confusion. Peace-maker Trump, all about “America first”, keeps groveling before his foreign overlords while making war or chaos in El Salvador, Greenland, Somaliland, Yemen, Palestine, Lebanon, Iraq, Iran, China, Ukraine, Russia, and likely one-hundred other places—none of them in America or of any strategic interest to Americans. When all the foreign adventures fail, and they will, then the focus will be entirely on the home-growns. All of this late lunacy was accurately predicted by Dr. Fadi Lama in Why The West Can’t Win (2023), page 357:
The US is not a sovereign country, and therefore cannot be a valid part of the new order of sovereign nations. It could theoretically fit in as a pole in the multipolar arrangement of world power. But unlike the others, the US pole will remain untrustworthy and dangerous—abroad and, especially, at home. This situation will, I think, continue until the US collapses or burns out. For my part, when or if the time comes, I’d like to be deported directly to Moscow. Thanks in advance, Yanks! Deo vindice. This piece was published at Perrin Lovett on April 18, 2025.
 Preparing to promote a novel, even while writing another one and lazily revising two more, I may also be formulating a theory regarding the place of the US in the multipolar world. It may be that the Empire of Lies and Cowards may have no choice but to play nice, or to pretend to when dealing with the other great powers, Russia and China. If you’re in a senior leadership position in Beijing or Moscow, kindly keep a wary eye on your new frenemy in Washington. Concerning the rest of humanity, the US has not changed. It’s all bluster, bragging, browbeating, bribes, and, then, bombs. And regarding those souls trapped in the US homeland, it begins to look like more of the same though with only a slightly different character or hue. At one point during the late Signal chat retardery, the lowbrow discussion turned towards all of the vital American interests in bombing houses, convenience stores, and cancer hospitals in Yemen and Europe’s collective inability or unwillingness to participate in the scheme. Someone initialed “SM”, likely Stephen Miller, wrote, “If the US successfully restores freedom of navigation at great cost there needs to be some further economic gain extracted in return.” By the way, bombing poor but invincible people will not “MAGA”, unless as Max Blumenthal says, MAGA really means “Miriam Adelson’s Goals Achieved.” But “economic gain extracted” essentially summarizes the entire purpose, history, and spirit of the American experiment. Being little more than a hitman for the international financial class, the US is always extracting gain for the money masters, everywhere, in everything, and from everyone. Scott Bessent, retired hedge fund looter, Soros acolyte, open homosexual, and current Secretary of the Imperial Treasury, was remarkably candid during a recent meeting of the Trumpian cabinet about plans to further the gains of the rich men: “Yes, sir, [Massa Trump, sir]. So, uh, we are, under your direction, we're reprivatizing the economy. We're bringing down government spending. We're bringing down excess employment in the government sector. On the other side, we're going to re-leverage the banking system…” America was founded for the corporations, by the corporations, and of the corporations. Literally, everything it officially does today is designed to enrich the wicked elite by plundering everyone else. Accordingly, re-leveraging the banking system can only mean making the plundering easier. The process is in play in America, along with Yemen, Western Europe, Greenland, Ukraine, et cetera. Washington reluctantly accepts that it cannot defeat Russia. However, it is hellbound and determined to loot and wreck Ukraine or whatever parts of the former Ukraine survive. Bessent and Trump are trying to force a “deal” on the illegitimate junta in Kiev, possibly more onerous than the Weimar plan that eventually gave the world its second global war. Rumor has it Lil’ Ze has rejected the plan, for now, but it fits the eternal American pattern: poor people and their alleged governments take all the risks and casualties and bear all the expenses, while the banks, hedge funds, and other corporations steal all the resources and keep all the profits. Corporatism is war with other means. Despite centuries of practice, the US has never been good at regular maneuver warfare. Its power rested, post-WW2, on two things: the perceived strength of the US military, and the perceived safety and universality of the US Dollar. Both things have taken serious hits this century, and now the game appears to be one of frantically trying to leverage bombing with or against predatory financialization. Please keep those seatbelts on, fliers. The Yemeni adventure is possibly a runup for an even more catastrophic attack on Iran. One truth from the Signal idiocy is that Americans know nothing about Yemen. Iran is another country Americans know nothing about. They’re not likely to learn about either, as now even US college students are increasingly illiterate. Iranians, however, are notoriously avid readers. As are Indians and Chinese, with around 600 million regular readers among each population. The moral of this short column is that my novels need translation into, among other languages, Persian, Hindi, and Mandarin. That’s how I’ll extract my economic gain. Deo vindice.  Vox Day did a very good job, over at Sigma Game, lately explaining why (American/Western) men don’t read much these days. Few real men want anything to do with loony witches, fembots, and caustic blue-haired harpies. Yet those types, along with some other usual suspects, constitute the majority of Western book authors, publishers, distributors, buyers, editors, gatekeepers, and agents. If one reads Vox’s article, then one will gain a decent understanding of the astroturfing of what passes, at least in the eyes of too many postmodern women, for best-selling literature. Add to this tragedy the decline of general intelligence, burgeoning post-literacy or illiteracy, and the shunning of men from traditional male ideas, systems, endeavors, and spaces, and one has a recipe for a rolling disaster. Patrick Lawrence wrote the other day about part of that unfolding disaster as it pertains to the peculiar case of Yankee Attorney General Pam Blondie’s circus sideshow release of files regarding the criminal activities of dead pedophile Jeffrey Epstein. If one has just arrived from another galaxy, then know that Epstein was the poster boy for an international child sex trafficking ring and likely intel asset. Evidently, the only good thing the man ever did was die. Blondie hyped her file release, then crawfished when the event underwhelmed. She now claims she has better information and will release it once certain redactions are made. Lawrence honed right in on one given reason for some of the redactions: “national security”.
The Yankee empire, its agents, friends, and allies, have a long and wicked history of involvement in related matters. Way back in 2019, I wrote a few bits about the quiet release of another batch of previously classified data, the FBI’s “Finders Files”. Those files concerned a series of 1980s cases of child sexual abuse at daycare centers that became popularly known as the “Satanic Panic”. After the children’s allegations were “investigated”, we were informed the kids made it all up, nothing happened, and don’t you dare suspect anything similar going forward. Thirty years later, we learned that everything the kids said was true, the government knew about it at the time, and there was a cover-up. A few august members of the retarderati responded to my articles by telling me I was a fool for rehashing long-debunked cOnSpIrAcY ThEoRiEs. And, yes, I had linked to the same set of files back then in the articles, but again, the not reading angle. What does any of this have to do with fiction? Well, I included the Finders and a fictional version of Epstein, the notorious Geoffrey Steinberg, in my 2019 novel, The Substitute (2023 revision from Green Altar Books). Oddly enough, when he found out I was writing my first major work of fiction, the late, great Thomas Moore said, “That’s great, and you should! Just remember, though, that half the people are illiterate and the other half don’t read.” He was, of course, being jovial, though as we know he was onto something. Those who have read my book enjoyed a narrative telling of the foregoing criminal atrocities and more as seen through the eyes of a former CIA killer. In chapter sixteen, page 191, Tom Ironsides even warns a young FBI agent specifically about the Finders. Agent Pennington was at Tom’s house after the hero inadvertently busted up an Epstein-esque operation within the public school system(s). On the next page, Tom’s former employer thanks him for his help while promising the DOJ will relieve him of the burden of testifying out of deference to … national security. And Tom knows what Lawrence suspects: there is always Yankee government involvement in such filth. By the way, I noted a long history of such evil. This involvement is as old as, in fact, older than America itself. If one has access to that newfangled internet thing, then please search for the strange case of all the little skeletons found under Benjamin Franklin’s old house on the apply-named Craven Street in London. Yeah. One beauty of writing fiction is that the author can provide satisfaction for certain unpleasant matters in ways simply impossible for the average man to affect in real life. For instance, in chapter twenty-one of The Substitute, in the subsection “Justice Delivered,” Tom learns that Mr. Steinberg, his tropical island liar, and several dastardly associates are eliminated one evening by a massive thermobaric explosion. (Secret reveal: the blast is caused by a drone cargo 747 loaded with the mythical “C-12” ultra-high explosive [a non-RDX, post-nitroamine agent]. Why? Because.) As a bonus, the reader also witnesses Tom’s fond memories from the time it was his honor to assassinate a chief associate of Steinberg in Sicily. That extrajudicial hit, by the way, will be explicated in my forthcoming novella AURELIUS. Remember, all men and women, that fiction has the stirring ability to connect the reader to assorted subjects by creating a personal link between those subjects and the reader’s thoughts and emotions—a powerful and sometimes fun force. In conclusion, I recommend a few random novels for the esteemed consideration of my readers here. First, there’s the self-serving mention, again, of The Substitute. Then there’s Counterparts by the late Gonzalo Lira. Next, we have The Ways of the Dead by Neely Tucker. After that, I am currently enjoying the heck out of The Lightkeeper by Sherry Shenoda, a fantastic Christian fictional tale possessed of a keen and unusual literary quality. Finally, and again of self-serving interest, there’s the soon-to-be-published Judging Athena, Christian fiction unlike any other and utterly unlike my ordinary fare. Athena is an exposition and championing of the beauty of marriage and the salvation-fostering benefits thereof. Believe it or not, even though it’s my work, there’s zero cursing, lust, or jaded polemics in it. There is a modicum of turbulent action, partly of a nature related to those instances noted above. However, when those very few scenes come along, they will be welcomed by the reader, and they unfold, divinely inspired, in a different direction than my usual compulsion. The love story itself, as compelling as it is innocent, is a superb singularity. Soon, my friends. Deo vindice.  Judging Athena by Perrin Lovett, is forthcoming from Green Altar books. This piece was published at Perrin Lovett on March 14, 2025.
 It is my opinion that in the great war of the sovereign nations versus the satanic world disorder of clown world it appears a civil war of sorts has broken out amongst the clowns. I have no idea, really, which side is which. Though confusing, it is heaps of fun to observe from a safe distance. I’m sure one and all enjoyed the high horse-throwing of Ukraine’s unelected nazi dictator at the White House the other day. Was that the US’s way of easing out of an unwinnable war? Was it the empire shifting the burden to the clowns of Europe? Has the US joined Russia and China in the sovereign camp? Is the US even sovereign? Let’s just hedge all bets and say, “Maybe?” One thing is certain: the faux elites of the liberal globalist West are panicking as they watch the world they thought they owned and ruled slip away from their clawed fingers. Among other hasty remedial measures, they have evidently decided to co-opt what passes for mainstream conservative or traditionalist thinking in the West. Or they’re trying to re-co-opt it. Again. If one glances around, one will see the signs of convergence. I recently discovered the new alleged alternative to the World Economic Forum, the Alliance for Responsible Citizenship (”ARC”). ARC just hosted a big conference in London, England. My friends in the genuine multipolar world were not invited to participate in the various discussions. Neither were any ordinary Americans or Westerners. I, of course, was not invited, but I’ve been busy anyway. I encourage one and all to look at who was invited, both the Speakers and the Advisory Board. Some of these are really good people, like the esteemed Victor Davis Hanson. Others, however, are rather suspicious at best. If they are all so edgy and anti-establishment, then why were they gleefully allowed into the PC police state of Airstrip One? And why are they allowed on all the mainstream social media where you and I are banned? Just a few things to think about. Please consider the real utility of people like Jordan “Isn’t it soft?” Peterson, Ben Crenshaw, Mikey Johnson, so many other usual suspects, and Chris Lunsford. Lunsford is better known by his stage name and is best known for his likely astroturfed, UTA-represented song, “Rich Men North of Richmond”. Since that song came out of nowhere, I’ve maintained it is, at best, diversionary, designed to protect the “rich men” while shifting attention and ire onto more popular targets like poor people. Yes, some poor people on food stamps are short, fat, and obese. But the lion’s share of welfare spending in a place like the US goes to the rich men, particularly to their mega-corporations, and especially to their commercial banks. The banks use legislation, regulation, and super usury to milk the system harder, and they are more obese than any other group. Take a look at Peter Costello’s ARC presentation on getting young people out from under the yoke of debt. The man is dead right when he says: “If you want young people to have a good start in life, give them a DEBT FREE start.” However, it appears (from the text, at least) he shifts the discussion away from crushing personal debts and value-zapping monetary inflation imposed by the rich men to the cheerier, conservative-friendly talking point of public debts. All of these debts, all of them fake to begin with, can be easily eliminated. Yet, as Australia, like the UK and the US, is a modern liberal democracy (ARC is big on “liberal democracy”), it is little more than an agent for the international financial class. That class, being composed of greedy, retarded satanists, has no use for setting people free with honest money or things like Heaven-mandated jubilees. I suspect that ARC is run by some clown faction(s) and they now realize they have to pay a little lip service towards letting some people live semi-tenable lives. As Dr. Fadi Lama predicted, the chickens of the West are coming home to roost. Perhaps this is some compromise version of globalism light or globalism with a smiley face. (Lama was, of course, not listed as an invitee at ARC’s party.) Please take a look at ARC’s plan to “Re-Humanise” education. In the end, we are informed: “The creation and maintenance of diverse pathways of formation—necessary for the great diversity of real human beings, and to the actualisation of the unique potential of each—is the essential condition for the revitalisation of a vibrant culture.” 37-page word salads aside, would it not be better to just get out of the way and let parents educate their children, as they see fit, as they traditionally did, and within the parameters of their unique cultures? ARC raises a lot of questions. And ARC has questions for us. Please take a brief look at their big six queries. See if you detect neo-Babylonian concepts like forced unity. See if you catch transactional mention of people and families as if they’re discussing accounting line items or parts in a factory assembly line. Or how they leave financial capitalism out of their list of “mutants”. Or their obsession with free thought, free speech, free movement, free trade, and other faux “frees”. Please feel free to look deeper into this developing movement, particularly those of you out in the multipolar world who have the intelligence and spiritual fortitude to make independent sense of it. I could be wrong, but I suspect this is yet another scheme to extend the extreme anti-human sociopathy of the Enlightenment. Rather than being fooled by it once again, Christians, Muslims, and others of goodwill must—and there is no alternative—drive the final stake into that vampire and turn it to ash. It’s the responsible thing we citizens can do. We have God’s blessing, mandate, and assistance. Deo vindice. This piece was published at Perrin Lovett on March 7, 2025.
 Hope is a good thing, so says the Bible. Regarding certain matters, hope tempered with logic and caution may be a better thing. The Trump is back at the facade helm of the Yankee empire. I sometimes feel like I’m at odds with some Trump enthusiasts. It’s not that I entirely disagree with them, it’s just that when it comes to Trump in particular and ‘Murika in general I pass my hope through the forge a little longer. How’s that? Trump may certainly help, and already he’s showing promise, but nothing can stop the decline of the empire. Nor should anything stop it. Real Americans should take whatever reprieve they’re given and do what they can to ameliorate the underpinning problems of Old America (which predate 1776 by centuries) and, here and there, build for the future. Herein, I take a quick look at a few Trumpy items of late that may or may not have much to do with that reprieve. But first, I slowed much of my analysis of practical matters lately. In some parts and for a little while, I took a break from the madness. Inspiration or the Holy Spirit called, and I wrote a Christian romance novel, unlike anything you’ve likely read before. It’s certainly nothing like my ordinary fiction. JUDGING ATHENA is forthcoming (soon) from Green Altar Books, roughly 330 pages of innocent, pure romance coupled with salvation-oriented apologetics, and with a plot device that is utterly unique. Please keep track of the progress via my new Telegram hub. Trump is very difficult to gauge or predict, primarily because one cannot usually take his statements at face value. So, just like from 2017-2021, we are now playing a collective waiting game. As promised, with one phone call, in 24 hours, he ended the NATO Nazi’s war on Russia, so he now has time and resources for other endeavors. Trump says he wants to annex or conquer Mexico, Panama, Canada, Greenland, Pluto, Narnia, and Gaza. He’s said a lot about Gaza, so I’ll primarily focus on that. He’s also mentioning something about multipolarity. However, those mentionings smell like a last-ditch attempt to keep ‘Murika front and center in the emerging sovereign world order. As many international organizations that used to serve Washingtonian interests are now faltering, failing, or realigning, an effort is underway to … do something. Trump’s team is targeting UN agencies like UNRWA because they are anti-Murikan. Or anti-satanic. Or something. A seasoned and intelligent diplomat, Russia’s Sergei Lavrov, sees different potential in the older establishments, the potential to conform them away from DC and towards an honest multipolar responsibility. My money is on the Russian perspective. Some might call the remembrance “anti-satanic”, but one may recall that one founding principle of the UN, along with so many Resolutions, demands a free and independent Palestinian State. One may also recall that since October 2023, the Zionists and Yankees have waged an all-out genocide of Palestinians in Gaza, with rank spillover in the West Bank, Lebanon, Syria, Iran, and Yemen. Trump has been given some credit for the late ceasefire (may it hold!), and that credit may in part be due; however, great credit is also due to the Resistance for enduring. Alas, they still have more to resist. Trump previously begged Egypt and Jordan to take in the Palestinians so the Zionists could complete their 80-year land theft. In a meeting the other day with a corrupt dictator, genocidal maniac, and wanted war criminal, the Trump floated a plainly insane-sounding idea about the GAE taking over Gaza and turning it into a Trump hotel, casino, and golf complex, possibly to be managed by Jared Kushner. Most of the world scoffed at the idea. For their part, the Palestinians refuse to give up what’s always been theirs—regardless of the threats or consequences.  (The war criminal is seen here, awaiting Trump in DC, attended by his unnamed manservant.) Who knows what Trump means by any of this? As a wheeler-dealer and carnival barker, he’s known to say anything, oftentimes as a negotiation starting point or a ploy. Time will tell as always. But Gaza does need rebuilding—on terms strictly dictated by the Palestinians. And the Yankees and Zionists who ruined the place should foot the bill for repairing it. To be blunt, to ease the process along, Trump should remove all the Zionists to the GAE homeland, freeing and returning Palestine to the Palestinians. That would be a win-win, as in confused places like South Carolina and Tennessee, the Zionists would be literally worshipped like pagan gods. Palestine would be free to join BRICS, prosper, and get on with repopulating in the wake of the genocide. Trump may have inadvertently hinted at the magnitude of the Gazacaust during one of his meetings with the aforementioned war criminal. The Palestine Chronicle does a decent job trying to estimate and update the known death and injury tolls in Gaza. Right now, the number of those killed stands at around 62,000.  Those are kinetic or martial kills. The Lancet’s methodology also includes those who died of disease and starvation proximately caused by the genocide, which is how modern war death tolls are properly assessed. That total estimate could range between 250,000 and 300,000 and perhaps higher. MOA thinks Trump knows how much higher:
Pepe Escobar, by the way, reads that as perhaps 600,000 dead. If one knows of a certain second-century prophecy, then there’s a pathetic and luciferian irony in it if Pepe is correct. As-is, 62,000 is bad enough. One wonders how, aside from acting as a waiter, Trump plans to address this avoidable and evil calamity. One wonders a lot of things. Still, wonder with a little hope. And we shall see. This piece was published on February 7, 2025 at Perrin Lovett.
 Donald Trump is once again the president of the armed international banking agent known as the United States of Amerika. Here’s wishing him, the Amerikan people, and the whole world well! Just before his illegitimate term ended, Trump’s unlawful predecessor, Brandon, was thawed from his cryosleep chamber and allowed or forced to issue a number of pardons. Among those criminals Brandon spared from future criminal prosecution were Phony Baloney Tony Fauci, General (Pain in the Rear End) Mark Milley, and the Kongress Kritters who oversaw the “J6” witch hunt. Because democracy! Brandon being kind of, sorta like a real president, I suppose this action counts as lawful. If not, then let’s just take a swig of the good stuff and pretend, okay? But the episode made me think about something I’ve considered before. Before I get to that notion, a side note about something much more important, a question: Does Athena like roses? In fact, she does. And you’re about to find out why. Trust me!* Okay… According to Article II, Section 2 of the late US Constitution, presidents have a nearly unlimited ability to pardon federal criminal offenses. The only limit is that they may not issue pardons in cases of impeachment. That Constitution, which is dead and now reposes, free for public viewing, in an armored sarcophagus at the National Archives in Washington, is a funny bird. According to its Tenth Amendment, “[t]he powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the States, are reserved to the States respectively, or to the people.” That means if some power or authority is not expressly found in the Constitution, then the national government is prohibited from exercising it. That’s the law. And it has never, ever been violated. Bwahahahaha!!!! *cough, cough* I’m sorry, pardon me. For the international set, that last bit was a (bad) joke; the whole thing has been violated up and down worse than Ashley was in the shower. But if we take the words of the law of the land at their face value, which is to be at odds with all the history of US jurisprudence, then, excepting impeachment, there are only three possible federal crimes to either prosecute or pardon: treason (Art. III, Sec. 3); piracy (Art. I, Sec. 8), and; counterfeiting (Art. I, Sec. 8). And that’s all. Ignoring the fact that the US itself commits most cases of treason, piracy, and counterfeiting, it is allowed to prosecute instances when those crimes are committed. What cannot be ignored is that the US also prosecutes thousands of other offenses that it has no lawful authority to regulate or prosecute (if, again, we believe in the magic words of the dead, decayed, and ignored Constitution). For instance, all of the January 6, 2021, Capitol “rioters” were railroaded through the system for the crime of what? Walking in a public building? Their prosecutions and convictions for crimes not expressly in the Constitution were illegal. Trump, who says a lot of things, has murmured off and on about pardoning them. And who knows? He might do it before this column runs. That would be mighty big of him if, for no other reason, he was the man who told them to do what they did. There’s also the fact that all of the cases were miscarriages of justice. Then again, about 99% of federal criminal cases are too. [Post Draft Note: Indeed, he pardoned 1,500 of them. Good on Trump!] Here’s my recommended solution for this problem of law and disorder: Trump could and should issue a blanket pardon for all Americans for any and all federal crimes they have ever committed or that they might have committed. The blanket could cover any foreigners caught in the system too. I suppose an exception could be made for elected, appointed, or commissioned federal officials who had committed treason, piracy, or counterfeiting. Of course, even if they too were pardoned, there would be nothing to stop the president from later designating them enemy combatants and having them dealt with militarily. (Thank you for that option, Lincoln, Clinton, Bush, et al.) Think about it. Even if someone was convicted or, more likely, pleaded guilty to one of the three valid crimes, why should the government be given any benefit of the doubt when the hyper-majority of its prosecutions are invalid? A completely clean slate would do several things. It would free so many people from oppression. It would empty Amerika’s prisons, the most crowded in the world. It would halt all current prosecutions and investigations. And it would thereby send a powerful warning that at least some memory of the old Constitution will still be honored. Going forward, if any new illegal cases are brought, then Trump could keep smothering them with pardons. For anyone who ever mentions the Constitution, the Republic, democracy, equality, justice, due process, or any other pleasant sounding if nearly fictional, or pointless as applied buzzword, then my proposal would fulfill the definition of that buzzword. Like it or not, it would be perfectly legal and the right thing to do. As such, I look for my suggestion to be implemented exactly … never. Still, Deo vindice! (And He will get it right in His time.) This piece was published at Perrin Lovett on January 22, 2025.
 Six Pence Pub, Blowing Rock, NC, Tuesday, January 7, 2020, evening… He sat at the bar, almost wincing as the fool next to him ignorantly pontificated. What had started as a friendly ‘How ya’ doing, fella?’ had morphed into a boring diatribe about brine and snow. Now the geopolitical malarkey deepened. ‘That thar boy was a murderous thug! He was a-plannin’ mo’ of them em-i-nent attacks. He alreddy dun kilt that thar ‘Murican soldiers and attacked our embassy with his militias. Cain’t have no more hostages from them Irans! Trump had to kill that boy and we dun did it! Ain’t nothing them tarrists can a do bout it now. Ha! But I’d love to see ‘em try. Wouldn’t you, buddy? We whoop they azz!’ His new friend, some fat, balding Boomer, allegedly in town to sell the city road salt, babbled incessantly while pointing to the television news, which featured a dull rehash about a Tweet about the lewd assassination. ‘Excuse me,’ Tom politely interjected, ‘but you’re a fucking idiot. You have no idea what you’re talking about. Please keep your profound stupidity to yourself. Thanks, buddy.’ ‘I dun seen it all on tha news! Hannity, and Limbaugh, and good ole Binny Shapiru!’ the man exclaimed, taken aback as indignation strove against his copious alcohol consumption. ‘Everything you’ve heard, I won’t say read, is a lie,’ Tom instructed. ‘Everything you just blathered out, while it would certainly please the ears of your controllers, is utter horseshit. You wouldn’t know a terrorist from a Saint. Please, do shut up.’ ‘They’se them Irans that dun did the Nine-leven! They blew up Noo York!’ the irate man boomed. ‘Wrong, and wrong,’ Tom corrected. ‘I was on duty the morning Northwoods hit. Just be quiet.’ ‘North in whut woods, now?’ ‘Just hush.’ The obese man sat stunned before his belligerence overcame his shock. ‘You— Well, fuck you, mister! You’se a liberal! I knew it! I sits down and sez to muhself, I hope this feller ain’t no faggot. But shore as the Pope worships Mary, you is! You talks to me like that again and I whoop yo azz, fag! I dun served in Vietnam. The jungle! You probably a draft dodger or somethin’. Lemme tell you whut we dun did to—’ Tom listened for a minute more, grinning and quietly flipping through his phone. When Bubba paused to gasp for air, Tom turned and showed him a picture of Carmyn licking his face at a party. ‘That’s my girlfriend. She’s an actress. You probably used to beat off to her. You know, back when it still worked, I guess.’ The tubby retard, still gasping and now red in the face, turned it up a notch. He most unwisely grabbed Tom’s free arm near the wrist and pulled in closer, imparting some of his beer and garlic-scented breath. ‘Smart azz, huh?! I’m bout reddy ta hit yo purdy mouth, boy!’ Without breaking his concentration on his phone, Tom quickly reverse-gripped the man’s flabby forearm and wrenched hard, cranking his elbow into a painfully awkward wrong-way bend. The man’s squeal was met with a ‘shhhh’ as Tom rolled to another, older picture. He held it up to his buddy’s face. ‘And this is me and General Soleimani, uh, the murderous thug. Back in 2001, in Afghanistan, when we were fighting the Taliban together. Oh, excuse me, fighting them thar tarrists.’ Releasing his grip and still being mostly polite, he tried to explain just a little of the unkind world to the loud drunk: Hotel Romandy, Geneva, Switzerland, Sunday, September 23, 2001, late… A somber, somewhat sinister group of men walked through the terrace seating area outside the conference room, headed towards the bar. Two tarried behind the others, the two most somber and serious-looking characters of the company. It was the admittedly tenuous beginning of a delicate working relationship. On that occasion, without any coordination, they were attired in understated fashion rather than suits or uniforms; both happened to be wearing black leather jackets. Tom thought of some way to soften the mood. He got an idea from glancing at the mountains surrounding the city, now illuminated beautifully by the waxing moon. ‘I’d really like to visit your country properly, General,’ he began slowly. ‘I’d love to ski up north of Tehran. Maybe Darband or Abali, isn’t it?’ Qasem Soleimani was as gracious as he was serious. ‘I myself am more fond of the area even further north, around Alvares, which you may know, is also near to the Caspian. Of course, if all goes—I won’t call it well—you and I could cross the border back into Persia and visit Shirbad. It’s just west of Herat, where we may have some business. Wonderful snows. ‘I know this must feel a little off, Colonel. You’ve been to Iran previously. We have a rather extensive dossier on you. Kill on sight orders, in fact. Uh, those I have, of course, had countermanded for the time being. You know, we missed each other a few years ago. These are, I must admit, better circumstances.’ ‘Have you ever skied in America, General?’ Tom asked while thinking about, almost rueing his last vicious visit to Iran. ‘I had actually looked at the White Mountains. Ages ago, before the Revolution. It was, or would have been, for me at the time, the chance getaway of a young lifetime. A great luxury and potentially a wonderful time. Sadly, it did not happen.’ The man laughed at the faded memory. ‘If I remember right, that’s your, what you call, neck of the woods, no?’ ‘Well, we might have missed each other then too, had the circumstances been different,’ Tom said as he chuckled at the smallness of the world. ‘Maybe some things are best left on the powder.’ ‘Undoubtedly, they are. Now, soon our men will need to— Oh, we’re stopping again.’ Following a few perfunctory words with Crocker and the departing team from State, the pair eased up to the bar, alone for the first time. ‘You’ll need to help me, Mister Ironsides, but Glen-mor-angie—the Scottish is always a jaw-breaker for me.’ The General studied the bottles on the shelf behind the bar, pointing to one. ‘Well, I didn’t know you guys partook of the single malt! Excellent choice though,’ Tom said. ‘I do not, of course. Social settings and good company sometimes require good liquor, if only as the courtesy of a bare taste given to a guest. Allah is merciful, most forgiving at times, and of good causes.’ The General studied the bottle, now brought closer by the attentive bartender. ‘And an interesting choice of words. Jawbreaker is our call sign for the initial operation,’ Tom said while trying to read a label. ‘I know. We’re not so completely in the dark,’ Soleimani said with a smirk. ‘Well then, know that we’ll be inserting, likely on Wednesday night. I’ll be there with my SAD paras and the Deltas. Whom can I expect from your Quds? Maybe someone else who is willing to overlook past indiscretions, I’d hope?’ Tom did look a little hopeful. ‘I should be able to join you and our men later. For now, immediately, look for my—’ The men talked and drank (Tom, Scotch and Qasem, tea) deep into the night. Plans were made, and logistics explored. Soleimani was, as promised, a walking encyclopedia of the terrain, the local tendencies, and the ways of the enemy. They shared multiple strategies and more than a few misgivings. They talked about Hammurabi, Solon, and Caesar. They spoke of family relationships, of children, spouses, and parents. On matters of state and religion, they agreed and they agreed to disagree. A tedious friendship was born. Respect flowed haltingly with a burn like Tom’s whisky. They did, in fact, meet again twice—once soon after in the hills of Afghanistan and once years later in Baghdad during a meeting that Washington denied ever happened. However, they never rendezvoused on the slopes. Even after his retirement, Tom followed his friend’s quest to defeat ISIS in Iran, Iraq, and Syria. A worthy defender of his nation and people, he thought of Soleimani. He’d cursed the administration aloud the week before when he’d heard the news of what he considered plain murder and a despicable war crime. Back in Blowing Rock… ‘So, just shut up about it, already,’ Tom said at last. He was finished with his unheeded educational lecture and was now checking his email and something else. His new friend still didn’t grasp any of what he’d heard. ‘All that thar tells me is that you is one a them tarrists! And whut do you know, you lying shit?!’ the dim visitor demanded. ‘I know the shit is already hitting the fan,’ Tom said as he again presented his phone. ‘Watch this.’ ‘Whut in tha hell that is?!’ ‘That is live satellite feed from over Iraq, over Ain al-Asad Air Base. You said you’d love to see them try. Well, they’re trying right now. The news up there will have it in an hour or so once Langley puts the right spin on it. Watch now if you’d like the uncensored version.’ ‘Whut am I a-watchin’??’ the tubby man growled as he squinted at the little screen. ‘Those flashes are missile impacts. Probably Qiams or Fatehs. Latest generation guidance. Extremely accurate. Pinpoint, I’d say. Right now, every time one flashes, they’re hitting our hardware. I’d guess they’re knocking out the drone hangers, the smaller ones clumped here and there, center. That base is where the strike came from last week. Makes sense. What I would do.’ ‘Whut you’d do?! I know you. You’se a Democrat or something! Love nuthin’ better than helpin’ yo tarrists friends, huh? Stand up! I’m bout to beat some sense into yo liberal azz!’ ‘No, you’re not,’ Tom said, looking down at his glass. ‘I’m a-gonna do it! You’se a big boy, but ima spank ya!’ ‘No. You can’t. Sorry.’ ‘And, YOU’RE DONE, sir!’ yelled the pretty bartender at the heavy, sweaty, woefully-overmatched moron. ‘You don’t know what you’re messing with, with this one.’ She gave Tom, who was unconcernedly addressing his Oban, a wink. To the fat drunk, she instructed: ‘Before you get yourself killed, get out! Don’t come back. Now!’ Tubby mumbled something about a town full of queers and sympathizers and shuffled angrily out into the light evening snow. ‘That fat bastard didn’t even leave a tip!’ the barmaid announced with a hint of regret. ‘I got it. Mine too, in a minute,’ Tom replied. ‘So, professor, is this World War Three?’ the young woman asked with slight concern in her voice. ‘No. Don’t be too alarmed, darling. It’ll all blow over, for now,’ Tom reassured. ‘It’s not a world war unless something utterly stupid gives way between now and morning. This was a very measured response. Making a point or two. They’ll be done in a few minutes, although CENTCOM just registered something odd on domestic air radar around Tehran. Probably nothing. The missiles are a show of force, directed at our equipment, not our men. Neither has any business being in-country anyway. Maybe this is the beginning of a withdrawal. Hell, I’ll have my last toast to that. That, and Qasem. Maybe not the best man in the work he and I did—none of us were—but, then again, maybe he was. Better than me, and maybe the one his people needed. A legend and a martyr. Salute!’ After paying off his tab and leaving two tips, Tom mosied outside. From the sidewalk on Main, he heard the old jungle fighter yelling incoherently from down the street. ‘Gotta give that one credit for persistence,’ Tom thought as he raised a one-fingered salute over his shoulder. Next, he heard a city police officer ordering the old drunk off. He slowly walked on towards his modest rental flat as he admired his little piece of New England drifted so far south. It was getting cold. His phone rang. Carmyn was watching the breaking news. He soothed her nerves and thanked her for a previous lick while requesting another at her earliest convenience. Just before he reached his door, Vicky called. He was calming her fears as he walked into the living room, where Ari and Maddie were waiting with the television blaring. Upon hanging up, he directed his placidity to them, first asking them to turn off the tube. ‘Uncle Tommy, do you know what’s going on?’ Ari pressed. ‘Yes. That foolishness on the talking screen is only more propaganda bullshit. Some ancient Greek once said, Whom the gods would destroy they first make mad. Some say it was Euripides, though I’m not so sure. Anyway, watch that stuff and you will go as mad as your orange president and the rest of them. What it was designed for. Maybe Qasem was mad to go in like he did, to keep this up for so long. No, we’ve all got enough madness as-is.’ ‘What are you talking about, Tom?’ Maddie asked as she turned off the set. ‘We know you have to know A LOT about what’s behind all this.’ Tom was tired and tried to move towards his room, several wistful thoughts plaguing his mind. ‘Goodnight, girls. Of the business behind it all, I know more than I care to repeat this evening. Respect for the dead.’ *Author’s Note, January 2025: I originally wrote and released this short story in January 2020. It has been refined a little for this edition though the gist remains intact. My apologies to the Soleimani family and their friends for certain liberties I took. Now as then, Tom and a typical Murikan man discuss Iran’s successful Operation Martyr Soleimani as it takes place. A brief recount of a fictional clandestine working relationship is also presented. I was reminded of the tale when I read of commemorations in Iran on the fifth anniversary of the good General’s martyrdom and murder at the hands of the Yankee empire. Out of respect for the dead, I highly recommend reading Martyr Soleimani’s Will. Many typical Murikans might not like that, as they didn’t like my story when it first debuted. One wonders if they like the Takfiri terrorism once fought by Soleimani as it is now visited upon them in the US (along with, evidently, concurrent Banderaite Nazi violence). One is forced to wonder a lot about Murikans.  I remember, not quite like it was yesterday, walking and standing in the Mississippi National Guard Armory in November 1980. I suppose I was physically present for something similar in 1977, but I really can’t remember that as yesterday or any day. But at the time, in the fall of ‘80, I was a little too young to vote. Mom and Dad, however, were of age, and they both voted to reelect the South’s man, a Georgia peanut farmer nicknamed Jimmah. James Earl Carter, Jr. was the 39th US President, in office from 1977 until 1981. On Sunday, December 29, 2024, he died at the age of 100. No doubt, many of you already knew that before you made it here to my make-shift column. And most of you have probably formed your opinions about Carter, his life, and the legacy of his administration. Some say, or, rather, many say, that he was a much better ex-president than an in-office chief executive. Personally, I lean that way, though my understanding of Carter, the US, and geopolitical history might be slightly outside the norm. It is my opinion that many of Carter’s policies, domestic and foreign, were misdirected, ill-conceived, or plain ruined by the then-developing Deep State. See, for example, the works of Zbigniew Brzezinski. It is also my opinion that Carter was the final “real” American president who genuinely had the best interests of the American people in his mind and heart. Following his 1980 defeat to Reagan, the office, like almost all others of any importance, has since been held by some shade of Clown World agent. As I’m typing this one out, much is being made of con man Donaldo Trumpster’s coming second take on the idea of “America First”. I would say it looks less like America first, or second, or even last, and most like America never. To wit: the Trump has assembled a cast of gutter clowns that appears to be 99.7% NON-American. One of these foreign invaders, speaking about bringing in even more foreign invaders, told the MAGA brigade to “Take a big step back and FUCK YOURSELF in the face.” In the face, no less… Jimmah was a lot of things, but no one would have ever conceived of such wicked stupidity blasted at heritage Americans on his watch. As I’ve noted before, Carter was the only American president I ever met. I found him and Mrs. Rosalynn to be among the very highest and best kind of people available. For the short time longer that it lasts as a semi-unified political entity, the United States will not see Carter’s type again. The good and true former First Lady died last November. The best part of this story will be the reunion of these two lovers, married since 1946. Mike Luckovich’s late AJC cartoon sums up the reunion nicely. So, thank you, Mr. President, for all you did, in and out of office, and for the honor of our brief acquaintance. Godspeed, Jimmah! Requiescat in pace. Deo vindice. This piece was published at Perrin Lovett on January 3, 2025.
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