JFK should have been assassinated in Benghazi

It is difficult to believe anything that comes out of the mouth of Benghazi investigation chairman Trey Gowdy after co-conspirator Representative Kevin McCarthy’s comments to FOX News’ Sean Hannity that the purpose of the hearings was to disrupt Hillary Clinton’s campaign. His speech today as the hearings began had all the hallmarks of a hit man’s eulogy at a mafia funeral.

Interesting that tea Party obstructionist republicans, like Gowdy, would cut small grants to educational and cultural institutions because they assert the nation is bankrupt, but who have wasted more than $100 million on what rightly should have been paid for by political donors for commercials we can turn off or fast forward through, rather than tax payer dollars.

It should be noted that the investigation in the assassination of a sitting US president, with indications of potential foreign involvement, possible links to the defense department and the mafia, and lingering questions whether Lee Harvey Oswald was the sole assassin still persist. Indeed, the investigation into what the US government knew about the September 11 attacks in 2001 did not receive this much attention, again despite lingering questions.

There has never been any interest or actual investigation into the death of the American Ambassador to Pakistan Arnold Raphel and General Herbert M. Wassom, the head of the U.S. Military aid mission to Pakistan, both killed in a suspicious plane crash in Pakistan in 1988 during the Reagan Administration, and just months before the first George Bush took office. Ambassador Chris Stevens, it should be noted, who died in Benghazi, succumbed to smoke inhalation after becoming separated from other embassy staffers. His calls for additional funding and security was denied because of massive Republican cuts.

Maybe if the Twin Towers and the 3100 victims had been in Libya, or if President Kennedy had been gunned down in Benghazi by a Liberal 14 year old Muslim from Texas wearing a Planned Parenthood tee shirt and carrying a #Black Lives matter sign we might have gotten to the bottom of this, but only to find out it was still Hillary Clinton’s fault anyway, at least until the election is over.


Listen Saturday’s from 11am-1pm to WC Turck, Brian Murray with Jack Hammond and guests on Chicago’s real alternative media, AM1680, Q4 radio, streaming at www.que4.org.
CAM00236WC Turck is an author, artist, playwright and talk radio host in Chicago. He has been called the most dangerous voice on the Left. His new book “A Tragic Fate: is an unflinching look at the events leading up to the shooting down of Malaysia Air Flight 17.” His first novel, “Broken” was recommended by NAMI for its treatment of PTSD. In 2006 he published “Everything for Love,” a memoir of his experiences during the siege of Sarajevo. He wrote and produced two critically acclaimed plays, “Occupy my Heart” and “The People’s Republic of Edward Snowden.” He works with the homeless and foreclosure victims in Chicago. He partners in a weekly radio show dedicated to issues, society and politics with cohost, activist and artist Brian Murray For more information, past shows, videos and articles, visit www.revolutioandbeer.com

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21 years ago today

Excerpt from the memoir by Revolution and Beer’s WC Turck “Everything for Love.” Dedicated to my wife of 21 years…41e+6tsee9L__BO2,204,203,200_PIsitb-sticker-v3-big,TopRight,0,-55_SX324_SY324_PIkin4,BottomRight,1,22_AA346_SH20_OU02_

We hope, we hope, we hope. We hope, because it is the Knight that does battle with the cold and agonizing emptiness that surrounds and fills us. It is that emptiness which, in the absence of hope, is poised to crush and devour us. Only hope, and its cousin, love, defends us. They are comfort to our hearts and a curse to our intellect. They are our salvation and our burden. We need hope to exist, and therefore we drink it in madly. Hope was in desperate supply in Sarajevo, and it was the one thing I was determined to give Ana, but I wondered if it was proper to offer such a thing. It felt like a fertile branch floating upon an uncertain ocean. Was there a promise of approaching shores or of the unrelenting sea?

There were few sights that spoke of the siege as graphically as the hillside cemetery above the soccer stadium. Then thousand wooden markers, ten thousand mounds of earth, ten thousand dead nearly bisected the city. It was a community in it’s own right, if one defines a community by its common bonds and needs. Bound by death, their only need was remembrance, for they had long ago lost the need for justice. New graves quickly overtook the old ones and replaced the grove of tall willow, pine and maple that once shrouded the cemetery. The bones of those older graves lay scattered on the muddy ground. The city of the dead was slowly taking over the places for the living.

I detoured among the graves that evening on the way to Ana’s. I often walked among them trying to find some commonality among them: between them and me. I read the names, if there were any, and the dates of their births and deaths. Some were decorated with curiously personal trinkets, flowers, poems, letters, children’s toys and more. Many were simply forgotten, or were simple mounds with no marker or name. BOSNIA-SARAJEVO FOOTBALL STADIUM

Near the stadium I found the grave of IRMA GRABOVICA, born 1982 and died 1993. Nearby lay HUSEIN KAROVICH, born in 1938. Beside the grave of twenty-two year old IZET BEGICH were two anonymous graves. Further on PAVO BLAZHEVICH, A Catholic Croat lay beside ZLATIMIR TEZICH, a Serb, and KASIM MEZHUR, a Muslim. Kasim and Zlatomir’s graves were so close together I wondered if in life they were friends.

It was quite dark when I reached Ana’s building. The night was brisk and moonless night. The Milky Way was bright and splashed across the sky. Ana waved from the window and hurried downstairs and into my arms. She was eager for me to meet a friend who had been crippled in the first days of the war. A battle erupted northeast of the city and spread along the lines. Despite the fighting we headed for Bare, a working class neighborhood on the northern edge of the city.

Bare was in a fold two blocks below Ana’s building. It was pressed between a communist-era hillside cemetery and the Serb lines on an adjacent ridge. Ana and I were thankful for such a dark night, as the squat, widely spaced apartment blocks were fully exposed to the lines.

We went quietly, never speaking above a whisper and tensed for the punch of a sniper’s bullet that would come quick and silent. There wasn’t much in the way of cover, just the occasional wreck amid trash strewn empty lots.

“Chetniks,” Ana whispered, “no more than three hundred meters. There is no wind tonight. We must be careful. They can hear everything up there.”

“Who are we visiting?”

“My good friend Cico. It is important that you meet him.”

ZIP! A bullet ripped the air close by. Ana and I were instantly racing for the cover of a nearby doorway. The night fell silent once more, but Ana and I refused to move. We were holding tight to one another. I could feel her heart beating madly through her coat. There was terror in her eyes. Her face, half consumed in shadow, was suddenly pale. billturckbosnianwar

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“My nerves. I’ll be fine. I think it’s safe now, but we should hurry.”

Cico’s building was close. The building was dark, but for the flickering glow of candles through translucent UNHCR plastic covering the windows at the back of the building. We ran until we reached the open door. Ana called up and a huge figure appeared at the top of the stairs. Candle poured light across a man’s face.

Even from the bottom of the stairs I could tell that Marko Markovich, Cico’s father, was a good soul, a beer and pretzels sort of guy. The candlelight painted the map of a difficult life upon his simple face. He leaned over the rail to help light our way with the candle. A welcoming smile came to him when he recognized Ana.

“Hey, Ana! Kako ste? Shta ima?” His rich deep voice filled the stairwell. Woven within was the elation of a man momentarily rescued from despair.

“Nemam nishta,” nothing much, Ana replied breathlessly. “Kako ste vi?”

“Dobro sam,” very well, he nodded meeting us on the stairs. He greeted Ana with a huge one-armed hug, nearly lifting her off her feet. “Ah, the daughter I always wanted!”

Ana introduced me. Marko welcomed me with a big handshake and hearty pat on the shoulder.

“Come, come,” he said. “It’s warmer inside. You must forgive me but I have nothing to offer.”

The apartment was tiny, much smaller than Ana’s. It was cluttered like most wartime apartments, and a bit of a mess, for which the sweet-natured Serb kept apologizing as he lumbered around the place. We found a seat on an old couch. Beautiful red and black Oriental blankets were thrown and tucked over the most worn places. The room had a strange character, as though it was as much a memory of someone that had passed as anything else. There was an air of clumsy preservation, in which a woman’s touch had been staged or recreated. That sense hid at the edges of the candlelight, like a memory fading with time. Ana was expectant, less about Cico and more as if there was something she needed to confirm here.

He said something about the last place being wrecked by a missile, and they had not settled into this place yet. Ana and I shared a smile. Marko was as awkward as a schoolboy with a crush.

“You will have some tea, both of you,” he said, leading us by candlelight through a narrow hall into the living room.

“Please, no,” said Ana. “You have much too far to go for water here.”

“Nonsense. It’s freezing outside.”

“A small cup then,” she relented.

Ana and Cico were friends before the war, but not as close as they were now. They lost touch for a while. It was then that Cico’s life changed forever.

The first weeks of the war Cico was riding in a car with some friends. One of them was playing with a gun when it went off and blew away part of Cico’s left foot. It was a terrible wound, but at the hospital it hardly compared with those missing arms and legs, with guts hanging out or faces shredded. There were dozens as badly wounded as Cico and dozens more that were hurt much worse, with casualties mounting by the hour. What remained of the hospital staff was hopelessly overwhelmed. The best he could hope for was a simple bandage. Infection set in quickly and the doctors did their best to save as much of the leg as possible, but without the proper medicines all they could do was amputate more and more of his leg in a vain effort to stay ahead of the infection. After the last operation doctors told him he should be prepared to lose the entire leg.

I looked around the room and remarked how sad it seemed. It was as if another soul was in the room with us.

“It’s Cico’s mom. You could feel her even stronger in the last place. She died when he was small of kidney failure. She was in terrible agony…I just can’t imagine.”

We could hear Cico on the stairs. He was hollering at Ana for interrupting the best pool game he’d had in weeks. He clumsily negotiated the clutter in the hall on a pair of silver metal crutches. He was tall with thick dark hair and bright playful eyes. Cico had a huge grin on his face. It dissolved the moment he saw me sitting beside Ana. Our introduction was no less awkward. He was very obviously jealous.

They caught up with neighborhood gossip. One girl was a refugee in Germany, and a kid from school had been killed on the line a few days earlier.

There was shelling to the south. The dull rumble drew concentric rings across the surface of my tea. Now and again Ana would touch my leg and ask if I was all right in English. Each time Cico took note. He leaned to Ana.

“Why don’t we hit the American over the head and steal his money,” he smirked in Bosnian. Ana fought the urge to laugh.

“Really?” she replied.

“And why not?”

“Cico, he understands everything you say.”

His eyes went wide with surprise. “Everything?’

“Everything,” she said. He looked sharply at me and blushed as I nodded.

“I, uh, I only joke,” he stammered.

“That’s okay,” I winked. “Ana suggested we mug you if you won big in pool!”

From that moment Cico and I were friends. Ana seemed terribly relieved and went back to her conversation. Gossip was the only real entertainment left in the city, and the scandalous stuff he had about who was sleeping with who was golden. For my part I marveled at Ana and the intensity she brought to every relationship. In her embrace I knew I could forever be safe from the treachery of the world. As for Ana and Cico, what passed between them was rich and pure, and much deeper than simple friendship. For Cico, by the way he looked at her and hung on every word, I knew it was nothing short of love.


Listen Saturday’s from 11am-1pm to WC Turck, Brian Murray with Jack Hammond and guests on Chicago’s real alternative media, AM1680, Q4 radio, streaming at www.que4.org.
CAM00236WC Turck is an author, artist, playwright and talk radio host in Chicago. He has been called the most dangerous voice on the Left. His new book “A Tragic Fate: is an unflinching look at the events leading up to the shooting down of Malaysia Air Flight 17.” His first novel, “Broken” was recommended by NAMI for its treatment of PTSD. In 2006 he published “Everything for Love,” a memoir of his experiences during the siege of Sarajevo. He wrote and produced two critically acclaimed plays, “Occupy my Heart” and “The People’s Republic of Edward Snowden.” He works with the homeless and foreclosure victims in Chicago. He partners in a weekly radio show dedicated to issues, society and politics with cohost, activist and artist Brian Murray For more information, past shows, videos and articles, visit www.revolutioandbeer.com

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Bill This

Louisiana republican, senator David Vitter this week introduced a bill that would cut funding for so-called sanctuary cities which do not actively or aggressively harass undocumented immigrants. Senator Harry Reid called it the Donald Trump bill, a reference to the incendiary and opportunistic rhetoric by presidential candidate and bombast, Donald Trump.

The bill calls for cities that do not “comply” with federal laws regarding arrests and deportations of immigrants to face sanctions and cuts to federal funding. Sanctuary cities simply have decided against using municipal funds or employees to enquire about an individual’s immigration status. It also relieves additional financial burdens on municipalities which find themselves cash strapped to greater and greater degrees. The term holds no legal status. begun in Los Angeles in the 1970s, the intent was to remove additional burdens to local police, and to prevent discrimination. Attempts to ban or sanction so called sanctuary cities is merely a political ploy and has no actual basis in law or practice.

The biggest idiocy is that these same republicans are the same retro-evolutionary amphibians cheering and flouting federal laws regarding a woman’s right to choose what happens to her own body, who insists about imposing creationism in public school curriculum, legislating at state levels end runs around anti-discrimination laws, imposing religious texts in courtrooms and celebrating lawless militias deploying to murder federal law enforcement officers in Nevada supporting a scofflaw rancher while now proclaiming “Blue Lives Matter.”

Of course, “Blue Lives Matter,” referring to police, is merely the right’s tongue in cheek end run around actually using the word “Nigger” to discredit the Black Lives Matter movement.

But consistency has never been a hallmark of the Right. What is far worse, however , are the people who fail to recognize glaring contradictions on the Right, which are the size of China’s Great Wall. And these people, like the media dulled Weebles that they’ve become walk right into that wall, turn around and slam into it again and again.
The Right constantly drumbeats about low information voters, referring to liberals and Progressives and anyone who sees through the hurricane of bullshit on the Right, as well as those not stupid enough to vote against their best interests. but when push comes to shove I’ll take the low information voters on the Left over the low IQ voters on the Right any old day!


Listen Saturday’s from 11am-1pm to WC Turck, Brian Murray with Jack Hammond and guests on Chicago’s real alternative media, AM1680, Q4 radio, streaming at www.que4.org.
CAM00236WC Turck is an author, artist, playwright and talk radio host in Chicago. He has been called the most dangerous voice on the Left. His new book “A Tragic Fate: is an unflinching look at the events leading up to the shooting down of Malaysia Air Flight 17.” His first novel, “Broken” was recommended by NAMI for its treatment of PTSD. In 2006 he published “Everything for Love,” a memoir of his experiences during the siege of Sarajevo. He wrote and produced two critically acclaimed plays, “Occupy my Heart” and “The People’s Republic of Edward Snowden.” He works with the homeless and foreclosure victims in Chicago. He partners in a weekly radio show dedicated to issues, society and politics with cohost, activist and artist Brian Murray For more information, past shows, videos and articles, visit www.revolutioandbeer.com

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Does God Hate Breakfast?

I’m having some trouble with the Bible. If it truly is the word of God, why does he leave so many of the most important lessons in life out? For example, my dad is one of the toughest and bravest guys I know. He was a union guy, in a factory and a volunteer fireman, but he couldn’t accomplish anything without a cup of coffee in the morning. But nowhere in the Bible is there a story that starts with, “After his morning coffee the lord went forth and smote…”

For that matter, my whole life I have been told breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and yet, the Bible, Torah and Koran are all silent on this subject. Why? Wouldn’t it be a great lesson to kids if David’s mom was heard to say, “Goliath can wait until you’ve had breakfast. How are you going to slay a giant and you haven’t had breakfast? Oh, and don’t forget your helmet and knee pads!”michael-crawford-david-and-goliath-and-david-s-personal-trainer-rolf-new-yorker-cartoon

Then again, David would have also benefitted from exercise, right? Maybe a few pushups, jog a little, lift some heavy stones. Yet, he isn’t even described as practicing the slingshot. That seems fundamental. There is more to learn from the golfing scene from the 1970s comedy Animal House with John Belushi regarding practice than in any holy book. but exercise should be a given, right? Jesus walked the desert for who knows how long, but no where does it say to the rest of us, get your big butts up and go for a walk. The only downside I can see is that with all those healthy hot looking people in Mosques, Temples and churches, singles bars and e-harmony might go out of business. To quote Jim Gaffigan, as you turn to an attractive neighbor in church, “Peace be with you, and an extra piece for you…”

The commandments fall short as well. Unless I’m a peasant shepherd, a few of them just are sort of irrelevant. A few suggestions, if I might, would update the commandments, such as, Don’t fart in a crowded elevator, hilarious though it may be if you are the farter, not the fartee. How about, Thou’t shall not flip other drivers off, or drive like a jerk when entering and leaving a place of worship. That’s right, gold Toyota, you know who you are. Maybe not playing with food would be a good one for kids. I got smacked and grounded for that all the time, and yet never needed the Thou shall’t not kill rule.

Finally, we are warned of deviant sexual acts by clergy and throughout holy texts (insert your own jokes here). Marriage, we are also told, is sacred, and yet not much in the way of real world marriage advice. The idea that a woman shall be subservient to her husband has caused us nothing but trouble, while real world advice is missing. After 900 years of marriage -that’s how old they say Noah was in the Bible- I’m guessing relations between he and Mrs. Noah(No last name here? That seems a bit presumptuous. I have like 8 friends named Bill) were getting a bit, shall we say, predictable. Perhaps a bit of advice on how to liven up the captain’s quarters aboard the Ark a bit would have been in order. The first real Love Boat! I’m thinking a bit of role playing perhaps. I can hear Noah’s wife saying, “I’ll be the milk maiden tonight, and you be the lost shepherds boy…”

Along those lines, and I’m just throwing this one out there, you can all decide for yourselves, but isn’t S & M truly the consensual adult embodiment of the Golden Rule? Do onto others, and all that? Just sayin’…
Ud5GbMh


Listen Saturday’s from 11am-1pm to WC Turck, Brian Murray with Jack Hammond and guests on Chicago’s real alternative media, AM1680, Q4 radio, streaming at www.que4.org.
CAM00236WC Turck is an author, artist, playwright and talk radio host in Chicago. He has been called the most dangerous voice on the Left. His new book “A Tragic Fate: is an unflinching look at the events leading up to the shooting down of Malaysia Air Flight 17.” His first novel, “Broken” was recommended by NAMI for its treatment of PTSD. In 2006 he published “Everything for Love,” a memoir of his experiences during the siege of Sarajevo. He wrote and produced two critically acclaimed plays, “Occupy my Heart” and “The People’s Republic of Edward Snowden.” He works with the homeless and foreclosure victims in Chicago. He partners in a weekly radio show dedicated to issues, society and politics with cohost, activist and artist Brian Murray For more information, past shows, videos and articles, visit www.revolutioandbeer.com

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Tomorrow: Debut of the Rev and Beer Players

Tomorrow the Rev and Beer Players will debut on the Revolution and Beer Show. You can join the cast in an upcoming show. To find out how, tune in at 11am tomorrow to the Revolution and Beer Show, only on Que4 Radio in Chicago

Tomorrow’s sketch:

RAHM’S FAVORITE BYRD
A Sketch by WC Turck
Featuring:
The Rev and Beer Players
NARRATOR
We take you now to city hall. In a spacious and extravagant 5th floor office, its business as usual.
RAHM’S ASSISTANT
Mayor Emmanuel, your 1 oclock is here. Shall I…
RAHM
(Delighted but with a note of insincerity)Is that…? Why, I would recognize the glow from that bling from the International Space Station! Bartbie Bryrd Bennett, so good to see you. Wait, something is different. Don’t tell me…
BYRD
(Stern) That’s Mizzzzzz Bennett to you.
RAHM
Oh, I meant, I didn’t, please accept my…
BYRD
Oh, Rahmy, I’m just joshing ya!
RAHM
(Relieved) oh good. Say, Byrdie, that’s one amazing rock on your finger
BYRD
“Don’t you love it, Rahmy. I call it Gibraltar. I told the feds I blew the 3 million bucks at the casino (Mocking victimhood) I have a gambling problem!
THEY BOTH LAUGH
RAHM
Seriously, sorry about that whole “I didn’t know anything,” thing I told the Press
BYRD
That’s okay. It was hilarious!
RAHM
I wrote it myself. Wish I could give them the finger but…Hey, Byrdie, thanks for taking one for the team.
BYRD
Ha! I can do 8 months in a Federal ladies Pen standing on my head. (Glumly insincere) I guess I’ll have to make restitution for the millions we took from the taxpayers and children of Chicago while claiming to be poor.
PREGNANT PAUSE
BOTH LAUGH RIOTOUSLY
BYRD
Seriously, the Feds are sniffing way up my posh and plush diva’s behind on this one.
RAHM
Those sick bastards.
BYRD
No, they’re not actually sniffing. Its a figure of speech.
RAHM
Oh.
BYRD
They want me to turn state’s evidence and give up some names…Now you can be angry
RAHM
Those sick bastards.
ASSISTANT
Mayor Emmanuel, your 1:10 is here, its George Lucas from the Star Wars museum. Chewbacca and R2D2 are threatening to unionize, he’s asking if you and Rauner will approve another raise for the cops to bust some heads, like you did for NATO.
RAHM
Tell Mister Lucas I’ll be right with him, and he’s welcome to take anything he likes in the office. We’ll bill the taxpayers for it later.
ASSISTANT
Nothing too good for our second favorite billionaire. Just in case Brucey Rauner is listening.
BYRD
Where were we?
RAHM
Okay, so its simple. Just tell the feds it was a cabal of rogue low level managers. When you get out, early retirement, baby! Besides, I need to clean house around here anyway. You know, like Volkswagon with their emission fooling software
BYRD
Oh, Rahmy, I just find ruthless corruption so attractive in a man. You can sniff around my plush backside anytime.
RAHM
Sounds like there’s already a line.
NARRATOR
The writer and cast of this sketch would like you to know that as a work of parody Revolution and Beer has absolutely no evidence that Chewbacca and R2D2 are attempting to, or in any way have ever discussed or considered starting a union. Our sincere apologies to those cartoon characters for any harm this play might have caused to their family and friends.


Listen Saturday’s from 11am-1pm to WC Turck, Brian Murray with Jack Hammond and guests on Chicago’s real alternative media, AM1680, Q4 radio, streaming at www.que4.org.
CAM00236WC Turck is an author, artist, playwright and talk radio host in Chicago. He has been called the most dangerous voice on the Left. His new book “A Tragic Fate: is an unflinching look at the events leading up to the shooting down of Malaysia Air Flight 17.” His first novel, “Broken” was recommended by NAMI for its treatment of PTSD. In 2006 he published “Everything for Love,” a memoir of his experiences during the siege of Sarajevo. He wrote and produced two critically acclaimed plays, “Occupy my Heart” and “The People’s Republic of Edward Snowden.” He works with the homeless and foreclosure victims in Chicago. He partners in a weekly radio show dedicated to issues, society and politics with cohost, activist and artist Brian Murray For more information, past shows, videos and articles, visit www.revolutioandbeer.com

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Proposed 28th Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America: The Ninja Amendment

ninjacatva11

Be it soon resolved that We the People of these United States of America hereby propose that all schools in this great nation will henceforth be guarded by “good” Ninjas through a Constitutional convention of the States and ratified by the Congress. We further contend that this is as valid and an equally responsible response to initiatives to militarize schools with guns, forcibly arm teachers and increase the proliferation of guns by creating a virtual army to patrol the 130,000 schools in the nation. A single well-hidden Ninja would be far more effective and a greater deterrent than a dozen roaming part-time security guards.

Be it also noted by all parties that not a single crime or mass violence has ever been attributed to Ninjas, and that Ninjas are silent and stealthy and could dispatch a criminal with such lethal force as to provide minimal or no disruption to students, unlike a gun battle in a hallway. Further, it is laid down here that if it is proposed to force teachers to carry guns, that the wiser course, grasshopper, would be to train teachers in the moral, honorable and philosophical ways of the Ninja. Be it expressed in the strongest terms that the benefits to children schooled by Ninja teachers would reap untold positive benefits for America’s children. God himself forbidding a crisis, a school-full of children trained in the ways of the Ninja would become a formidable army in their own right.

We here affirm the noblest aspects of the Ninja. A Ninja never panics. a Ninja is kind and perpetually helps those in need. They are courageous, adaptable, versatile, patient, and persistent. Ninjas express loyalty to ones country, loyalty to ones parents, trust and brotherhood among friends. Ninjas believe that large egos are carried by small minds. Ninjas never cry.

Upon this date the draftees of this bill declare that this is the Ninja Amendment as proposed. We call upon the people of this nation to spread this proposal far and wide to all citizens, their elected representatives and the National Rifle Association for the sake and safety, the sanity and security of these United States.
ninja-cat_o_535853


Listen Saturday’s from 11am-1pm to WC Turck, Brian Murray with Jack Hammond and guests on Chicago’s real alternative media, AM1680, Q4 radio, streaming at www.que4.org.
CAM00236WC Turck is an author, artist, playwright and talk radio host in Chicago. He has been called the most dangerous voice on the Left. His new book “A Tragic Fate: is an unflinching look at the events leading up to the shooting down of Malaysia Air Flight 17.” His first novel, “Broken” was recommended by NAMI for its treatment of PTSD. In 2006 he published “Everything for Love,” a memoir of his experiences during the siege of Sarajevo. He wrote and produced two critically acclaimed plays, “Occupy my Heart” and “The People’s Republic of Edward Snowden.” He works with the homeless and foreclosure victims in Chicago. He partners in a weekly radio show dedicated to issues, society and politics with cohost, activist and artist Brian Murray For more information, past shows, videos and articles, visit www.revolutioandbeer.com

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Dark Horse: Dominating the Message

Debbie Wasserman Schultz is protecting Hillary Clinton. The Right is protecting Hillary Clinton. The October 13 Democratic debate should rightly be the showdown between Clinton and Sanders. Even Rightwing talk shows this morning, supposedly animated against Mrs. Clinton were silent about the debate. There is a great deal revealed in that silence.

Contrast that to station-hyped viewing parties, and near constant coverage of the Republican debates. CNN has been comparatively low key about their own debate, despite the outpouring of support for candidates like Sanders.

The comparison between Clinton and Sanders could hardly be greater, and while Clinton has rebounded a bit given a slightly less aggressive speaking schedule by Sanders, revelations that the Benghazi hearings were a staged partisan political attack and a near blackout of Sanders coverage by corporate news conglomerates, Sanders last week hit a milestone by reaching 1 million individual donations.

For the Republicans and their network marketing apparatchiks it is about dominating the message. That message has been fully directed at Hillary, the presumptive and predetermined nominee. Their message, having fully lost Hispanic and Black voters going into 2016 is to polarize voters along racial lines. Guns, fear, terrorism, immigration and so called non-traditional American values are tactics directed at white voters. Overheard are fears that the military industrial complex that Eisenhower warned of, and which drove us into wars in Vietnam and the Middle East is coaxing a crisis with Russia and Syria as a distraction from true issues pertinent to this election.

Sanders would have the argument about social and economic issues. Those are the real issues critical to the US, to the poor and working middle class. But the Party democrats and party republicans each are guilty of protecting policies threatening social safety nets, protecting and coddling banks and who are more beholden to the wealthy and powerful to the detriment of the poor and middleclass Americans. For those republicans and democrats and their corporate cronies the government has become a cash machine at the taxpayer’s expense, and a means of privilege and power eschewed and feared by the framers of the constitution.

Hype, marketing and advertising brought nearly unprecedented numbers of viewers to the republican debates. By design and admission none of that was used for the democratic debate. Given that Sanders, still drawing larger crowds than nearly every other legitimate candidate combined, has been the target of derision or simply ignored by both the apparatchik republicans and democrats the reason seems clear.

The parties are dominating the message. Sanders is the wise old man out who stumbled into a cocktail party full of idiots. Sorry, but those idiots are not about to entertain his intelligent notions. But it does underscore the irrelevancy of party politics. Sanders’ supporters will have to muscle him through on their own. Don’t wait for the nomination that will never come. If Sanders has a chance, it will be as the first ever write-in candidate in the history of the Republic to become president.


Listen Saturday’s from 11am-1pm to WC Turck, Brian Murray with Jack Hammond and guests on Chicago’s real alternative media, AM1680, Q4 radio, streaming at www.que4.org.
CAM00236WC Turck is an author, artist, playwright and talk radio host in Chicago. He has been called the most dangerous voice on the Left. His new book “A Tragic Fate: is an unflinching look at the events leading up to the shooting down of Malaysia Air Flight 17.” His first novel, “Broken” was recommended by NAMI for its treatment of PTSD. In 2006 he published “Everything for Love,” a memoir of his experiences during the siege of Sarajevo. He wrote and produced two critically acclaimed plays, “Occupy my Heart” and “The People’s Republic of Edward Snowden.” He works with the homeless and foreclosure victims in Chicago. He partners in a weekly radio show dedicated to issues, society and politics with cohost, activist and artist Brian Murray For more information, past shows, videos and articles, visit www.revolutioandbeer.com

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Columbus, the genocidal murdering sailor? Happy Columbus Day everybody!

The one thing about history is that it must be view in context. There is a real danger in view history through contemporary perspectives, particularly for political or religious advantage. Both the Left and Right are guilty of that. Which is not to negate a critical accounting of history. It is important to learn lessons from history, but the true imperative of history is to learn all history, from as many perspectives on all sides. There is the age-old adage, history is written by the victors; a phrase which must rank among the most immoral and most regressive statements ever uttered. Such are the words of criminals and the ignorant. History must be the choral narrative of humanity, not an egotistical soap opera for the 1%, royalty and the powerful, or a scorecard in a dead-end tit-for-tat grudge match between religions. Fundamentally, it is the same reason that we judge the mistakes of children differently than those of adults.

Both the Left and Right will attempt to score points with truly meaningless hyperbole regarding Columbus and Columbus Day. As with most issues used as political and ideological footballs, the truth lies solidly in the middle. Real history becomes irrelevant here, because both sides have either abandoned it, do not know history, or are completely partisan in their positions that both truth and history or compromise are hardly a consideration.

So, was Christopher Columbus responsible for all that came after his arrival in the so-called “New” world? For one, it wasn’t new, as people had already been here for the better part of 25 thousand years. So, ole Chris didn’t discover anything, any more than I discovered the central Texas town of Saledo near where my parents live when I drove through it some years back. Following that logic I might have declared little Saledo, with its tourist shops and Inn where General George Custer stopped once, mine, or that I claimed it in the name of then Chicago Mayor Daley. So Columbus did not discover America, he stumbled upon a place someone already lived on and, if possession is 9/10 of the law, owned.

So what is Columbus guilty of? Personally, nothing. His largely innocent but failed efforts to uncover new supply routes to Asia did commence an occupation by Europeans over the coming centuries resulting over the course of 4 centuries somewhere between 33 million and 145 million indigenous deaths.

What is true is that that invasion and occupation, cloaked innocuously with terms like colonization led to an absolute destruction of the aboriginal peoples of the Americas. The assault and degradation and outright slaughter of those people was in fact a multi-generational genocide. In a proper perspective of history, and a proper accounting of the human soul, that must be accounted for and come to honestly, not racially as it has been done as a means of obscuring European crimes and ignorance.

That is hardly to accuse or impugn all Europeans, or all Americans today, or in the past. We are at the culmination of a history in which there are indeed a grand majority of innocent European and Western colonists. While the momentum of that colonization ground aboriginals under hoof and boot, the history cannot not be undone without doing greater harm. So where does that leave us?

History instead becomes a tool to establish standards for human rights and human dignity. The imperative is to progress from the past, and past ignorance, and not to continuously recreate crimes from that past, nor to continually reopen or re-enflame the scars and pain evoked from those crimes. And certainly now to create a revolving scheme of oppressors who exact revenge as they come to power. That is the risk of exalting the victim too much, ignoring their inherent humanness as well.

And then is where the consideration for not celebrating a fake holiday like Columbus day. At the very least we are celebrating a myth and a cartoonish and bigoted view of history, which we all should have learned from. We wouldn’t celebrate Robert E. Lee’s birthday nationally. Even though he didn’t start the KKK, and disavowed the Confederate flag under which he fought, he did nurture men like Confederate General Nathan Bedford Forest, the first Grand Wizard of the Klan. We wouldn’t celebrate that day out of respect for the pain and insult it would cause Blacks in this country.

The point here is that history is a process, forged as much by blunders and success as a continual ascension from the ignorance we harbored the moment before. The choices and steps we make now will resonate. In truth, future history is yet to be written. We are all the authors of that history, and so inherent is a guarantee of chaos and calamity. It is the weight of those who side with human dignity and human rights through the greatest driver of human history-mutual respect and understanding.

So, if you’re passionate about Columbus, take the wife out to dinner, have a couple of Morettis, but realize that others, many with generational lines in this country extending many thousands of years before Columbus was born are sensitive about it. Realize that only a hand full of generations ago happened the Trail of Tears, Wounded Knee, and that throughout most of the 20th Century open racism against Native Americans was rampant and overt. Realize that those same struggles continue now as the sovereignty of indigenous peoples re routinely violated, and that promises and treaties are likewise violated with impunity. Columbus wasn’t an evil person, nor was he a hero. He is a myth, but history has inflated his legacy far beyond the person, and that is what needs to be remembered.

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The Ballad of Don and Dean, or how pork sausage saved the world: part two

The afternoon slips into memory. Summer fades and the skies turn cold and gray. The breeze that whispered among the cornrows is now an icy wind rustling among dry yellow stalks. The oblong leaves of the maple are stained a rusty red, falling in great heaps to cover the yard and the two empty chairs beside the barn. It rained earlier, clearing the air so that everything appears fresh and new, the colors as crisp and precise as if from a painting. A pickup crests the far hill, barreling along the gravel road past the farm. Stones crackle loudly against the undercarriage.

Don and Dean stand on the porch looking out at the yard and the white gravel driveway, out past the tractor and the rusting green Oldsmobile that hasn’t run in years. The fields are plowed, mostly. The diverging lines of harvest rows run away in the distance. Banks of autumn trees are colored brown and gold. A thick carpet of clouds softens the world above with only glimpses of blue sky. The air smells mineral-cold like snow and holds the gingery bite of burning leaves.

Dean is dressed in his best brown suit, with a borrowed gold tie and a clean white shirt. Black would have been more appropriate, if only he had another suit to wear. His hands are buried deep in his pockets. His shoulders are heavy with the accumulated weight of life’s burden and ultimate sadness. Don is beside him wearing the same black suit he wore when he retired from teaching. The pant’s legs are hemmed a little too short. Don’s white socks can be seen below the neatly pressed cuffs.
Dean is thinking of Mary Lou. He recalls their first meeting at the high school sock hop, their first kiss and how she looked the first time they made love. He remembers the pea-green Buick and the Chuck Berry song that was playing when he asked for her hand in marriage. He remembers the birth of each of their children. His mind is a confusion of thoughts and tattered emotions. They are debris swirling in the storm of his mind, whipped by a single regret; that there wasn’t enough time. Somehow Mary Lou still feels close. Strange that a body can feel so far away, even when making love, but the soul is always close.

“Was a nice ceremony,” says Don, rocking on his heels.
“Yep.” Emotion hangs heavy in Dean’s chest.

“Mary Lou would have loved it.”

“Naw,” Dean frowns, “would have hated folks fussing and weeping over her.”

There is a long silence. The wind rustles through the dry corn. A crow caws from the field. Dean’s voice wavers. “Sure am gonna miss her.”

“In a better place than hangin’ around listening to a couple old coots like us.”

“Guess I‘m just selfish.”

“How’re the kids holding up?”

“Mostly. Grandkids’ll miss her the most. The old gal never missed a birthday. Knew every single one, which is why I never had to.”

“Same way with Joanne,” says Don. The comment unexpectedly enrages Dean. Though he knows what Don means, knows the comment was innocent enough, Dean wants to shout that it isn’t the same, and that he has no idea until his wife is gone too. The feeling scares the hell out of Dean.

“Is that right?” Dean manages.
“Yep.”

“Woman thing.”

“Keep us civilized.”

“Sure,” Dean drags himself from the rage. “Sure, or we’d be hairy, unwashed barbarians; fat, smelly and thinkin’ we’re God’s gift.”

The rage leaves him, but in this barren land where grief and guilt are one in the same, it is a simple thing to stumble from one treacherous footfall to another. Dean is suddenly confronted with the endlessly cold abyss of forever. Don watches Dean’s brow collapse. Hopelessness and terror crystallize in Dean’s eyes. Don searches for a way to rescue his friend.

“Paint quite a picture there, Dean.” Don gives Dean’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Dean looks up and finds strength in caring and familiar eyes.

“Just call every so often to make sure I bathe once in a while.”

“It’s that hairy part that has me spooked,” Don smiles. “But we’ll take it a day at a time.”

Dean nods. “Well, that’s something then.”

“Come by now and again, make sure ya get a good meal or two.”

“Sure could use a bit of breakfast right now,” says Dean. “Ain’t had much to eat since yesterday.”

“Cook ya up a couple of eggs?”

“Strange thing to worry about with all this goin’ on?”

“Gotta eat.”

“Believe I could use a bit of breakfast.”

“That’s a trooper.”

“Somethin’ with a bit of noise. Up for a ride out to the Hog’s Breath?”

“Believe I could use a cup of their coffee.”

“Good coffee.”

“Yep.”

“Got a taste for their pork sausage.”

“Got a good one, do they?” asks Don.

“Hear they make it fresh.”

“Is that right?”

“That’s what I hear.”

“Believe you just might be right.”

Autumn gives way to winter. It’s like an ending to some, a transition to others and to some a beginning. It depends on where they’re standing at that moment. The snow comes early, arriving sometime before the dawn. It lays quietly among the plowed fields, a white blanket torn by dark rows. The light is soft, accompanied by a silence broken only by the whisper of fluffy-white snowflakes. Out past the tractor, a quarter mile or so away, a pair of deer move among the fields. Their brown winter coats are full, snow collecting lightly upon their backs and shoulders.

Out on the porch the air is cold. It puts a sting to the cheeks and nose, but Don barely notices. The cold air is cleansing, giving a new perspective to difficult thoughts and concerns, like Dean’s slow and apparent wasting in the months since losing Mary Lou. The cold and quiet bring Don a clarity that he has sorely missed. He wonders where it will end. He recalls how his own father seemed to give up on life after his mother passed. The thought leads him to his own life. From the first day with Joanne the thought was there. Seemed like it would take him away from a love that needed to be loved in the present. In retrospect he is still undecided, and wonders if his father’s fate was inevitable, like a comet plunging to an unavoidable end in the sun. He wonders if there is some pressure that will nudge his own heart from that certain destruction.

The door is open behind him. A soft golden light from the lamp on the bureau falls through the dingy screen door. Coffee is brewing in the kitchen. The warm, bitter fragrance finds him. He feels like he is standing on the divide between two worlds. The scent of the coffee comes with the scent of a house that feels every bit as substantial and familiar as any member of the family. He glances back at Dean who is visiting for the weekend.

Dean looks frail and much older these days, his eyes like long abandoned wells. He is awake, sitting at the edge of the sofa bed with his back to the door. His toes are tucked into a pair of well-worn brown slippers. A black and orange blanket rests upon his shoulders. Don smiles at Dean’s tossled wispy white hair.

Dean is staring blankly at the cold fireplace. His eyes are fixed there, lost in some groggy half-thought. He feels a draft from the open door across his bare ankles and worries about his wife in that cold, cold ground.

“Heatin’ the outside?” he complains, clearing his throat. It takes some effort for Dean to stand. His slippers skid over the wood floor. At the door Dean’s brow furls and he draws the blanket tighter across his shoulders. The screen darkens the world, confirming his mood. Life feels like cold honey, and he is struggling against it.

“If it’d help get us a little closer to spring,” says Don. “Give ya a chill?”

“Not when I remember the long winters working in that stuff.”

Don nods in agreement. “Best argument I heard yet for being retired.”
“Got a whole lot more if you’re interested?”

“Six of one, half dozen of another I figure.” Don takes a deep breath. His brow furls too, though Dean cannot see. Don wonders if Dean feels the change, the distance that is growing between them.

“Ladies auxiliary’s havin’ a breakfast this morning,” says Don. “Figured we’d hit the early Mass and get the first run at that food.”
“Mind?” says Dean. “Just as soon not.”

“Cook ya up something here? Got some good pork sausage?”

Dean watches the deer move off, bringing tears to his eyes. He knows it would good to get back out among the world again, to hear the titter of the ladies of the auxiliary, but happiness is just too painful to endure. It feels like a betrayal of Mary Lou’s memory. Happiness feels like a distraction from the fading memories of her.

“If it’s all the same, I’d just as soon be getting home before the snow gets too bad.”

“Somethin’ for the road? Good breakfast’d fix ya right up?”

Dean thought to answer, something about not being hungry, and that such things didn’t concern him any longer. We wanted to tell Don just to let him be, but it felt too much like asking for sympathy.

“Coffee’d be nice.”

Neither man moves, but remain looking out at the snowy fields. The distance between them is immeasurable.

“Good sausage, ya say?” Dean asks finally.

“Morris Drew’s.”

Dean sighs. The cold air is waking him up nicely. He has a thought and can’t help himself. “Mary Lou sure liked pork sausage. Liked a lot of it!”

Don looks and sees a glimmer of the old Dean, the first time since… Don feels lifted.

“Healthy woman she was.”

“Healthy and a half,” says Dean.

“Sure was a good woman though.”

“Sure was.”

The kitchen is warm. Don is standing by the sink. Dean is sort of slouched at the table, running his fingers along the rim of his coffee cup. They never did make it to church, but did make it to the Hog’s Breath. The snow has stopped, but the clouds remain. Shafts of pale light find channels, falling upon distant farms, like snapshots of things demanding to be remembered, the inconsequential moments that make up a life and of things that will not come again.

To Don these things are an affirmation of the commodity of our lives. To Dean they are a confirmation of a God dispensing great sorrow masked in love and youth and hope. He refuses to be drawn into the vortex of that misery.

“Can’t recall when I had a better breakfast,” Don says.

“Good biscuits and gravy,” says Dean, holding up his cup as Don refills it. Don sees Dean’s eyes darken and knows that he is thinking of her.
“Got some of that pork sausage in there.”

Dean squints as he sips the hot coffee. “Pepper’s the key, though.”

“Did it just right, did they?”

“Just right.”

“Believe I’ll have to give that a try.”

“Won’t disappoint.’

The coffee kettle clangs on the stove as Don sets it down. Beside the barn he spots the big orange tomcat. There’s no mistaking that swollen belly, though. Don smiles realizing, after all these years, that the old Tom is really a girl!

“We’re havin’ a roast for supper, creamed carrots and potatoes, the way you like it. Joanne’s gonna make some of her famous buttermilk biscuits.”

“Temptin’,” says Dean, “but I should be gettin’ home. Been a big enough burden on Joanne already.”

“Believe she feels about the same as me,” says Don. “Grandkid’s will be here.”

The idea horrifies Dean. The laughter, the sound of life and love and togetherness will only remind him of all that he has lost. He manages to hold himself together long enough to pack his things and give Joanne the warmest hug he can muster. It takes all the courage he has, a feat that would impress any combat veteran. Out on the road, out of sight, he pulls to a stop and slumps heavily against the steering wheel.

There is another perspective on the world, an idea that the trials and battles of our lives are insignificant against the overwhelming expanse of sky. We are nothing without the light of those who love us. How perfect the world we cannot fathom. The sky turns the seasons like chapters to our lives. And so winter passes and everything seems to turn green in the blink of an eye. Trees fill with new leaves and birds singing, and marigolds erupt with color beside the house.

Don is sitting alone beside the barn. He turns as Dean climbs down the steps. Dean is using a cane now, for just a little extra support. He has a glass of brandy in his free hand. He likes it better than beer these days, says it keeps his blood flowing. Dean has a blush to his cheeks. This is his second glass.

“Sure is a nice day,” says Dean, taking his regular seat.

“Just about perfect.” Seems like forever to Don since he found Dean weeping in his car. It was as if sorrow was a poison that needed to be bled away, and bleed he did. It wasn’t that he had put Mary Lou behind him, but rather that he had come to some conclusion.

“Believe you were right about the biscuits and gravy up at the Hog’s Breath.”

“Didn’t I tell ya?”

“Shame about Morris Drew,” says Don.

“Sure am gonna miss that sausage,” says Dean.

“End of an era.”

“How long you figure we been sittin’ here?”

“A lifetime, I reckon.”

“What precisely did we accomplish?”

“Didn’t know we set out to accomplish anything.”

“No regrets?” Don asked.

“Not a one.”

“How long you figure we’re gonna keep having this conversation?”

“Why, ain’t getting tired are you?”

“Nope.”

“I figure we’ll be at it a good while longer.”

Dean smiles and sets the brandy down on the grass. Delicate white blossoms fill the apple tree. Old Dean is content to sit there forever, and thinks that this is about as close to perfect as a body can come in this life.

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21 Days in May; an Occupy novella, part twenty-one

This piece was originally posted May 19th, 2012

The NATO summits had only revealed fully what many feared was emerging in America. No longer was this the stuff of fiction, or the Hollywood fantasy of Gestapo agents and Nazi stormtroopers exacting justice on a whim, as if judges and courts and laws were their individual domain, and a sacred language only they understood.

Was it really possible to destroy a man through the art of propaganda. Was the media, acting in conspiracy with the police state complicit in fabricating pure fiction from the fertile ground of lazy and unquestioning minds, until belief superseded truth and reason and skepticism? The headline that day in the Chicago Tribune screamed that difference:

Bridgeport arrests: Molotov cocktails or brewing equipment?
By Rosemary R. Sobol, Jeremy Gorner and Todd Lighty Tribune reporters

5:33 p.m. CDT, May 18, 2012

As the NATO summit nears, Chicago police detained at least nine people in an investigation into the alleged making of Molotov cocktails, but four were released today without charges…The nine ranged in age from their 20s to a 66-year-old grandfather with a heart condition. Several were with the Occupy movement…Building residents described black-clad police officers with battering rams and guns drawn coming into the building, searching their apartments and refusing to tell them what was going on. One resident told the Tribune police taunted him and his roommate, repeatedly calling them communists and using anti-gay slurs…Darrin Annussek, 36, one of the Bridgeport nine who was released today, described being handcuffed and shackled for 18 hours in an “interrogation room.” He said police refused his request to use a restroom and did not read him his constitutional rights.

“None of us were told why this was happening,” Annussek told reporters Friday outside the Harrison District station this afternoon.

Annussek, who had the numbers “1968” scrawled in magic marker on his right wrist from when police processed him, said police told him he was being held on a “conspiracy” charge. A social worker who got laid off, Annussek arrived in Chicago in time for the May Day march. He said he began marching in November from Philadelphia and Atlanta, “to try and spread the positive message of Occupy Wall Street.”

“To be charged with felony conspiracy to endanger anybody’s life is not only a slap in the face, it’s against everything I stand for,” he said.

William Vassilakis, who said he was hosting those who were arrested, said there were no materials to create a explosive device. Instead, Vassilakis said police confiscated supplies he uses to make beer.

Police would not answer their questions or show them a search warrant. “The only thing we were told was that we were in the middle of an investigation,” he said.

Police looked through books in the apartment, finding feminist writings and a book about the selected writings of Karl Marx, best known for his Communist Manifesto. The resident said police repeatedly called him and his roommate communists, used anti-gay slurs and teased them about going to jail.the officer took a more confrontational tone and started quizzing him about the photo on his phone’s home screen, which he described as a “fantasy painting.”

“He asked me, ‘What’s the deal with the photo?’ and that’s when he called for backup,” the man said.

Two more officers came upstairs and “that’s when he pulled me out and they searched my place,” he said. The man added that the officer took his phone away from him for 15 to 20 minutes while the search was going on.

Before the search of his own apartment ended, the man said, the police officer said he would only return his phone if he agreed to show police the photos stored on his phone “to show that I had no association” with the people downstairs.

The man said he did not know the group in the apartment below and that he has not participated in any political demonstrations.

The officers never physically mishandled him, he said. “They were very nice about stomping on my civil rights…”

But the message was unequivocal and had been rendered loudly and clearly. Somewhere within that rendering was the line between fiction and reality, between fact and untruths masquerading as truth. All were woven so artfully that one was completely indistinguishable from the other. The corporate media sold consumption and gluttony, but couldn’t sell it to a wise and informed populace. Politician’s could hardly dupe and educated people, so truth and reality and fact had to be undone. They could not simply be destroyed, they had to be undermined and confused in the minds of the public, so that each person called reality into question on their own accord.

And so a bunch of “commie faggot hippies” were roughed up, jailed, their civil liberties violated. It was the same for the guy walking along Michigan Avenue who was stopped searched and questioned by three plain clothed officers. So the population had been so animated by fear of the protesters, that the public could rightly claim they had no clue what the protests were about. Individually these things would be forgotten. Together they sent a clear and undeniable message.

Freedom and democracy in America was being eradicated.

Dissent, while not explicitly a crime was now essentially a crime. It affirmed an ideal surrendered and squandered by older generations, and shouted to their legacies that freedom isn’t a right or even a privilege any more in America, but an allowance, barely tolerated by men with power and guns. While not explicitly a crime, freedom and dissent were essentially crimes…

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