Tuesday, June 30, 2020

RIP Carl Reiner

Gone: Carl Reiner, aged 98, of natural causes. Comedy genius, and comedy legend, terms strewn around anything but lightly where he is concerned. From before most of you were born, right up until the end. Besides spawning his son, the Meathead, he was not only Mel Brooks' long-time partner, but a comedy pioneer in his own right, and as funny at slapstick or deadpan as any vaudevillian or silent movie comic you could think of.

Most people now will know him from his part in the Ocean's ensembles, but he was also the brains behind the Dick Van Dyke Show, and as his friend Mel Brooks' straight man and co-creator for multiple versions of The 2000 Year Old Man, which started out as a bit he and Brooks started doing at local parties, and turned into a full-blown series of comedy masterpieces.

The world is far less funny at his passing, after a long and full life, and having done nothing substantial other than enriching the human experience. Which isn't a bad gig to have, nor too shabby a legacy to leave behind.

Sunday, June 28, 2020

Sunday Music: Mr. Bojangles

Sammy Davis Jr. closed his act with this number. Having premiered at age 3, wandering onstage where his parents were performing, and delivering the immortal debut line, "Momma, I've gotta make a wee-wee!", he said he did the number because he feared becoming the washed up hoofer in the song. As if, with his monumental talent, that was even possible. If this one isn't enough for you, check him out taking the stage for his 60th anniversary, and performing with dancing legend Gregory Hines, the last man who ever got Mr. Bojangles to dance for us one last time, just days before he died of cancer. And showing up Hines, even at the end of his life. You'll never see the like of that amount of talent in one person again for a long, long time.

Saturday, June 27, 2020

Yeah, About That "Hoax" Pandemic...

Apparently some people are still trying to sell the line that COVID isn't real.
Probably with a barn shovel, but still...

It's not like it would be hard to, y'know, call around to boards of health, or hospitals, and ask them how it's going, but apparently it's too hard for The People That Know Everything Without Checking Sources.

Drop by the shop, and I’ll be happy to show you the bodies.

Our SoCal hospital has been full all week for two weeks running.

Main hospital: full.
COVID cohort isolation beds: full.
ICU: full.
100% occupancy, all week-plus, and running.

We only get beds when someone gets better, or dies.
See if you can guess how that impacts treating regular emergencies, heart attacks, strokes, traumas when there’s no place to go, and the ER is full too.
Or how morale goes when every shift you’re just taking a beating.

Just like we told you would happen, back when this was just a storm front on the distant horizon.

Anybody thought you were out of this, or that it was over, or that it never was…?
Good luck with that mythos.

I’ve got a bridge to sell you too, cheap.

And in L.A. County just north of here, it’s twice as bad: all COVID, all the time.
Houston is at 100% ICU-full now.
Texas-wide, they’re running 97% occupancy.
So much for that “this only happens in blue states” crapola.

The same story in 10-15 other states. Few if any run by Democommunists.

So once again, hopeium futures are taking a beating in the market of Actual Reality.

You can ignore Reality. But you cannot ignore the consequences of ignoring Reality.

I figure when we’re stacking bodies in freezer vans in 10 states just like they did in NYFC, maybe it’ll start to dawn on the brighter retards that maybe throwing the baby out with the bathwater was a bit premature, and that masks, hand-washing, and keeping your distance aren’t such a bad idea.
Depends on how much Gilligan DNA they have mixed in with Neanderthal.

And that’s with the caveat that deaths from this rather minor disease are still about #99 on the list of Top 100 Things To Worry About in this pandemic.

You’ve all still got your food and cash preps ready though, right?
I hate being the I Told You So guy.
But most of society, and the beefiest part of the bell curve, is filled with slow learners.
The No Learners over on the left little end will take care of themselves; Darwin will always have his due.

This Is Your Urban Defense Briefing

For those enough salty enough to remember the '60s live, it goes by the period reference:

Do unto others. 
Then split.

Hanging around to answer stupid questions is a sucker move, and only liable to fill the D.A.'s dance card - with your name.

Don't be That Guy.

You should have a brass catcher mounted already.
Eff Off. At a slow but determined walking pace.

Everyone remembers the guy running.
No one looks twice at the Grey Man walking away.

Word to Claire Wolfe*:

It's getting pretty damned close to that "Time to shoot the bastards".
Just saying.

*(Misremembered. Fixed. Mea culpa.)

Tuesday, June 23, 2020

The Days Are Just Packed

They really are.
BTW, If you never saw this strip firsthand, catch up on it. Totally worth it.

When my knees hurt like this, it's because I've been running around too much.

Spring cleaning, just in time for summer, but COVID-delayed, and long overdue.
But opening boxes and bags that have sat unattended is like Christmas everyday.

For the "Just The Flu, Bro" lunatards, COVID is exploding again, both where I am, and in any 10-15 states where up to 1/3rd of all y'all are. Not everywhere, thank a merciful deity, but it didn't go anywhere while you were sheltering at home, because the Gilligan Effect.

Firsthand anecdotal reports have it rampant in L.A., and they're looking good for being the next NYFC by end of next month. It's up 300% in SoCal in general, and I spent the weekend in a hospital that was closed to all ambulances, and full to the gills, with both COVID problems, and non-COVID problems. And burnout is becoming a thing too.
Exactly like we warned you would happen if this thing started to spread, waaaaay back in February.
"You can ignore Reality; but you cannot ignore the consequences of ignoring Reality."
That stinging sensation for some folks just now is the bear trap jaws of Reality closing on their tender bits.

Multiple projects in various stages of completion. Sleep is good, but more of it would be better.

You're watching the Cold Civil War heat up, as intended.

As the election approaches, it'll get worse.
If OrangeMan wins, it'll get worse.
If OrangeMan loses, it'll get worse.

Nota bene the lack of other options there, according to our Magic Eight Ball.
Plan and prepare accordingly, and hope for better times eventually, but for some reason, the phrase which keeps coming up in most contexts is "Rivers Of Blood". The open question is whether we're talking on a timeline of fruit flies, or geologic strata formation.

But that which cannot continue, economically, politically, socially, or any other which way, won't.
"How did you go broke?
Gradually. And then all at once."

If you would not be a puff of smoke at the bottom of a canyon in the Painted Desert, do your best not to follow Wile E. off the cliff to the point that gravity is about to kick in wickedly.

Safety. Shelter. Water. Food. Medical. Energy. Allies.
This is the Do Re Mi of those who intend to see the other side of where things are headed.

Like my recent transportation purchase, for those of appropriate disposable means, there are and will continue to be deals to be struck, and bargains to be hoovered up in the current crisis. E.g., both car dealers, and car renters have a burgeoning glut of vehicles.
Some people already have, are, or will soon be, sold or selling all sorts of interesting things.
Some run on gas. Some on gunpowder. And so on.
If you can, help friends, allies, and potential ones.
But don't hesitate to take advantage of strangers' misfortune. People selling things below market, at a loss, are nature's way of telling you what your own cash reserves can be used for.

OTOH, the skills to keep old, tired things working are going to be in higher demand.
Anyone who can help folks "Use it up; wear it out. Make it do, or do without." are going to be both in demand, and in a great position to barter and horse-trade for things they lack, which, if done right, also doesn't generate additional tax liability, nor in many cases, paperwork reviewed by BATFE or any other of TPTB. If someone wants to trade plumbing work or a fixed transmission for half a hog or their 4th G17, that would seem to me to be between you and them, when all is said and done. Just don't  swap for their sawed off shotgun, and find yourself in Ruby Ridge II. Remember, times are tough for federal stool-pigeons too, just now. Don't be That Guy. But if you can do something that gets you a full freezer, woodbox, or ammo crate, and leaves your fellow man better off as well, while starving Leviathan a little more, ROWYBS. Let Nancy Alzheimer's buy her own damned ice cream.

For those pathetic Never Trumpers salivating at the prospect of his most recent rally flopping in attendance, they jumped too soon. The overnight Nielsens put the television audience, who opted to watch from their Barca-loungers, and miss the COVID and the BLM/Antifatard riot potentials, while hanging on every word at the rally mere steps from their own bathrooms, literally buried every other TV event for the week, at last report. Remember, the list of people who've run aground on the rocks of "This will finally be the End of Trump" looks like the Manhattan phone book. Literally. People working or hoping for his departure or demise this side of January 2025 are apt to be sorely disappointed.

Beyond that notation, politics neither feeds me, nor fills my wallet, nor likely you either, so while Situational Awareness is always a thing, focus on the things that do and will feed you, pay you, or break your leg and pick your pocket.

You'll be better prepared in general, and loads happier. Both of which pisses off the commie hordes mightily. There will always be butthurt in the world. Resolve to be an asymptomatic carrier who gives it to deserving others, rather than a victim, or volunteer, of such result.

Pardon me now, for I have a date with some ibuprofen, and tub of hot water.

Sunday, June 21, 2020

Sunday Music: Wildfire

Michael Martin Murphey's one-hit wonder signature opus from 1975. He had plenty of albums, but nothing charted for him like this song. But lest you think this was a fluke, or it had no legs, check out him performing it 32 years later on Letterman as well as he ever did in the '70s; or belting it out in a duet with Amy Grant over 40 years later. And at the end, he almost tiptoes offstage, with just a shy wave of the hat. That horse has given him one heck of a ride.

Thursday, June 18, 2020

The Revolution May Be Interested In Me, But...

Frankly, I couldn't give a wet fart about it.

1) What I care about or not won't change it.
2) It's good to keep tabs on the enemies of civilization. It is not good to become obsessed with them.
3) I have better ways to spend my time.

I spent the last couple of days tying up some loose ends on various projects.

The survival water supply hereabouts is now good for more than a full year.

The social distancing and neighborhood block party shotgun now sports a proper set of QD swivels and a padded sling, which I've been meaning to do for quite some time, but to which I never quite got around.

The back-up Death-Dealing Sniper Rifle (because two is one, and one is none) now has a nice Picatinny rail mounted. And an identical lot of Federal Gold Medal Match to feed it. I would have added the rings too, but I haven't decided on the scope...yet. Next payday, most likely.

Another bunch of Gamma Seals and buckets are in the process of being filled and sealed, extending even farther the number of days the larder (which was never touched during the COVID Games) will suffice.

Contacted the local LDS warehouse. I'm not LDS, but they're generally fine folks in many ways, particularly with regard to making provision (literally) for harsh times. Zero's info about their canning facilities nationwide was a good start, and finding out their local warehouse is conveniently nearby made it an easy way to augment what I've got stored.

A small-scale (mini-fridge, microwave, a couple of lights, PACE comms, and a laptop) solar back-up system is in the planning stages, and should be installed and functional before summer is out.

The former daily driver is now free to be converted into the Urban Assault Vehicle, i.e. an RV that doesn't look like one from the outside, such that I can travel and camp in it, or bug out with it, at my discretion.

A visit to the fine folks at Dillon Precision means that shortly, I will no longer be dealing with the onerous ammunition nonsense hereabouts, and nonetheless will be laying in some canned goods - the olive drab type - week by week, as my newest hobby.

So the local communists can do whateverinhell they've a mind to do, and it won't make no nevermind to me.

But after DDSR II is up and sighted in just like DDSR I is, they'd better do it at least 1000M away from me, or their spaz-fest will have a very short run, off-Broadway, and will close out of town.

Alternatively, if black lives really matter to black people (a few thousand dead in Chicongo - let alone District of Criminals, Detroitistan, NYFC, etc. - argue for the fact that the very idea is nonsensical and ludicrous, if not risible) they could heed some wise words of advice, if they want to cut police shootings among millions of contacts with the police from the current annual number of 9, down to an even 0:

Monday, June 15, 2020

Out And About II

Last road trip I prudently rented a spiffy little car. What I saved on gas paid for the entire rental. Liked the car a lot. Turned out the agency sell-a-car division had one of the same make and model, with literally just a couple thousand miles on it, for sale at $7K under the sticker for the same car, new. Loaded, standard. Being as the agency was nice enough to eat high four figures of the depreciation and sell me a virtually new car, I couldn't pass it up. I'm cheap, but not stupid cheap.

What I save on gas the next few years is going to about half-pay the entire note on the car too. Given that it gets about 4X the MPG of the daily driver pickup I've been in since 2008, and commensurately, has a range about 200 miles greater on a tank of gas, with a gas tank 1/3rd the size, I've got some logistics to take care of from much farther afield.

Long-term logistics. (Not property; that's planned, and just wants the necessary cash to seal the deal.) And some new scenery after the first part of the year won't go amiss for a mental health break either.

The fact that I'll be spending less on gas for long trips than I was spending driving around town for a few days off is just icing on the cake.

And whether you like it or not, Kung Flu isn't a myth, and it's spreading just fine after Lockdown, as expected. About 3% of you are going to find that out firsthand in the worst way if you choose to ignore reality, but it's nominally a free country, so you got what you wanted, (and will continue to do so) like it or not. Or you can wear a mask out in the hoi polloi and wash your hands religiously, and never even notice the whole thing. Dealer's choice. It's still knocking off about 1K/day. Don't find out personally, hear? I can assure you it's not a pretty infection to fight. But given the other mega-whacktardery going on just north of Sanity hereabouts, time out in the world, and some prudent shopping trips, are a wee bit more necessary than continuing to blog the Retard Riots of 2020.

In fact, things are so weird overall I may have to plan a future trip to the periphery of Area 51, just to verify in person whether or not we're all living in a real-life episode of The Twilight Zone, being choreographed by our future alien overlords.

It couldn't possibly be much goofier than the spectacle being provided by the Leftist moron minions (but I repeat myself) currently driving the news cycle.

But at least you finally know what happened to all the kids who ate the paste, ran with scissors, and ended up in continuation school trying to get that GED, because public school was too hard.

A third of them are bong-toting radical Antifa morons, another third are media reporters and journalists, and the dumbest third are in politics, running the blue hives. You could look it up.

Just about like your mom and dad suspected when they told you couldn't hang around those idiot Doofus Family kids back in the day.

Blogging will therefore be light for the next several days, and return to normal towards the end of the week.

Stay safe, stock your larder deep and wide, and stay frosty. Entertain yourselves with those over in the right column, and always remember this important safety tip if the Summer Injustice Games of 2020 get a bit closer than you'd like: you can't get ballistics off of buck shot, and if they never find a body, it's really tough to prove a crime. And if you're not handily provided with multiple acres of contiguous desert like we are hereabouts, there isn't much that feral pigs and swamp gators in most of the rest of the country won't eat, given half a chance.

Be sure and drink your Ovaltine.
The chair is against the wall.

Sunday, June 14, 2020

Sunday Music: At Seventeen

Grammy-winning Number 3 hit for Janis Ian, and her signature song. Musical proof in a wise-beyond-her-years way from Ian, for everyone that needed it, that Life Isn't Fair.

Friday, June 12, 2020

Charitable Giving Update

Boxed and shipped all my bags (plural) of yard clippings and raked leaves to C.H.A.Z. as an Emergency Vegan Food Shipment. Labeled "Salad greens".

The neighbor's pooch contributed some crunchy croutons to that mix.

What can I say? I'm a giver.

Bonus: I'll be legally deducting the price of 100 salads from my income tax this year as a Charitable Donation.

No, really.


And the city saves green waste landfill space, plus the USPS gets more parcel revenue, which they've been whiniging about of late.

Grand slam, baby.

I'm so green right now that Vulcans call me Homie.
Nerdgasm Achievement: Unlocked.

Keep Honking, I'm Reloading


The Left uses talk to fight.
The Right does neither, as a rule.

We generally aren't going to talk.
We aren't going to fight.
We're going to do nothing.

But if push comes to shove, we'll annihilate.
Talking and fighting aren't steps on the continuum, they're sideshows.

Predators eat prey, certainly, but Nature documents no intramural wars to the death for existential survival within any species, AFAIK.
Except amongst humans.

The Left keeps fiddling with the safety cover over that switch, and seems bent on getting the other half of society to go ahead and flip it.

Then it looks like Dresden and Hiroshima, and puts even diseases to shame for sheer slaughter, until the point is taken to heart.
The human race's population is careening towards a precipitous dip in absolute numbers, with a complimentary spike in the group average IQ.

It's never good to be at the literal cutting edge of that phenomenon, because the phrase itself is rather more descriptive than metaphorical at that point.

That yakking going on now?
That's the Left, contributing the "O"s in OODA, and helpfully self-identifying.

Black and white stripes are helpful to make all zebras look alike, but it's even more helpful to identify them for the menu construction of the local lion pride.

Thursday, June 11, 2020

Tick Tock

Just wondering what the over/under is on some good old boy outside the city limits of New Wakanda deciding to build himself a new Killdozer, and single-handedly re-opening the streets of the Capitol Hill Autonomous Zone, and if so how many days until it happens?

Bonus: What happens if he has a few buddies who get their hands on an old Brinks truck or two, and they decide to ride shotgun on the escapade?

Go long on popcorn futures; this is going to get funnier before it gets absolutely hilarious.

Arts and Crafts

h/t SiG

Seems that, exactly like every other communist state in history, the latest one spontaneously aborted onto the receiving blanket already can't feed itself.

When the morons who took over Malheur asked for something to eat, someone sent them a bag of  dicks to eat.

Which was genius, and also generated a viral video of the rantations in response from one of the involved f**kwits.

Of course, I'd never suggest sending the starving Antifatards in the People's Democratic Republic of CHAZ packages of dried bleached manure, and labeling it as instant oatmeal, or making up a batch of chicken dropping mush and sending it in a commercially-labelled "Hummus" tub.

Because that would be baaaaaaaaaad.
Or something.

Especially if you shrink-wrapped it afterwards to look totally legit.

Don't do it!



Guess who's back!!!

BZ to Concerned American for the rapid turnaround.
And to the Wordpress Weenie PTB: "Fuck You³! Strong message follows."

If your mouseclick-fu is weak, that'd be

Tuesday, June 9, 2020


This is a pure crack-smoking hopeium fantasy.
Say no to crack, kids.

Tam notes what happens when you put idiots in charge, who suddenly decide that Utopia is possible, if only you get rid of the police. This is a 1st grader's magical-thinking view of How Life Works. Except make that child elected to public office, and allowed to actually try and implement it, and retarded, and a registered Dumbocrat. But I repeat myself.
We could fisk the nonsense in the second set of four panels above, if we wanted to waste as many pages trying to teach a pig to sing.

{If you couldn't help but notice the overwhelming similarity of that codswallop to the "Let's End The War On Drugs Magically By Making Them Legal" arguments, followed by unicorns farting Skittles to all the sincerest boys and girls, go to the head of the Logic Department Faculty.}

"I think you should be more explicit here in Step Two..."

Peter independently picks up the "Let's get rid of the police" nonsense, and points out where that sort of Hopeium huffing leads, and follows the breadcrumbs to the actual Phase Two.

"But let’s say these ultra-progressive municipal governments could get their wish and abolish the police in their cities entirely. What would happen? Inevitably, an armed group would emerge and impose a monopoly on the use of force."
And offers first-person experience and familiar examples of where that heads.

Let's bring it home:

That's exactly what happens.

It's also what the anarcho-communist Left wants to happen.

Because it self-legitimizes the need for a dictatorial Commie power grab, to "clean up society". Since ever, the whole thing is a Left-wing con job, exactly like advertising.

Create the need for the otherwise needless; then meet the new "need".
They've just taken ads for dishsoap and popcorn makers to their logical political extreme.

It's a riff on the Mafia's "protection" racket:
"That's a nice society you have there; be a real shame if it suddenly burned down."

The only answer to that is to shoot the "salesmen"; and then hunt down and exterminate the guy who sent the salesmen, and all their minions, to the last man, and last child.

Nothing less will suffice.

The Left, whether they realize it or not, is setting the table for an existential war of survival, down to the last side standing.

It's a recipe for civil war on a biblical Armageddon scale.
Everyone's families and entire lifestyle are the chips in that game.

Kill all they send.
Then find and destroy the nest.
First one to go ugliest the fastest wins.

Any half measures are a recipe for self-destruction.
Dresden and Hiroshima were a template.
Second place prize is a body bag.

What we're all witnessing daily right now is the Left's Useful Idiots trying to completely upend civilization, to suit their own ends.

Half of them think they can win. The other half would rather burn everything down to try, knowing they cannot win, and not caring anyways.

This is logic via Lucifer:
"If I cannot rule everything, I'll burn it all down." 

The answer to that, as ever, comes out of the barrel of a gun, and at the point of sword and spear. And on the scale we're talking about, when ammunition runs out, that's exactly what it's going to be.

Conflict on that scale - war to the knife; knife to the hilt - has only one immutable commandment:

Don't lose.

Because we've all seen, throughout history, what happens when socialism - whether national or international - makes the trains run on time.
And we already know where the boxcars unload.


Sunday, June 7, 2020

Just Saying

While everyone's been happily enjoying the re-opening America festivities, another 10K people are dead in the US in the last 10 days, more that the total Kung Flu deaths in Germany to date.

Bear well in mind, those are largely people who got it a month or so ago.

But it's still knocking off about 1K/day every day, in the U.S. (We hit 100K dead here on 5/28, IIRC.)

Better than the 2K+/day at its peak, but far from happy days.
Gonna be interesting to see where it goes in all those blue hives with the anti-social distancing going for Anarchy Week.
Be a real shame if they knocked a goodly number of themselves off, but even if it's only a few, every one of the radical Left dead helps. Ammo will cost us money. Virus deaths among Antifa cost us nothing.

But they're fun to watch.

Remember, the virus dies in summer sunshine in a minute or two.
Go out and play, yes, and work. But keep washing your hands.
One unintended consequence may be that if people pay attention, and do basic hygiene all year, this coming fall and winter's flu season may be one of the mildest on record.

Sunday Music: Singing In The Rain

Apropos of yesterday's weather here, and just because it's always in season, the titular song (and dance!) from the movie, from the unquestioned greatest dance sequence ever captured on film. Kelly was 40 when he did this, and had been choreographing his own dances (and everyone else's he worked with) for nearly twenty years. He also directed the lighting and camera work, because he could, and this scene became the pinnacle of his career when he was at the peak of the genre and his own talent (despite doing the entire sequence while suffering from pneumonia). I've got a few years on him, but on my bucket list is still to do this entire scene right once before I die, just to prove I can. For those of you less participatory, enjoy the clip, and the tune.

Saturday, June 6, 2020

Day Of Days

Seventy-six years and about two hours ago, men not much older than the idiots out rioting and looting last weekend, and better men than you or I, were crossing beaches carpeted with the dead and dying, and dodging bombs, bullets, mines, mortars, and artillery, to begin kicking the asses of the Nazis occupying France, and bringing about the end of WWII.

If you ever meet anyone who served during that conflict, especially anyone who landed in Normandy on D-Day (an eighteen year old that day would be 94 today, so they're getting pretty scarce), simply say "Thank you."

Humbly, and respectfully, as befits their service, and that of those who never left Normandy.

Thursday, June 4, 2020

Out And About

Yes, I stole this picture from Irish.

I'm interviewing properties for the future site of Camp Snoopy and the Castle Anthrax.

I won't be moving anytime soon, but buying in the near future, and working on it until I do, will mean the day I retire, everything's done and paid for, turn-key ready, so I pull up the drawbridge, close the perimeter access, and leave the "BFYTW!" Unwelcome Mat at the front gate, and the world can mind its own business, and I'll mind mine, until the day I die.

No, you don't get site pictures. Yet.
(I have several locations to look at, and I'll be taking a few hundred pics myself.)
Yes, it's still within the confines of Califrutopia.
(Yes, I've seen your state, for at least 36 values of that word, and some of them are pretty. None of them enough to make me want to move there. The devil you know, etc.)

But far from the madding crowds hereabouts.
Like firing-range-in-the-back-yard far away, as opposed to firing-range-on-the-surrounding-streets close.
And in regions of CA where getting a CCW is as hard as asking for one, rather than unobtanium. (Yes, that's actually over half the state, btw.)
And the last time they elected a Democommunist was...gee, never.
They're not hard to find in this state, once you head east of I-5.

If you need entertainment, head over to Feral Irishman's site, and scroll downwards through his blog list, or go over to the right on mine. I'm sure you'll find a few folks worth reading until I'm back in a day or two.

Wednesday, June 3, 2020

Repeated For Emphasis

Dear Communist Pigs of every stripe and species:

Nobody's kidding about this, and when that reality penetrates your head, it'll be at 1000 fps, 158 grains at a time. The last thing you'll feel will be heat, and a sudden concrete sensation as your face smacks into it at the speed of falling jello, and the last thing to cross your mind will be skull fragments. The last thing you hear will be snickering (if you can hear that over that ringing noise on one side).

That lesson is coming at you like a freight train, and civilization will miss you like Bolivia misses Che. As noted at KDT's current blog Splendid Isolation:

Once again, for clarity:
You may now consider yourselves to have been properly negotiated with.

Tuesday, June 2, 2020

Encore: Tomorrow

re-posted from original by suggestion. "Plus ça change..."

The earpiece crackled in Jake's ear from one of the handheld radios they were each tuned to. They'd picked up a couple of dozen surplused Motorola LE-only encrypted radios on eBay, and after a lot of work, Gene had programmed them all to use a normally unused simplex channel reserved for the authorities for tonight. All anyone else would hear was a brief bit of static with the factory encryption, but they still stuck to brevity codes.
Jake calmed himself. He knew the signs of buck fever, and he took a few moments to stretch his whole body, starting with his toes, and ending with his fingers. It wouldn't be long now, and he didn't want to be fighting adrenaline when the moment came.
The van he was in was non-descript. It was the twin of one belonging to a local business the next city over, and the plates on it would be back in the morning, with any luck at all. Inside was dark and quiet, but he could already hear the noise of the protesters as they moved down the main street, closing at the speed of a 6000-footed caterpillar, fueled by youthful exuberance, and a healthy amount of stupidity. Well, they were about to get a lot more education than what they'd gotten at U Cal, and he was happy to be a teaching assistant tonight.
He focused on the intersection, and checked over his gear one last time inside the darkened vehicle, as the sounds of yet another leftist temper tantrum grew louder by the moment.

Jim, hunkered down behind a load of cardboard boxes in a van much like Jake's, sat at right angles to the intersection.
His weapon too was identical to Jake's: the ubiquitous Ruger 10/22, modified for tonight.
It had a frame optimized for grown-ups, with one of those evil pistol grips that gave the state legislature hissy fits, going back to the late 1980s. Also a high-cap magazine, which torqued them out even worse. In this case, picked up out of state on a visit to relatives, and driven back across state lines into what Jim referred generally to as "Occupied Territory". He had several more loaded and waiting next to the stock. Also present was a heavy barrel, making the thing a tack-driver out to the limits of the relatively weak cartridge. And under the heading of "in for a penny, in for a pound", both rifles had custom home-made suppressors screwed on at the business end. They wouldn't be truly silent, but inside a can, inside a van, a couple of hundred yards away from a herd of screaming protesters, would be as near as. Just to be on the safe side, Jim screwed an earplug into the other ear, the one without the earbud.
Jim hadn't been in the military, and he wasn't the shooter Jake, who'd been a designated marksman when he served, was. But a lot of patient practice and range time had made him plenty good enough. And using the little pop-guns tonight wouldn't tax anyone's abilities at all. He checked the bipod legs to make sure they were securely locked. If they had failed, he had a beanbag rest for backup.
And when they returned, the barrels used tonight would come off, replaced by factory barrels again, and the heavys would go on a fishing trip, after being reamed out with a hardened bit. No evidence, no traces.

Gene spoke in a monotone voice familiar to anyone with long hours in a ham shack. He was the geek in the bunch. He'd found and programmed their radios, made sure everyone understood how to use them, and how to communicate.
There wasn't a leader as such, but he was older than the others by a decade or so, and after raising three teenagers to adulthood, there wasn't much that fazed him or ruffled his feathers, so he made, if not a Daddy to the group, a good Friar Tuck: a bit more mature, thoughtful, and worldly-wise, when it was needed.
He focused on his screen, and his fingers moved the controls to guide the drone slowly and deliberately. It was unregistered (of course), blacked out, and over the din of the demonstration, almost as silent as Jim and Jake would be, on the moment.
He followed the mob's progress as they moved towards the intersection where all their flyers and internet blather had helpfully pinpointed they would end their rally.
The police scanners indicated that, exactly as before, the town cops would be studiously ignoring the protest except for a token presence, and the campus cops were half a mile behind, doing about the same thing.
No roadblocks, so he and the others, in separate vehicles, would take separate, easy, and rehearsed routes out of Moscow-Near-The-Bay, and back to the quiet semi-rural small community they lived in an hour or so back up California's lush Central Valley.
Not so lush now, with dumping the agricultural water formerly set aside to feeding the world now going to a Sacto Delta baitfish to appease the whims of the idiots Gene was watching, and their elected Foole, long known as Governor Moonbeam.
Gene focused his attention on the drone's power supply. He had four of them, and had alternated them in series, swapping  hot batteries for the depleted ones, so he wouldn't lose visual on the herd. Other than a minute or two between coverage, it had worked flawlessly, until one of his drones had a hiccup, and had to be retired from the relay. The others picked up the slack, but he was glad he was able to recover it without losing one of his numerous toys. The mob was now crossing the fourth street from the target intersection.

Pete could barely hear his earpiece, turned up all the way, but he had the most dangerous job. He'd infiltrated one of the local bunches of miscreants some weeks prior, after the first riot. He wasn't one of their anarchists per se, just one of the multitudinous black-clad folks giving them cover.
He had several jobs.
First, on his way to the rally, he'd carefully dumped a couple of hundred pieces of wiped .22LR brass around the intersection; some in each direction, where later investigators would find it, for all the good it would do them. It had been collected off the ground and floor at half a dozen shooting ranges, separated by brand, and location. The consensus was it would look like between 4 and 8 close-in shooters, rather than just the two.
Second, he was the one with an interest in historical sabotage. Careful research on real manuals (not the tripe in The Anarchist's Cookbook, which he was sure had been written by BATFE to get amateur bomb makers to blow themselves up) and practice with real materials had taught him several time-honored ways of getting something to go up in flames or explosion, reliably timed, and without him being there to get the full effect in the face. Most, but not all of the materials would be consumed, making things that much harder for anyone looking into it afterwards, as he was sure they would. That's why after tonight, he wouldn't use that particular set-up again for some time, so as not to create a signature. And just for fun, the night before, he'd left enough parts and exemplars inside the garage of the witch organizing this event to see her off to a long odyssey through the federal courts and prison system, after one anonymous phone call. Life's a bitch, especially when you are one, he chuckled to himself as he salted the items among her possessions the night before.
Third, as the mob moved along, he would place his devices underneath several likely cars about a block behind the festivities, on both sides of the street. That mainly entailed tying his shoes a lot at the bumpers, and surreptitiously sliding his items under their gas tanks. Time and physics would do the rest, in about three minutes, once he set them in place.
Lastly, once he'd done that job, he was artillery.
He had a water balloon cannon ready to attach to poles on the sides of his pickup truck. Practice had taught him that he could hurl small-bottle Molotov cocktails a couple of city blocks with minimal effort, and hit minute of mob, in about thirty seconds. Three shots in 10 seconds, break it down, and then be gone in half a minute.
He was wearing the mob uniform black, head-to-toe: black combat boots, black baggy military-style cargo trousers, black long-sleeved t-shirt and black hoodie, with a black balaclava over his face, and black leather gloves with hard knuckles. On his back, a generic but sturdy nylon black backpack.
Underneath, hard soccer shin guards, knee pads, a cup, hard elbow pads, soft body armor, and lightweight HDPE Level III plates in a plate carrier. A homemade hard helmet shell under the balaclava. He would not be playing victim in the knockout game if he got confronted.
He also had OC spray, a stun gun, a cheap but sturdy full-tang knife, and a Glock 19 with several extra mags, as well as the CCW permit (from a more enlightened sheriff in the nearby county where he lived, but good statewide), to make him almost 100% legal. Well, except for the incendiaries in the backpack.
Like the others, he also had a generic camelback, a small IFAK, and a personal E&E kit, including colorful regular shirt and pants, maps and routes on a removable cell phone thumb drive that led to an alternate and contingency rendezvous, a burner cell phone with the battery removed, paper cash and change, energy bar, and a good plausible and backstopped cover story.
He was young enough to pass for a grad student, and a bit of an adrenaline junkie, hence his choice of assignment, but he was nobody's fool, and they all planned to get home quietly and safely, and had taken every precaution to make it so.

Gene noted everything on the scanners normal, mob moving into position.

Jake and Jim chambered the first rounds in their rifles, and stayed on their scopes.

Now it got hairiest for Pete, and as he entered the last block, he started dropping off his packages, pushing them well under gas tanks, and making sure to trip the chemical chain to start the ball.
The first two were easy, then he had to work his way quickly through the mob as it congealed, to get to the other side of the packed street, and his alley exit. The front end was in the target zone already.
"Target 1. Target 1."
"Target 2. Target 2."
"Confirm Target 1. Confirm target 2."
Jake and Jim both had eyes on the front of the herd in their crosshairs.
Pete pulled out his last timer, and shoved his package delicately along the asphalt under an SUV.
As he hit the alley and made his way along it, he gave the all clear.
"Thunder. Thunder."
"Confirm Thunder."
"Waiting for ignition."
As Pete jogged towards his truck, the chemical chain ignited his first package. A fire blossomed underneath a sedan on the far side of the intersection.
The drone confirmed it as the orange blossom grew.
"Weapons close. Weapons close."
Two safeties were snapped off, and two pairs of eyes searched for targets.
A second package ignited, as flames from the first began to engulf the first car.
Pete got to his truck, jumped into the bed, and limbered the poles into place.
"Drone's off. Drone's off."
Gene guided his drone back towards his vehicle. When it was well away from the zone of interest, he dropped it to 100 feet, set it on homing, and turned on his burner phone.
He punched in a number, and a previously selected landline rang.
It was connected to a timer, and the timer to an Israeli-made cell phone jammer sitting in a phony generic utility box as camouflage, on the roof of a building on the near side of the intersection.
For the next 10 minutes, no one would be connecting any calls within 100 yards of the site. All streaming video from the riot stopped. Texts bounced to nowhere. No 911 calls would be going out.

The crowd pushed into the intersection, some of them cheering the fires they thought their own thugs had started.
"Shot out. Shot out."
Pete called the first of three launches of lit Molotovs now arcing towards their target, labeled "to whom it may concern."
The first bottle bloomed into fire amidst the mob. There were screams; they weren't expecting this.
"Splash. Splash."
"Splash. Splash."
Both shooters confirmed the impacts.

Gene was recovering his drone; he closed the sliding side door as he made the call.
"Weapons free. Weapons free."
Inside the two vans, the shooters began plinking through their 25-round magazines. The rounds might kill, maim, or just leave a painful but survivable wound, but in less than half a minute, they were all on their way. Inside the vans, the rounds tick-tick-ticked off, and the brass went into catch-pouches.

The mob was careening around the intersection now. Panic set in with a vengeance as people started to go down. The herd started to stampede back the way they'd come when the first vehicle's gas tank went up with a "Whoompph!", and sent them in new directions. The third package ignited across the street, just as the last of three molotovs landed in the confusion and screaming terror, amplifying it.

"Rounds complete. Rounds complete."
Both shooters changed magazines, and began to send the second batch of 25 shots into the fleeing mob. They both aimed low; a lot of knees and legs were hit.
"Three, Tally Ho."
Gene was already on the road and outbound.
"Four, Tally ho."
Pete had dropped his poles, and was on his way out too.

"Winchester 1."
"Winchester 2."
Jake and Jim had gone through their second magazine apiece. They each dropped the hinged windows back into place and secured them there. The rifles were dropped into hide boxes, then covered with a couple of heavy crates.
"Two, Tally Ho."
Everyone waited breathlessly for Jake to announce he was rolling as well.
"One, Tally Ho."
Three other hearts started to slow down to normal.

NOW the idiots would know what a "WAR" was. None of the men driving away thought they'd like it very much in reality. And the authorities were still trying to figure out WTF had already happened. They wouldn't learn anything useful, though the anonymous call the next day that snitched out the organizer of the violence for cooking her own people "for the greater good" would come as a great PR boost, rather than their usual "we're investigating all leads" B.S.

The cards on their steering wheels led them to separate freeway entrances. After that, the routes were in their heads. Cruise control kept them driving at the speed limit. Radios were switched off. Each drove silently into the night. Behind, the screaming continued, and the nightmare for the protesters, and TPTB, was just beginning.

One hour later, the radios came back on.
They each checked in by number, and verified from different directions their primary rendezvous site was clear and uncompromised.
There, the rifle barrels would come off, the brass would be policed, and they'd switch to the cold license plates. 
The rifles were put back to original configuration. Jake took the weapons. Jim took the silencers, and the custom stocks.
Gene got the hot barrels. Pete got the brass.
Everyone changed clothes. Gene took these to an all-night laundromat.
The other three, in sweat clothes, hit the 24-hour gym next door, and took long showers, scrubbing every trace of residue from their bodies. Then they changed into their normal attire.
Pete took the hot plates back to the lot where the delivery vans they'd borrowed them from were parked, and put them back on without incident.

They drove home individually, at intervals, and by separate routes. Gene drilled out the barrels; next deep sea trip, they'd fall off the boat at night on the ride out. Jim cleaned and stashed the other parts, and Jake cleaned the weapons thoroughly. Pete took the brass home, where he pounded it into lumps of scrap with a sledgehammer, then shot off a bridge into the tule marshes with a slingshot.

And they all slept like babies.

This is entirely a piece of fiction. And a cautionary tale. Hopefully it stays that way, but I wouldn't put chips on that square. If it gets your panties all twisted, too fucking bad. Get over it.
It took about twenty minutes to type out, and I haven't even been thinking about this much.
If I can come up with this off the cuff, so can five hundred thousand other people. Some already have.
Bet your ass on that.
And if you're one of the erstwhile protesters, many of them wouldn't be as merciful towards you and yours as I was in this little tale. You ARE betting your ass on that, every time you show up for another piece of street theatre. And when it actually happens, 100:1 they'll see that YOU get the blame for it. Win-win.

So, contrary to all experience thus far, you all could grow the fuck up, knock your silly shit off, and just suck it.
Or keep pushing your luck.
Call the toss in the air, kids.

Breaking: WRSA Pulled?!

If we hear anything solid, we'll post it here.

I have backchannel com out, awaiting reply.
Anyone else gets RT info, not RUMINT, feel free to leave it.

From The Man himself:
"WRSA nuked by WP for TOS violations.

This is the new RP.

Pass the word please."

New Rally Point:

Still no word on what popped their weasel, and made Wordpress blow a gasket and nuke the entire site from orbit.
That Would Be Called An "Indicator"
One of the early goals of all Red revolutions is the seizure or destruction of all information distribution outlets.
There is only one truth to the Communist: that day's party line.
Woe unto those who do not adhere.
The second iteration of the Western Rifle Shooters Association (WRSA) blog, hosted by Wordpress, was nuked today.
While it is a loss, it was a deliberate sacrifice of a player to increase situational awareness.
The Reds are on the move.
The prize is the former United States of America.
The Red cares not about race, except to the extent it can and is used to befog the naive about the Party's real goals.
WRSA was, first and always, a freedom advocacy site.
It was shot out of the saddle today by an arm of the Communist enemy propaganda machine.
Their attack did not kill WRSA.
Nor did it kill a single one of its followers.
The totalitarian bastards really can't stop the signal.
Take heart, not just in this tiny skirmish but in the overall struggle to save the West, from WRSA's final masthead:
"This is only the beginning of the reckoning. This is only the first sip, the first foretaste of a bitter cup which will be proffered to us year by year unless by a supreme recovery of moral health and martial vigour, we arise again and take our stand for freedom as in the olden time.”
― Winston Churchill
- Concerned American