Burn Notice: Better Red is Dead by Bill Buppert

Publisher’s Note: The Amphibian in DC continues to prove that there is no such thing as a RINO, Republicans have always been Marxist big government boosters since the Lincoln regime in the Offal Office. 

Ironic that the athletes whose jersey numbers may be IQ indicators take a knee because they want bigger government instead of less; it may be yet another bellwether of the absolute stupidity of both the players and spectators of professional sports.

Yet again, all of my readers have been given a limited reprieve to stock up, arm up and train up. You can either drive a rifle or ride a rail-car, you choose. 

Bolshevism is alive and well and currently parading as Antifa, I am hoping their relocation to Colma, ten miles south of San Francisco happens sooner than later. The new Reds have no idea that the Deep State supporting them right now will be more than happy to evict them from this mortal coil in a heartbeat once their useful idiocy has expired. 

Our village is currently moving from .40 S&W as the primary fuel for pistols to 9mm. .40 will not be eliminated entirely due to the battlefield pickup potential in urban enclaves for ammunition. We’ve also sought to improve the non-discreet battle belt configurations and improve on the low visibility heavy pistol belts for Michael Collins wear.

The armory improvements continue apace and I strongly advise you get you “gray man” game up to speed. The next conflict will be a return to what Michael Collins would do to resolve occupation difficulties. 

ZeroGov is now a malicious website according to two different “secure blocking” modes when I was in a cafe the other day.

I must say that communism is one of the few creeds that violate the Non-Aggression Principle (NAP) by its very existence and instantiation under any circumstances. In this case, I may be able to suspend my abhorrence of strategic bombing. You could make the case that most universities in America are viral bio-weapons labs producing some of the most toxic destructive devices in the history of mankind. Apart from disease, the professoriate and its concomitant bipedal budgies in the media are the most deadly human software virus in the world. The pandemic of imposed dirt-naps and enslavement of subject populations know no peer in sheer destructive power.

A great resource on fire accelerant residuals for the home chemist is here.

When it comes to the failed COIN frameworks of the West, one needs to read Robert Taber’s masterful War of the Flea. I recommend this review as an introduction.

I also recommend this interview with Dr. Douglas Porch who really eviscerates many of the sacred cows of Western counterinsurgency mythos and nonsense.

Read Matt Bracken’s latest novel if you haven’t, “The Red Cliffs of Zerhoun”. Compelling with combat scenarios that make you smell the cordite. –BB 

“In every war, no matter how great a government’s power, its rule is never absolute. In every war, no matter how allegedly righteous the cause, the effort is never total. No campaign has ever or will ever be fought with the leadership united in favor of it and with the rank and file unitedly behind them.

Always there is a disgruntled minority that opposes a war for a multitude of reasons such as reluctance to make necessary sacrifices, fear of personal loss or suffering, philosophical and ethical objection to warfare as a method of settling disputes, lack of confidence in the ability of the leadership, resentment at being called upon to play a subordinate role, pessimistic belief that victory is far from certain and defeat very possible, egoistic satisfaction of refusing to run with the herd, psychological opposition to being yelled at on any and every petty pretext, a thousand and one other reasons.

No political or military dictatorship ever has been one hundred percent successful in identifying and suppressing the malcontents who, typically, conceal themselves behind a veil of silence and bide their time.”

Eric Frank Russell, “The Wasp”

Sometime in the near future…

The Antifa bus convoy was a motley sight indeed. Ever since the entire movement had evolved from the now relapsed Occupy movement, the Soviet Bolshevik flavor of the adherents had become more apparent in both their garb and street theater. They’d even co-opted the militia element with armed rebels posting on the web and creating video docs of training with firearms in remote locations. The red bandanas and hammer and sickle were becoming far more common than before mixed in with the masked heroes parading about.

The Red militias appeared to be just as corpulent and motley as the conservative variant that appeared in the 1980s and 1990s.

The three buses and various vehicles came to a stop outside the small remote town of Courtville in southern Utah. A tiny memorial to Chief Walkara who was a licensed slave trader in the territory, was located near the town square. The Antifa were expanding their guerrilla theater to the rural enclaves now emboldened by the spectacular success and cover provided by the media in big cities across the country.

Charlie glassed the colorful convoy and whispered into the mike: “On their way.”

He got a squelch in reply.

The staties had set up a cordon but were half-hearted at best. The Mormon community was intensely gun-shy about engaging the Antifa crowds in Utah. Salt Lake City had seen some action but the local police tended to turn the other cheek and let the Antifa agitators have their way. The police briefly stopped the convoy but apparently the “permits” onboard were good to go.

The buses continued into the tiny town and rallied ‘round the square where the statue to the aboriginal chief was standing.

Charlie’s little troop didn’t give a rat’s ass about the government statue to the old Indian. The police in SLC had manhandled one of their own after confronting protesters who had torched a storefront that belonged to Joshua.They’d been tracking movements and activities ever since through the Mormon jungle telegraph system in Utah and beyond. Not hard when Facebook attracted the kind of self-revelation so common to the Bolshies who seemed to revel in the opportunity to relive the exploits of their red diaper doper baby parents from the 1960s. California contacts had confirmed that ten of the malefactors were onboard the convoy heading in.

The revelations of Antifa money laundering and proceeds from three letter agencies had rocked the DC corridor but the compliant media had buried it within a week and the news cycle drifted past the episode connecting the Bolsheviks with official Washington.

The usual suspects from both parties condemned such revelations as mere conspiracy theories like the death of Seth Rich and the corpse-piles connected to the Clinton crime families.

No, this was personal and the low-level guerrilla conflict that Antifa had touched off across the country was lighting virtual signal fires across the country.

Three Antifa had been severely injured in northern Mississippi when they had assaulted a Confederate statue there.

The legal pockets to bail out the Bolshies and defend them in court turned out to be deeper and more influential than anyone had suspected.

“Send the message.”

On the town square, Tim, a young man with long hair in a Grateful Dead T-shirt wandered over to the first bus disgorging the raucous crowd of Antifa youth. He started chatting with a couple, they laughed together and then shook hands and parted ways.

Tim waved up to Charlie, lowered his arm and used a hand signal to mean “enemy” by grabbing his right wrist.

Charlie turned to his companion and smiled. “Some things are never easy, are they?”

They watched as the Anitifa folks started putting masks and bandanas on and grabbing weapons from under the bus. About this time the tiny local police force just vanished from the scene. Time after time, Charlie had heard reports of the thin black and blue line providing both overt and covert support to Antifa.

The merry band of protesters was interspersed with folks carrying mostly long-arms with shotguns and Kalash-pattern rifles most prominent. Some of the air-soft copies even had the tell-tale orange tips on the end of the barrel. It was assumed that some folks would be carrying pistols, most likely the undercover Federal agents egging the crowd on. The crowd unfurled black banners and red communist flags, rallied and started marching toward the statuary in the main square.

“Got one…”

Charlie: “What do you have?”

“Statie; portly balding guy three rows deep with the 5.11 tactical pants and the CCCP flag. Both his pants and flag are brand new right out of the bag. He just spoke into a Motorola. FM mode at 150.50500, Utah staties. Must be an overtime hire to monitor and infiltrate.”

“Rog, paint him a no-go to engage unless he fires first. He’s probably here to guide his colleagues in mischief.”

******

The band of miscreants meandered en masse to the statue in the middle of the park. So far, everything was peaceful and the few folks Charlie had sent over to wander with the mob and was reporting no violence.

“Commies have been waging war on free range humans since they could hit dirt with sticks.”

“Or bury the bodies in the dirt. Yeah, but they’ve never been this bold with the youth contingents.”

******

The usual street fights broke out in the square between the usual suspects as countless news stories had bored viewers with for the past year. The thin line of cops in riot gear ebbed and flowed with the contestants as they batted at each other.

The shot rang out and the plump Trump supporter fell in a heap. The crowd surged forward and screams filled the air as the crowds melted into a tumbling melee as cops waded in with batons and more shots were heard. As if scattered by a klaxon alarm, the respective combatants separated and rotated on an axis like a flight of birds and went their sown ways. The Antifa crowd headed to the buses, none were even from the town they’d road-tripped to.

*******

The three buses snaked slowly out of town and then accelerated on the main arterial to the highway.

“Which bus is the statie in?”

“Last one, red bus with the Che head on the side.”

“Get the bird up…”

A quad-copter gently rose from its roost in a field near the roadway. The sun shimmered off the rotors making it sparkle. It had a small cargo slung underneath. After reaching one hundred feet, it accelerated toward the small bus parade heading out of town. It swung forward of the leading bus and met it head-on and as it swooped in front of the bus, off-loaded 7 ounces of bright red paint on the windshield and sheared off to the wood-line and disappeared.

The bus had been making about 60mph when it was struck by the paint, the bus started to sway steadily left and right and then veered left violently, careening over the shoulder and tumbled down a small embankment.

Two more quad-copters flitted out of the wood-line and delivered their tiny but potent payloads. They had gasoline mixed with aluminum carboxylates in small container slung below. The lads had “prepped” the buses earlier with pinhole punctures in the fuel tanks to the buses with framing nailers since the buses had parked near a construction site.

The pilots guided the birds to the fuel tank now exposed by the bus laying on its side. Fuel was gently cycling out of the holes puncturing the tank earlier. The accelerant hit the side of the bus and cascaded to join the diesel pouring out on to the field. A third bird popped a roman candle and lit a conflagration that started to consume the entire bus.as it hovered over.

All the birds lit off and flew back in the direction they had come from. The engagement had taken two minutes to complete.

The bus ferociously burned. It was blackened and consumed in less than four minutes.

“Senseless violence.”

“Indeed”.

None of the perpetrators had been closer than one mile to the scene of the incident. Nor was there any forensic leads on either the paint or the accelerants, they were simply common products that weren’t tracked like so many household items in America.

“Under such conditions, to try to suppress popular resistance movements by force is futile. If inadequate force is applied, the resistance grows. If the overwhelming force necessary to accomplish the task is applied, its object is destroyed. It is a case of shooting the horse because he refuses to pull the cart.”

– Robert Taber, “War of the Flea”