 The evil illegal Zionist entity known to some as “Israel” is completely out of control as is its primary backer, the Global Amerikan Empire. Both are rapidly disintegrating and will cease to exist within a decade or so. The world will be a much happier, safer place when they’re gone. Until then, they appear determined to cause as much damage and suffering as possible. Because of the terrorism, unlawful warfare, and genocide being waged by these two rogue states, West Asia burns. Some fret that things might soon lead to a full-scale war threatening to engulf much of the world. To me, it appears that war is already happening and that it is one front in a pre-existing global war. Idiot Western leaders and the even less cultured buffoons in the MSM still at times maintain that “Israel” is defending itself, allegedly from something it forced Hamas to do, and which allows it to target and murder droves of people in Gaza. And the West Bank, and Lebanon, and Syria, and Iraq, and Iran, and… This is what “Israel” has been doing since 1948, as recounted in Ilan Pappe’s 2007 book, The Ethnic Cleansing of Palestine, which I recommend people read in addition to the other books I’ve mentioned and reviewed this year. While the primary Resistance forces play an able game of attrition, things are still moving almost too fast to keep a handle on. As geopolitical or military tactical minutia keeps changing, I decided today to focus on a little of the human loss involved. Back in May, for reasons related to a bookstore, I joined Telegram. The bookstore matter is still somewhat unresolved. However, I did start to follow a few select channels and people, and lately, I’ve made a few cautious comments. It took a while to winnow the channels down to those a) devoted to the truth, and b) not devoted to nonsense and crypto scams. Now that my little browsing system has settled, I have a good source of added daily information. I also get to see an inordinate number of pictures and videos. Most of the images are unpleasant. Most of them concern war. And far too many of them showcase the human suffering therein, especially in the Palestinian Genocide. If anyone wants to see them—and, really, no one should independently want that—there are literally thousands and thousands of pictures of slaughtered civilians, far too many of them children (and one child would be far too many). Pursuant to my anti-gore policy, I will not directly show any of these disturbing images. I will, however, link to one of them. WARNING: THIS SHORT VIDEO is one of the most hideous and pitiful things I’ve ever seen, and I think you will agree. For those who can’t bear to look, it’s a perhaps second-trimester baby lying dead in the rubble after being expelled from his or her dead mother. Why do they post these images? I suspect it is because they are surrounded by death, and, as they have to deal with it constantly, they figure they might as well show the world what’s happening—particularly the parts of the world responsible for the slaughter. The Zionists simply don’t care. In fact, as this massacre is the fulfillment of their beliefs and policies, one reluctantly imagines they’re happy about it. Hell, we know many of them are. Those in the West, especially in America, are also responsible. Seeing the truth might help a few of them also see the blood on their hands. And there’s plenty to go around. Since May, I’ve seen children beheaded, half-beheaded, truncated, torn into large pieces, cut into small pieces, blasted into red paste, disemboweled, burned beyond recognition, starved to death, and butchered in every manner possible. Of the surviving children, UNRWA says 625,000—which might be all of them—are severely traumatized. Many, many adults receive the same cruel fates, but the loss of a child’s life just hits harder if I’m not mistaken. What’s that? You’re uncomfortable? Good. That’s a start. I too hate all of this and I had a hard time cobbling this little report together. Just when I contemplated backing out, I found inspiration from Ilana Mercer, a Jewish woman and “Israeli” citizen: “Genocide’s A Crime, Not A War Crime: Israel’s Waging Genocide, Not War.” She knows. Everyone with an IQ above room temperature knows. Some still choose to blindly or blissfully ignore it, but they must at least still sense something is very, very, very wrong. Here’s a video I do recommend everyone watch, even though I somehow find it harder to witness than the images of the dead. It’s of a little girl crying in the street.  I imagine she's carrying everything she owns in those two backpacks and the plastic bag. Some of the items might belong to other family members. If she has any left. Odds are, an immediate family member (or two, or all of them) has been Martyred since last October. Odds are, she witnessed the death(s). Her odds of surviving the year are not good. To date, you, complicit Amerikan, and the Zionists have killed a known 20,000 Gaza children. It’s possible the real number is closer to 100,000. This little girl hasn't been in school, Mosque or Church, or a real bed for nearly a year. She doesn't eat much or have clean water. She's trapped in a toxic wasteland the size of Manhattan. No dentist, no doctor, no help. But she has done the jump-and-run routine between bombing zones 3 or 4 times. That’s why she’s out in the street, moving along with everyone else. They’re dodging US-made bombs dropped from US-made warplanes in a US-funded genocide. Again. None of this is her fault and her understanding of the background matters is probably muddled at best. She is, however, keenly aware of her suffering. And, terrified by it all, she does what a little child does: she cries. Here’s a little boy in the same predicament. Still uncomfortable? Wait a second. Here’s one more to ponder. She’s not being treated. That’s what I hoped was happening when I first saw her. Alas, no. They’re preparing her the best they can for burial in a mass grave. Those images are from Gaza. As the reader may know, the carnage has now spread beyond Occupied Palestine. Dr. Marwa Osman has lately posted a terrible series of images from her backyard in Lebanon. Meet the children of the Al-Faris family.  Marwa Osman, Telegram. Children pictured with Hezbollah mastermind Winnie-the-Pooh…) They’re all dead along with the rest of the family, thanks to the Zionists and Yankees. Maybe thanks to you. Anyone who didn’t know better might assume the Al-Faris kids were from Ohio or Nottingham or somewhere else in the West. One would hope more people start seeing the truth in all of this madness. Some reporters in West Asia ask, “What if those were your children?” I answer that in a sense, they are our children. We don’t know them and accordingly, we’re not necessarily directly responsible for their wellbeing. But we have no right to assist in their destruction. Doing so creates a scandal. Do remember what Jesus said about scandalizing the children: “But he that shall scandalize one of these little ones that believe in Me, it were better for him that a millstone should be hanged about his neck, and that he should be drowned in the depth of the sea.” Matthew 18:6. God is their vindicator too. This piece was published at Perrin Lovett on Sept 27, 2024.
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 America and the Combined West face a daunting series of “ifs” as this young century unfolds. Will America have a 2024 presidential election? Will America suffer a civil war? Will Europe continue to exist? In his new book, America’s Final War, Andrei Martyanov addresses these unpleasant, conjoined topics and much more. Concerning America’s declining role and prospects, in his Preface, Martyanov ponders and considers: “The question remains—can the United States, unlike Europe, survive its hubristic pursuit of globalism and the subjugation of its political institutions to Zionism? There is no clear answer to that.” The rest of the book largely centers on the pursuit of globalism and resulting failures, particularly regarding military affairs, and especially concerning the US and NATO’s losing war against Russia in Ukraine (Russia’s Special Military Operation). The portrait painted is both artful, factual, and realistic, yet it bodes poorly for an entire civilization in crisis. The inimitable Andrei Martyanov is a former Soviet Coast Guard Officer, retired American aerospace engineer, math whizz, and undeniably one of the very best level-headed military analysts and commentators of our current tumultuous era. His observations are remarkably astute. His conclusions, formed from the application of great knowledge and experience to known facts and methodologies, provide in real-time the kind of summation generally afforded by after-the-fact study of history. Anyone who does not do so already should undertake a daily perusal of his “Reminiscence of the Future” website. His words have great meaning and should be carefully considered. America’s Final War is his fourth book chronicling the decline of America’s military power, world standing, and society in general. This reviewer endorses and recommends all of them. America’s military and geopolitical affairs might be best summarized as the “Ghost of Kiev” Strategy, an anti doctrine based on lies and propaganda designed to conceal a lack of coherent operational planning ability and a host of weapons systems that don’t work. That faux strategy might also serve as a proxy for American and Western postmodern culture. Martyanov mentions the Ghost during a comparative discussion of air power in Chapter Six—the greatest flying Ace in all history, who defeated the entire Russian Air Force or something, turned out to be an MSM-hyped computer game. This episode, along with many others, highlights the bug (or feature) of American military doctrine: if the weapons or tactics don’t work, they can always fall back on hoaxes. Hoaxes don’t win wars. Other recent events underscore the fact that America lost—past tense—lost the arms race, not only to the Russian Federation but seemingly to just about all other parties no matter how unlikely. Much is being made about the Palestine 2 hypersonic missile of the Yemeni Armed Forces, traveling 2,000 km at Mach 8 and hitting an Zionist target while deftly bypassing IDF air defenses. That apparently did happen and the missile also managed to evade, in addition to the IDF’s systems, those of the US Navy (and France). The YAF used technology the US does not possess and appears incapable of fielding. The Ansar Allah may have implemented a local version of Russia’s military strategy, based on making and doing real things. “[W]ar is the war of economies. Real ones. Modern war is the war of steel, iron, energy and manufacturing capacity as a foundation of military power.” America’s Final War, p. 73. Hoaxes don’t win wars, the foregoing factors do. Martyanov provides copious proof of the stark and growing disparity between those factors in Russia and the West. Beyond losing the race for military wares and industrial capacity, many observers are beginning to notice that America and the West are also losing or have lost that one area where it was presumed they still possessed overwhelming dominance—word games. Iran’s Ambassador to Russia, Kazem Jalali, recently mentioned this loss concerning various of America’s meddlesome attempts to foster chaos worldwide. Maryanov sums this notion up on page 140: “The West has lost the propaganda war after losing a real one.” Two things, which the book touches on, led to America’s presumptive, “end of history” place of supremacy at the end of the previous century: the Dollar, and the alleged strength of America’s military. Both of them have been lately proven to be either things of the past or myths. With them gone, and with the power of Washingtonian lies fading away, very little is left in the way of power for the US to project against anyone. A large part of America’s Final War is dedicated to exposing not only the losses but the refusal or inability of Americans, particularly of the intellectual class and the mainstream media, to grasp what has happened. Many of these types may never really know or appreciate what they and their masters have done to America. However, it would behoove any and all ordinary Americans to understand what happened, why it happened, and what it means for America’s future. Martyanov provides a comprehensive picture, although it is one many Americans may find discomforting. At the end of Chapter Twelve, at the end of his excellent work, and just after a short list of truths many Americans may, again, find uncomfortable, Martyanov issues both a predictive summary statement and a warning:
If or when the first part of that final statement becomes reality, it will be a boon for the rest of mankind. The second part, not letting the US elites burn it all down as the US fails, is the real trick. As for how all of this works out, again, to quote Martyanov, “There is no clear answer to that.” But any answer necessarily requires an understanding of the problem and the surrounding pertinent facts. Those prerequisites are covered in extraordinary fashion in America’s Final War. Accordingly, I highly recommend the reader obtain a copy and read it as quickly as possible. Nulla pax Americana. Martyanov, Andrei, America’s Final War, Atlanta: Clarity Press, 2024. This piece was published at Perrin Lovett on September 20, 2024
 In the good old US of A, it’s like the past five years never happened. Heck, all of history never happened. There is no history. In ‘Murica, it’s always year stupid. And once again, millions of kind-hearted well-meaning folks are gearing up for this November’s pending Great Quadrennial Black Mass™. Just kidding. That’s what I started calling US presidential elections many years ago when things were a little more fun. In full disclosure, I have not voted in any election since 2012 when I finally grew tired of writing in “Hon. Dr. Ron Paul of Texas” to absolutely no effect. I also have an atavistic aversion to insane acts, retardery, and satanism. But I really do understand why so many of my fellow consumer units still pretend to enjoy the political process. I understand, I love you people, and I want to help! So, here is my little guidebook for better voting. It all starts with breathing. Yes, I know you can breathe. Everyone not named Joe Biden inhales and exhales. But do you breathe correctly? I suspect not. Luckily, back in the 90s, Dr. Andrew Weil wrote a fantastic book called 8 Weeks To Optimum Health which has since been revised and improved. Buy that and read it. Weil covers proper breathing at length. And it just so happens you have about eight weeks to prepare. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Full, deep breathing to oxygen-charge the bloodstream. Sleeping is critical too. Most postmodern people don’t get enough quality rest. Cats sleep 22 hours per day. Biden sleeps 25. Ordinary adults need somewhere between six and ten hours—hence, the rough “eight-hour” average. Keep it dark, cool, quiet, and comfortable and you’ll experience wonders. A proper diet and adequate hydration are necessary for healthy physical and mental functioning. As we’re talking about Amerikans, I’ll just let this part slide. On election day, and maybe the night before, do try to cut back just a tad on the alcohol and dope. No, strike that. There’s no point in fighting through temporary withdrawal symptoms when you’re… Moving on! You’re out of shape. Hell, you’re American’ts, so you’re probably barely upright and conscious. There’s not enough time, so I won’t ask you to lose the 100 or so pounds you need to shed. But you must be as fit as possible on election day. Treat it like any other sport. I’ve come up with a plan that incorporates warming up, stretching, weight training, and wind sprints. We've got to get you… Come to think of it, you treating this like any other sport means you sitting on the couch, cheap booze in hand, staring at Plato’s electric cave wall. So be it. But instead of ESPN, please remember to flip over to the very honest and intelligent professionals (hahahaha) at FOX or CNN. Don’t forget your nachos. Practice makes perfect. Fail to plan and plan to fail. Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without. Other pop psychology references. Make sure you’re registered to vote! I don’t think that’s a requirement anymore, but let’s be on the safe side. Know what day to vote. I think it’s, ironically, on Guy Fawkes Day this year, but, not paying any attention to this foolishness, I could be wrong. Find out for certain. And for Pete’s sake, know where you’re supposed to vote. If you’re an in-person voter, then know where your polling place is. Practice driving or walking there on a daily basis. Plan your primary route and backup routes. Do timed runs at different times of the day. Carry an umbrella. On the Big Day(!), they may not require proof of citizenship or eligibility, though they may require a goofy face diaper or proof you've been poisoned with a cancer-accelerating, DNA-altering, sterility-inducing substance. Know these details in advance. If you’re one of those newfangled mail-in voters, then find out where your mailbox or local Post Office is located. It might have moved since the last time you checked. A day late is a dollar short. Measure twice, cut once. Whether it’s on paper or a screen, you’ll have to make a decision. Your entire adult life is probably a testament that you don’t do that very well. Still, I have faith in you! This part assumes—(why, why, why do I bother?)—assumes you’re mildly literate. Here, and only here, it gets tricky. I cannot and will not vote for you. Remember? I do care about this idiocy to begin with. This is your personal choice. You can write in anyone you please (Ron Paul, RuPaul, “Dude who sold Jack the magic beans”, etc.). You can vote for a third-party candidate (Jill Stein, Libertarian X, and so forth). Odds are, you already want to vote for the trusted Uniparty ticket. Forget “right” and “left” wing, Democrat and Republican. ‘Murica only has an evil wing. So it’s probably gonna be Trump/Baphomet or Harris/Moloch, amirite? Good. For. You. However you vote, don’t forget to accept a little “I voted” sticker on your way out. That’s how they track your obedience. If you happen to miss a step or make a mistake, know that it’s okay. You or a name/number like you has probably already voted. Probably many times. As many times as they need. I’m not going to say that none of this matters. Nor will I say there isn’t going to be an election. This year or ever again. Or that your last mostly honest election was between Carter and Ford. Don’t reflect on the fact you’ve voted and voted since 1976 and nothing has changed for the better. I won’t bore you with my theory that they're going to install Harris (or Ol’ Orange Tweets) as their puppet and continue to let Tony “I come to you not as an American…” Blinken or someone like him run the charade on behalf of the cabal. You need not think about the observable fact we’re beyond the point where the international luciferians who own the US no longer need the politicians, let alone the voters anymore. Don’t consider what Saint Paul said about those who consent to the wickedness of others—others, say, in and of a satanic cult and terrorist organization masquerading as a government. Do vote like this is the last time because there’s an increasingly likely chance this will be the final dog and pony show. Get your sticker and get out. I can’t be at all polls, after-the-fact mail drop locations, or overseas data farms. So, just as you imagine you’re practicing your democracy, pretend I’m waiting outside with a gold star and a hug for you. You can do this. I believe in you. I am proud of you. I bet you are the best voter you know. You are special. Your vote counts. So do you. Go get ‘em, tiger! Stultorum suffragium. *Author’s Note: Some interesting writings about countries, people, and happenings that matter are coming soon(ish)! This piece was published at Perrin Lovett.com on Sept 6, 2024.
 The co-founder of the African Black Defense League, Egountchi Behanzin, recently expressed the desire of Africans to cooperate with the Russian Federation regarding vaccines and medicine. He lambasted the Amero-European pharmaceutical mafia for its attempts to coerce Africans into poisoning their children. The coercion runs along typical Western sanctions as punishment lines. If an African nation refuses to participate in Frankensteinian voodoo, then it is allegedly deprived of access to Washington’s magic money machine via the IMF, SWIFT, etc. Behanzin noted that the Collective West’s mafia uses childhood vaccines to sterilize populations and turn everyone homosexual. The man appears to know something. Here’s one short description of Western neocolonial medical terror in Africa, as recounted by RFK, Jr. (before he went uber-Zionist…):
While they have indeed been hit very hard and for a long time by the forces of hell, Africans are not alone in their victimization. It’s not so much racism that drives the pharmakeia-peddling demons. They are, as some say, “colorblind.” Or, rather, they are simply blinded by their hatred of God and all mankind. Specifically regarding childhood vaccines and homosexuality, hard evidence is emerging that shows an extreme correlation between poisoning children with these luciferian concoctions and the radical increase in abnormal sexual identity and behavior in Western populations. As Steve Kirsch puts it: “...vaccines are the primary cause (79% attributable fraction) of deviation from traditional norms relative to: sexual orientation, gender identity, sexual dysphoria.” Those in Africa and anywhere else only need look at what has become of the US population over the past three or so generations to get a very good idea of what is maliciously intended for the people of the wider world. When I was young, American children were subjected to relatively few vaccines. When my daughter was a baby, the number had grown to perhaps several dozen. Today, it stands somewhere north of 100 different kinds of shots, containing all sorts of chemicals and Lord knows what else, almost all of it completely unnecessary. Over that period, from the 1970s (US Generation “X”), through today (Generations “Z” and “Alpha”), the increase in reported rates of sexual deviance has been astronomical. Being “gay” went from practically unheard of to suddenly everywhere, forcefully demanding acceptance and ratification, and being trendy or cool. It also went hand-in-hand with 10,000 other social maladies that frequently combine, leaving results that are anything but cool. We witnessed one such confluence the other day in Winder, Georgia, USA. On September 4, 2024, at Winder’s Apalachee High School, a fourteen-year-old male student, Colt Gray, allegedly committed mass murder and terrorism, killing four people and wounding another nine. So continued America’s pitiful and embarrassing tradition of school shootings and violence. According to British tabloid media, Gray was supposedly bullied at school for being “gay”. If Gray is homosexual or so self-identifies, then, by his age and given the extreme load of poisonous vaccines he was likely subjected to, there is a very good chance those poisons contributed to his dysphoric disposition. I do not know, but I suspect, “a dollar to a donut”, that he was also under the influence of SSRI drugs, “ADHD” drugs, or some other combination of dangerous psychotropics. One of the known side effects of those kinds of needless medications is an increase in aggression and a decrease in cognitive function and restraint. If Gray was subjected to such a litany of mind and hormone-altering chemical poisons, then the odds were overwhelming that it was the school system and the state government that forced him and his parents into compliance with psychiatric and medical practices straight out of a horror novel. In Russia, Metropolitan Vladimir of Vladivostok and Primorsky just called for boosting Russian families and children. Part of his suggestion is that certain prying state bureaucracies need to be limited in some activities that intrude on parental control of children and family life. By contrast, America has become the home of the meddling busybody, ever seeking to “help” where no assistance is required (and very often turning away when help is required). Americans were reliably informed that it takes a village to raise a child, mere parents not being enough. Yet when problems arise, including those problems caused by the village, it is the parents who are scrutinized and, in some cases, punished. Colt Gray’s father, for instance, has been charged alongside his son for murder under extremely dubious legal theories. No charges, of course, will be filed against any school officials, doctors, drug companies, psychologists, social workers, or any other village helpers. In the US, in addition to being misled and/or left on the hook, parents and children are brow-beaten into accepting overdose vaccination and other stupidities as part of the process of enrolling in that luxury of luxuries, the American public school system. What, exactly, do they get for their acceptance of insanity? Here’s a brief look at Gray’s high school. In accordance with other dystopian American programs, Apalachee High has undergone a consistent and pronounced demographic transformation this century. Rapid, forced heterogeneous destabilization of society and culture is just as damaging as chemical warfare. As of 2024, the school ranked in the bottom half of Georgia high schools in terms of academic performance. That also sums up its placement when compared to all US high schools (number 9,501 of 17,655). In keeping with the postmodern trend of American educational excellence, the school boasts amazing(ly poor) subject matter proficiency scores. As measured by the system’s own very low standards, only 30% of Apalachee’s students understand mathematics at their grade level and only 31% are sufficiently accomplished in reading. And, of course, despite failing to educate over two-thirds of its victims pupils, Apalachee still maintains a graduation rate of 91%. If you, the international outsider, suspect something akin to fraud is taking place, then please be reassured these stellar results are virtually identical to every school system in the US. Almost all public government schools, and probably a high majority of private institutions, are miserable failures. The failure was intentional, a part of the larger policy of totally destroying the fabric of American society. As “W” once implied, “Mission accomplished.” As this was (yet another) school shooting, the low-quality mainstream reporting on it largely centered on firearms. While there are far too many gun crimes in America, gun violence ranks low on the list of things that kill Americans, and it is also a fact that guns prevent an even greater number of potential crimes than they contribute to. Still, that last point further testifies that there is far too much crime in America. It also overlooks the fact that for all their firearms (400 or so million in private hands), Americans have failed to prevent that one crime for which the founding freemasons reluctantly and belatedly included the Constitution’s Second Amendment to address: the emergence of nation-destroying tyranny. The 2A’s real operative words are, “of a free state” We might also make “of a civilized state” synonymous for the sake of this discussion. Upon a time long ago, before the rise of the Total State and the emergence of Sodom and Gomorrah-style wickedness coast to coast, America, for all its faults, was awash in weapons while still experiencing relatively low rates of crime. Americans were also different people then, largely being mentally, physically, emotionally, and morally fit. Things have changed for the worse. It occurs to me, a lifelong gun owner and proponent, that liberal ownership of deadly weapons is better suited for a civilized population. Weapons in the hands of demented barbarians appear to lead to, well, demented barbarity. Many things occur to me these days. While glib liberals will surely call for impossible gun control, and simple-minded conservatives are likely to call for … Trump(?), I suggest something holistic and altogether different. I’ve long advocated that the few remaining good and intelligent Americans arm themselves, withdraw their children from the state’s satanic concentration camp schools, and avoid the necromancy vaccines and medical elixirs. Seeing as how American society has completely degenerated, it is now advisable that decent people completely break from it. I’ve previously advised various young people to consider moving abroad. For all those who remain, the time has seemingly come for families to withdraw, along with the like-minded, into little secluded monastic-like fortresses of civilization. If any of them must continue to venture among the deranged savages, then let it be the adult men, well-armed, and only for the shortest duration possible. Let the clowns, cannibals, and vampires run wild; their time will be short. Someone must be ready to reemerge and rebuild when the fires die out. For all those outside the US and the failing West, please take a good, hard look at what satanic, liberal globalism does to its host populations. The ranks of the multipolar world can learn much from America’s very negative examples. You, many of you, know well how soulless, corporatist liberalism treats the rest of the world—as slaves, targets, and fodder. Yet many of the non-Western nations that have fallen prey to the colonial locusts of the Enlightenment have remained true to their traditions. Keep it that way, my friends. And keep the hellish specters of the false West at bay. I am repeatedly pleased that this process of observation and deterrence is already underway. Africans and Russians are on guard. Others are as well. While praising Almighty God, Iran’s new Ministry of Education, Alireza Kazemi, recently announced a plan to reform the country’s schools, perhaps in line with what Russia is currently doing. God, having long been driven from American schools, hearts, and society in general, has apparently and understandably turned His back on America. His wrath appears to be taking the form, not of plagues and direct intervention, but of simply allowing Americans, insouciant or wicked, to reap the deserved rewards of their actions and inactions. Whatever Iran does, whatever Africa does, whatever any of you do, make sure it's the opposite of what Americans have done to themselves and their children. In any event, we know all the Faithful are assured that, Deo vindice. This piece was published at Perrin Lovett on Sept. 11, 2024.
 Autumn is coming, and once again, it’s my favorite time to praise the great North Carolina treasure, Tweetsie Railroad. My first visit to America’s greatest amusement park was during the 1970s. I cannot recount how many times I’ve been back, but I hold steadfast that Tweetsie is the one place that never seems to change. It’s always, always, always exactly the way one remembers it from childhood. Before I forget, let me also recommend this place, another delightful getaway just around the corner from Tweetsie, and founded by the same good family. And while I’m doing free promos, eating at the Peddler is mandatory when visiting the area. Rather than recite every single virtue of Tweetsie or even a fraction of them, I decided to republish a Tweetsie-themed short story from a few years ago. Please enjoy! Et Pisces Cultro (Perrin Lovett, 2020) ‘One of you will finally catch him one of these days,’ Will said, not quite to himself, as he sat on the rear cargo deck of his SUV, looking down at something. ‘And, maybe they’ll promote you guys to a full eight cents.’ He laughed softly as he started digging around in a large bag with one hand. His other hand held a pocket knife. Rather, it held his pocket knife, a marvelous little folding device without, in his mind, rival or equal. He considered it the finest knife in the world, a tool of elegant, simplistic utility with a manly, if subdued, artfulness. It was unique. It was a smaller design: slim, light, and made for unobtrusively resting in pants of any caliber - rugged denim or stylish wool. The construction was solid steel, with a simple hinge, and a locking release nestled at the end of the handle. Compared to other two-and-a-half inch knives, it was as functional, practical, and reliable as any. The handle set Will’s apart. For embedded under clear resin were three green-tinted postage stamps, set fringe to fringe in a row. Each bore the image of a brown trout leaping from the water in pursuit of an elusive dragonfly. Each boasted the nominal price of 7 ½ cents, as marked years earlier in the distant nation of New Zealand. In a way, he had always credited the fish (and the knife) for his long-ago visit to that far southerly land, his own On The Beach moment while en route to temporary employment somewhere colder. The knife had accompanied him even then. Now, it was ready again for lacerative work. From the bag, Will, at last fished what he was looking for. That very evening, less than two hours hence, he and his lovely Wendy would take their little daughters, Willow and Wynter, for a night of spooky fun, courtesy of the Ghost Train and Tweetsie Railroad. With Halloween closing in and a chill in the air, warmer clothes were in order. That afternoon, following a day of ordinary, daytime mountain railway excitement, he’d purchased a little pink “No. 12” fleece pullover for Wynter. He’d only to remove the tags and triumphantly present it to her up in the room. He clicked open the knife and could not overlook, momentarily, the significance of the act. Like the garment, his perfect pocket knife had also come from magical Tweetsie, though not from any gift shop. Many years before, when he was a boy, he’d been wandering around the Country Fair area, Dippin’ Dots in hand. Then, he had noticed a man with a rake, laboriously cleaning years of dust, dirt, and debris from beneath a ride. On the ground were a pile of grime, leaves, bubble gum wrappers, and other dingy trash, awaiting deposit into a rubber waste can. In the pile, little Will caught the gleam of shiny metal, something to naturally attract the attention of a ten-year-old boy. Oblivious of the encompassing filth, he’d simply reached down and lifted the object for inspection. Seeing no one else around, and adhering to the ancient law of Finders, Keepers, he dusted it off on his jeans and, after admiring it, placed it in his pocket. Later, at home, he’d polished the knife and oiled its mechanisms. Despite lying buried for who knows how long, it was sharp when he found it. He kept it finely honed to a razor’s perfection, a feat he’d always found remarkably easy. It was as if this little blade wanted to remain keen of its own silent accord. As such, now he knew it would make short work of his project. Retailers relish labelings. He pulled back a sticker, then another. He deftly sliced through two plastic tabs. The final challenge was a long nylon stem binding the price tag to a sleeve. With the fleece garment on his knee, he stretched the tag taut with his left hand, two fingers wound around the top of the stem. He placed the sharp blade and prepared to cut. Just then, a passing truck blew its raspy horn. He jerked. The stem snapped clean. But he felt the passing of cold steel across his curled digits. ‘Oh, wow,’ he exclaimed as that hot ripple down the spine that we all feel in such tenuous moments caused him to lurch again. He examined his fingers cautiously, surprised to find only the faintest, superficial lines of indentation that, even as he watched, receded to nothing. He tucked the sweater under his arm and closed the knife. ‘Woo! That was close.’ ‘But we never harm our owner!’ said a small voice, the speaking of which caused Will to drop both coat and knife on the deck. ‘Who said that?!’ he asked with a start. ‘We did,’ answered the little voice. ‘And please don’t discard us so roughly.’ Will’s hand slowly, almost unconsciously inched towards the knife. He picked it up gingerly and, turning it in his hand, gazed at the three diminutive trout. ‘Was that you?’ he asked in disbelief. His eyes went wide and his head reeled as the report came in: the first little fish turned its attention and its head away from the fly and straight to Will, and spoke! ‘Of course, it was us,’ said the fish. ‘You can talk?!’ ‘The same as you, if more selectively,’ replied the second trout. ‘Well, except for him.’ He nodded to the third fish. ‘He stays quiet. Missing his tail, you know.’ Will observed, for the first time he could remember, that the last trout in the line was creased-over the end of the hilt pommel with its tail obscured or deleted. He had never in all those years noticed. And he had never, in all his life, expected a conversation with at least two fish on a knife. (Honestly, he had never envisioned discourse with any fish, bladed or otherwise). ‘How do you— How do you two fish speak? Is it possible?’ he stammered. ‘Not possible. Probable,’ said the first fish. ‘Not probable,’ said the second, ‘definitive.’ ‘Oh,’ said the first, ‘and we are not two, but one. I am the knife of two voices though of one mind.’ ‘You just called each other us,’ Will correctly noted. ‘There is no explanation for that. Is this better?’ they both answered at once. ‘That is— This is just a little odd,’ Will admitted. ‘We always expected mild confusion,’ the first fish said. ‘Why haven’t you spoken before?’ ‘We have never spoken before,’ said the second fish, ‘except to each other. Long discussions we had beneath the Tilt-a-Whirl, our home for an age of fish.’ ‘Ha!’ Will exclaimed. ‘So you remember when I found you? When we first met?’ ‘We do,’ said the first, ‘and many thanks for your rescue and kind treatment.’ ‘How long were you down there?’ Will asked. ‘Or, better, start from the beginning. What’s behind a talking knife?’ ‘The long or the short of it?’ asked the second. ‘Better to finish faster, eh?’ ‘Indeed, time is wasting,’ said the first. ‘I’ll explain a little: Will, you yourself have noted, more than once, that we are marked Japan, rather than China or USA like so many common blades. We are the work of an old katana master, sold through a trading company to a certain menswear shop. ‘What was it? Thirty years gone by? We were acquired by a man who treated us well enough. He visited your favorite amusement park more than once. It happened that, upon a time, he and his daughter ventured onto the Tilt. We were, if we can remember it, already dangling close to the edge of the pocket, so to speak. Sir Newton was right about motion. Once we started moving, started flying, we didn’t stop until we rolled, slid, and came to rest on the metal decking near the outside rail of the amusement. He could have found us, we suppose, if not for the vibrations. When the machine slowed down, the motor shuttered, the floor shook and we fell through the cracks - and not as a matter of mere saying. Lonely and forgotten—’ ‘He never forgot us,’ added the second trout. ‘No, but he was most late in thinking of us when he finally did. And too slow to finally act,’ said the first. ‘For about a year we lay amid the crud and smut until you came along. And, thank our maker, that you did.’ ‘You said it was an age,’ countered Will. ‘Yes, for us,’ said the second; ‘time passes differently for trout on a dagger.’ ‘Oh,’ remarked the first, ‘and time is running away here and now. We can explain a little more at the park tonight. Does not someone need a certain pink cloak?’ ‘Wow. Yeah. Thanks,’ Will said, then venturing to inquire: ‘What are your, er, what’s your name?’ ‘Piscis Gladius, at your service as always,’ the knife answered as one. Enlightened, and still amazed, Will stowed his new friend and former tool in his pocket, handled the pullover, and made off for room 414 at the Holiday Inn, Boone. Wynter, aged three, was enthralled with her new outerwear. Donning it she became a fashionable sight to match her older sister. Clad against the night airs and the threat of fog or drizzle, the happy family soon meandered down US 321 towards Blowing Rock. On the short drive, as the girls chattered away in their car seats, Will asked Wendy, ‘Did you ever read The Children of Hurin?’ ‘What’s that?’ Wendy remarked. ‘Is that a kid’s book?’ ‘No, it’s Tolkien. One of his posthumous books, a tragedy.’ Will said. ‘No, I haven’t,’ she said. ‘Is there anything Halloween spooky in it?’ ‘Kind of. It’s about Hurin’s son, mostly. He, among many adventures, found a talking sword.’ Will let the words fall out slowly, his mind somewhere else and his eyes on the road. ‘Well, no tragedy tonight. We’re out for spooky fun with the Ghost Train, right girls?’ Wendy said and asked, more to the back seat than to Will. Then she turned to the radio. ‘Let’s see if there’s some macabre music on!’ There was not, as it turned out, though the girls (and Wendy) had fun with a kid’s sing-a-long CD about a black cat and a jack-o'-lantern. Will kept thinking about his new fishy acquaintances. Fifteen minutes later, he did the honorable thing and, seeing a chance, dropped the ladies off nearer to the main entrance, himself resolved to seek out a parking space alone. For some reason, he parked as far away as he could, or as far as the attendants would allow. On his slow walk up the hill to the ticket office and gates, he checked to make sure no one was close or watching and he pulled out the knife. ‘Okay, now. What’s the real story behind a talking pocket knife, my postal friends?’ he asked. ‘Ah, yes,’ said the first trout. ‘We, as we said, were crafted by a great master in Seki. His skill, and perhaps something greater, lives on in us. We always knew we were smart - uh, smarter than your average knife - but we could never bring ourselves to speak out loud. That is, to anyone else or even to ourselves.’ ‘We kind of thought together, if that makes sense,’ added the second fish. ‘Indeed, indeed,’ rejoined the first. ‘You never spoke to the first owner? The man with the loose pocket?’ Will inquired. ‘No, sadly,’ said the first. ‘He was a good enough fellow, and he took us on all sorts of adventures.’ ‘We went to the World Trade Center, and to some, well, mysterious meetings in Washington, along with many other exciting places!’ the second said happily. ‘And, then you graciously took us to the home of our philatelic ancestors. And the frigid extremes of the Pole,’ said the first. ‘Exhilarating, if cold enough to freeze the fish off a steel blade.’ ‘We’ve a mind to see our true home of origin, where the stamps met the metal, in Japan, someday. If it can be arranged. Perhaps this visit to Tweetsie can help us along,’ said the second, whimsical. ‘The Tweetsie magic, yes!’ said the first. ‘It’s probably not magic, per se, more of Divine Providence. But it was here, in this blessed little realm, under the Tilt-a-Whirl, that we first spoke. To ourselves, of course. And it might just be proximity, tonight, that prompted our speech to you, dear William.’ ‘You guys think there’s more of that magic ahead?’ Will asked. ‘We do, now that we see more clearly,’ said the second. ‘You talked about traveling. And you want to get back to Japan. You think there’s any chance I could help with that tonight?’ Will asked. ‘Possibly, if not probably or definitely,’ replied the second. ‘What can I do, if or when the time is right?’ Will wanted to know. ‘Cast me away,’ said the first trout, flatly. ‘Where? Like into a lake or something?’ Will asked with mild trepidation. ‘Oh, no! Nothing like that, Will,’ soothed the first fish. ‘Let’s just say, if and when the time is right, you will know him when you see him.’ ‘I’ll just know him when— Oh, hey, people and the ticket office, guys! Back in the pocket, we go,’ Will said with a wink. In a jiffy, he passed through the turnstile and into the legitimately happiest place in the world. He was as awed as ever as he walked past the stroller rentals and the ironically-juxtaposed jail and began scouting for his family on Main Street. It was always the same at Tweetsie, regardless of the year, the season, or the time. The little park was (or is) the one place that is always exactly the same as one remembers it from childhood. Will noticed a sign near the Cowboy Cantina. In a few days, the final day of the season, a concert was to be held at the Hacienda. Will reckoned they would have to miss that fun, even though he knew the band and wanted to sing along. ‘Dandy and the Bass Slayers! Boy!’ he said out loud. ‘Vee herb dap!’ came a watery call from his pocket. ‘Sorry guys. But it’s bass, not trout,’ Will explained. ‘They’re a rockabilly band from… Hello, baby girls!’ He had found his loved ones. ‘Daddy!’ Wynter practically screamed as she jumped up into his arms. ‘It’s me!’ he said before pecking her on the forehead. ‘Daddy! We should have worn our Halloween costumes!’ said Willow, excitedly if somewhat ruefully. ‘Well, now, let’s see,’ said Will; ‘I think we’re costumed enough. You two and mommy are obviously princesses.’ It was a kindly remark, true in a familial sense, pleasing to young daughters, and it generated a smile from an appreciative wife. ‘So, daddy?’ began Wendy; ‘Just what are you? Our prince?’ ‘No,’ he answered. ‘I’m just a greens manager enjoying a long weekend.’ ‘That’s not a costume!’ Willow sang while pulling back and forth on Will’s hand. ‘Everyone else is making up for it! Look at all these characters around us! Now, what are we going to do?’ He placated. They did just about everything, and some things more than once. The Ghost Train waited while the family had dinner in the Cantina. Then, there was a small matter of more shopping at the very same stores that they’d visited earlier that day. Some pictures were taken. Then! Then, they rode the Train, with frights, thrills, and chills aplenty. They found themselves in a delightfully dark haunted wonderland. There was so much to take in! Ghouls, ghosts, goblins, and more lurked around every laughing corner. The family found out that they call it a Freaky Forest for a reason. And, who knew candy corn worked so well in a funnel cake?! After seeing a spooktacular show at the Palace, they ventured up to Miner’s Mountain for more shows, more rides, more pictures, and more fun. For added measure, just to be safe, they even had some additional fun. On the way back down, via the chair lifts, Will had to ride by himself, a car behind the ladies. He listened to them sing and shout and yell Hello, spiders! to the giant, illuminated spiders down on the hillside. After a moment, he pulled the knife out once again. ‘Hey, guys. I’ve been looking for whomever this is supposed to be, and I haven’t really seen him yet,’ he said. ‘No, you wouldn’t,’ said the second trout; ‘not yet.’ ‘You’ll know him when you see him, not before,’ said the first. ‘So, he wasn’t that tall, intelligent but dangerous-looking man with the very attractive woman at his side?’ ‘Certainly not.’ ‘It’s not the last owner, is it?’ ‘No. We’re going forward, not backward.’ ‘Is he anything like me?’ ‘Like you, perhaps, as you were.’ The conversation ended at the lower lift station. The knife was again concealed and, roundabout, Wendy, Will, and the girls ran, skipped, and frolicked their way over to the Country Fair. There, the falls were free, the tornado was gusty, the turnpike was cruising, and the arcade was refreshing. Will and Willow even braved a car on the Tilt, while Wendy and Wynter dared to occupy another. Will almost assumed that the knife would once again fly off, literally, on a further escapade. But in the end, when he checked, it was still in his pocket. At last, as the evening drew towards its closing, the ladies wanted one final thrill. Space limits dictated that only they could ride the ferris wheel, so Will contented himself to sit and watch. He had taken to a bench near the Tilt and was watching (and listening) as the women of his life circled high above. He knew that after the very next revolution, they would exit and this particular Tweetsie visit would come to an end. He didn’t know that he had inadvertently taken out the knife, nor that he was gently turning it in his hand. He had just realized what he was doing and was again examining the stamps as they turned upwards to his face, kindled by the carnival lights all around him. Suddenly, a voice spoke - and it was not aquatically-accented: ‘That’s a nice knife you have, mister.’ Will looked up and observed a boy of about ten, who was keenly looking at the little folder. Without thinking any more about it, Will stood up and held out the knife to the lad insistently. After a second of hesitation, the boy took it. ‘That’s a nice knife you have,’ Will said with a smile. ‘Gee. Thank you, sir,’ said the boy. ‘Don’t thank me,’ said Will, ‘thank the fish.’ With that, he simply walked away, almost immediately running into the giggling womenfolk. ‘Will Ferrum, did I just see you give your favorite knife to that little boy?!’ Wendy asked perplexedly. ‘You did,’ Will said. ‘Somebody has to get them to Japan.’ While both the gift and the remark potentially begged a few questions, she asked him no more about it, and he explained it no further. Instead, they all four wound their way back, past the Spice Ghouls, past the prize pumpkins, and past spills and chills galore, to the exit on Main. As they were departing, and maybe they didn’t even hear it, thus began the melody of “Pet Sematary” by the Ramones. And a pale, strange man in a cape and a top hat, seated across the cowcatcher of Old Number 12, began to laugh. Consider steel, as cold as night, Allocution of the angled; Find the sword a cordial sight, So keeper be embrangled. ~The End~ Furthermore, Deo vindice. Deus est etiam iustitia. |
