Ghost Troop Home
Page April
Fools Part 3
All right, gentlemen, I’ve already told you that I’m willing to speak about what I have discovered. Now I’m going to make sure that you have the research that backs my claims, persistent and paranoid, that the government had crossed a line and that dark forces were loose in our country.
Did all that sound melodramatic back in April? Does it now? Yeah, it’s the kind of bullshit that David Kelly was saying to the New York Times: “There are dark actors, playing dangerous games.” Silly man, the media says he took a shitload of downers then still had enough focus to slash his artery clean through with the stroke of a knife. Well, you can always trust reporters.
You know what, boys? Call me crazy (and I know you do), but I’ll bet you all the money you ever made that you couldn’t slash all the way to your own arteries with just one slash. I could though, know why? ‘Cause it requires a high degree of focus, black belt focus, to slash an artery with one stroke, and to tell you the truth, Kelly didn’t seem that focused to me, especially not with barbiturates in him. He was temperamentally like you foxes of the faculty, though he was true to truth, which lifts him beyond you by light years [Editor’s emphasis, in all cases].
You gentlemen have made careers writing books about
people like Dr.
Kelly, and Rachel
Corrie, but you’re good compliant
citizens of the Reich when it comes to standing up for them or yourselves. What about Rachel Corrie? She was assassinated March 16 on orders from
They said it was an accident of a clumsy bulldozer
operator who was targeting a building but hit Rachel. Yeah, right.
That’s a cover story for dummies like you two. Captain May sez
that Rachel was the target. Do you know that she died pretty easy? (For getting run over by a bulldozer, that
is.) Yeah, she was completely shocked,
because
“When I come back from
Yep, another problematic paranoid, just like me and Kelly. Back to Kelly: He was dead from the moment he was identified as an infoleak, and he knew it. He had told a friend that he believed he would be found dead in the woods. Smart man, Kelly. Ted Estess and Bill Monroe smart, maybe even Captain May smart. I’m just sorry he was delusional as well as suicidal… I’ll bet his deluded mind imagined something like this right before he committed suicide: Someone predatory approaches. He freezes. In half a second two or three of his joints are locked by martial arts techniques against which he had no clue, let alone any defense. He is eased to the ground, unbruised but so pained that he begs and submits. He won’t resist if he feels a needle entering into the hair of his armpits or his groin. He won’t resist if someone commands him to take an eyewash that is a drug. He won’t resist if someone shoves a dozen pills into his mouth. He won’t resist if someone drops his pants and shoves a suppository up his ass. Any of these techniques are quite efficient for the administering of barbiturates. A few moments, then the wits are dull. The stroke of a knife, so deep that it cuts through skin, nerves, muscles, tendons, makes him smile, because with it the joint lock is released. “Sweet release,” he must have thought, in his poor delusional, paranoid mind, as a shadow walked away from his open eyes, and his shadow fled to Hades. What delusion! Homeric in its dimension, I’d say.
Since Sharon and Blair have entered the killer club,
where’s Bush? Well, he’s doing
fine. He popped Al Jazeera
in
Ted, at about the time you said that my presence at
the
How about the April
Fools essay I cooked up after you and Bill and I talked? Notice how it’s coming true? Do you know I wrote that piece to try to
steal another piece of tail from Bill’s secretary, Missy. Yep, tell her I said she was the queen of
diamonds and watch her blush. It was
strictly ego and Eros, the two strongest forces in my soul. She was my Eris,
the little bitch. Why do I call her that
name? Because she dissed
me half a dozen times while I sat and sought charity, bleeding in my soul for
the 3/7 Cavalry. She couldn’t have
given a shit less about a couple of hundred blown up crackers and coloreds
splattered across the
Well, in fairness she had better days. She perked up pretty well there for a while when I recited a few poems I’ve written that flowed with real soul. She asked me for signed copies, and rendered due tribute. It was only when she realized that sleeping with talent didn’t breed talent that she turned shrew.
The last day I begged you trailer-park trash to help your country was Good Friday. I showed up in my dress blues with my medals, but it was for my dead comrades, not for you. I swept the deck between the trailers for the simple reason that it always needed it: Aspiring intellectuals like your students trash their break area without care, and I thought that I should show proper gratitude to my alma mater before I left, even if I was being chased out. After all, y’all had pitched in almost half as much as I paid in temporary parking permits in the two weeks I had sat, played sad guitar, and spoke with your students about pity and patriotism.
Missy walked by that last day, as I scooped up a bucket full of trash. “Can you tell me where I can find a place for this?” I asked.
“I believe that’s a military function,” she replied as she turned and walked off.
You know what, boys? I can put up with a lot, but I’m not going to be dissed by a piece of tail while I’m wearing my dress blues for my boys. Tell Melissa Ginsberg that she’s in the book, by name. Tell her my wife’s a lawyer, puts up with my stupidities, and says that there’s no defense against truth. That goes for you two, too. And while you’re at it, ask her if she’s the one who stole the five dollar bill out of my 3/7 Cavalry collection while I was walking to hell and back looking for a place to take the trash. I only had that one big bill, boys, and it was given to me by a black woman in my own hood, not by either of you or your snot-nosed brood, so I particularly resent the theft.
Shit, I’ll bet all of the
Not that there weren’t more generous folks in
On the road to
A right-winger with a Confederate flag and a USMC tattoo was running a surplus store along Highway 80; he threw in a ten.
An arthritic old lady with a cigarette cough and a sense of humor talked with me at her laundromat as I washed my clothes at noon. She threw in a five.
Welcome to the world of black operations and black
hearts, gentlemen. It’s a bitch, and
it’s real, and yes, I told you so. I
told you, Ted, that I was Moshe the Beadle, right out
of Night, and you stared
stupidly. Man, you’re in tight with the
folks at the
Evil is triumphing, and if it doesn’t win it’s
because the fuck-ups like me were willing to do your jobs. Your students (and sons) may soon be fine
infantrymen. Just ask Captain G what
happens when you’re studying humanities and a real war starts. I should feel a little sorry for your brats,
but it doesn’t come easy, since they didn’t feel sorry for their poor peers who
didn’t have good high schools and college funds. Nope, the poor kids are like I was: they had to go to the Army to pay their own
ways to an education – and along the way to that goal they had to go to
It was all there in plain sight, and you pillars
of profundity turned a blind eye.
Keep teaching your courses about Sybil’s and Cassandra’s who see and
say. “Whom the gods would destroy they
first make mad,” you say to rooms full of kids who want to be wise and
successful and fully human, just like they think you are. Jumping Jesus Christ, that’s what they
think! How do I know? Because I was one of them,
once, in my strange fashion. I’d
just spent three years in the First Cavalry when I came to the
Naw, I’ll save the rest of it for next time. Turn off the computers and wait for the hardback if you want. I’m sending you my essays from April Fools Day to present. They are one of the sources of my book, as are letters like this that actually do the investigation, real-time, as the crime against the Constitution goes down. If I have my way there will be Nuremberg Trials for those media and military who have colluded in the cover-up. With this entry (and those that will come), I think you two gentlemen will be asked to explain why it is that one of your best and brightest students, a civic hero and media/military professional, couldn’t get you to do any thinking, any talking or any teaching about high crimes against our country. I think you should start soul-searching now for why it is that you, Bill, refused to contribute a penny when I asked for charity for widows and orphans of our heroes. Ted, you may have been worse. You tossed in a coin (a penny, I believe), enough to pay the ferryman to take one of my boys to hell. Only you didn’t do it out of pity; you did it to wish me luck in being right about the deaths of hundreds of American soldiers. Damn, man, when you look in the mirror who do you think you are? I’m a poor imitation of Hannah Arendt, boys, but I’ll do in a pinch. Ready or not…
Captain May
PS: Here’s a
sampling of your fellow collaborators in the informational railway to
Most of the military reporters I’ve talked to at the New York Times
at least one reporter and one editor at Newsweek
the deputy editor of the New Yorker
Frank Michel, David Langworthy and Jeff Cohen of the Compromised Chronicle
three public affairs officers in the Pentagon
Colonel
Dennington, a green
beret psyops specialist posing as a senior
chaplain at
Shit, I could go on, but you’ll be able to research it from the book. Ted, you were right, I had something to focus on, all right. Man, did I ever get it! Too bad you boys didn’t want any of the action, and didn’t even want to consider that I might be right. Oh, that’s right, those who can, do; those who can’t teach. Why must you gentlemen prove the clichéists right?