VDH Speaks (again)

h/t Claudio.

Republican pundits and conservative activists are debating whether they can win in 2024 with the successful Trump agenda, but without the controversial former President Donald Trump as their nominee.

The Democrats have a similar, but far more serious dilemma with President Joe Biden as the Democratic Party’s nominee in 2024.

Unlike the Trump Administration’s successful four years, Biden’s tenure has been an utter disaster. There are no policy offsets to the personal liabilities and unpopularity of Biden himself.

Biden’s liabilities transcend his physical infirmities, his advanced age, and his seeming geometric rather than arithmetic rate of mental decline.

Biden, moreover, proves daily that he is not a nice guy. His excesses, past and present, are precisely those the Left considers mortal sins.

Walking back Biden’s absurdities has become the nonstop, tiresome task of many on the Left. As they face a midterm disaster in November, many no longer see any compensating reasons not to drop Biden.

When the Republicans take the House of Representatives in 2022 there will be nonstop investigations of Hunter Biden’s alleged tax avoidances, his possibly illegal work as an unregistered foreign agent, and Joe Biden’s untaxed compensation he received from the Biden lobbying consortium.

Consider also Biden’s nastiness….

No wonder they are growing desperate to find ways to cut him loose — without making Vice President Kamala Harris his successor.

You should read the whole article.


Do it!

White Privilege If you have it, you should take advantage of it!


Black Biker Gangs

(zerohedge) The expansion of gun ownership is one of a variety of measures against the marauders. Others include the closure of gas stations in particularly dangerous areas, and a ban of motorcycles, which are integral to the bandits’ modus operandi. Upwards of 300 or more motorcyclists descend on villages at once, typically with both an armed rider and an armed passenger.

“Anybody found riding a motorbike within the areas [are] considered bandits and security agencies are thereby directed to shoot such persons at sight,” said Dosara.




Ghislaine Noelle Marion Maxwell should be ok if she keeps her mouth shut. If not, she’ll be seeing Jeffrey sooner than she thought.


A Teaser

Broken Toys, a Novel

by Larry B. Lambert ©Larry B. Lambert 2022, all rights reserved.



The Meat Eater

 Meat Eaters are Special Forces soldiers whose missions focus on violence, as opposed to those whose missions focus on stability and training.   (Lo Que Sea, Cuando Sea, Donde Sea.)

Lamonte told me that he’d met the love of his life for the moment, in a whorehouse.

Bambi corrected the record. “We met in a downstairs bar. I worked upstairs as an entertainer but I wasn’t on duty when we met.”

She could therefore wear white at her wedding. They’d set the date off about four years for her peace of mind. The size of the clear stone set in the ring suggested that it had either been stolen or that Lamonte tumbled for a cubic zirconium.  My wicked mind bet on the latter. When the band started turning her finger green where metal touched skin, all doubt vanished.

I’d been looking for Lamonte and found him in a sinkhole apartment building between the rail yards and a line of pale, graffitied brick warehouses of the sort where the high weeds and crabgrass connect the buildings.  The apartments had been built for railway workers in the 1920s, right after the war to end all wars, but the passage of a hundred years changed things between then and now. The neighborhood had an odor of burned oil, hot garbage, and human waste that circles most old cities and every single urban railyard. The ghosts are thick in places like that and they seemed particularly drawn to Lamonte.

When I found him, Lamonte hustled a three-card monte game going in a circuit of twelve dive bars. He kicked back to the management. Bambi danced and when tips were light, she tricked without Lamonte knowing it.  The question of whether he suspected it never came up.

Lamonte drank Ten High, Bambi preferred crank. They wasted their days loaded in that apartment where the floor in the living room tilted down a foot by the time it reached the bedroom. When the sun set in the oily winter sky, they emerged like vampires.

Lamonte stood a couple of inches shorter than my 6-1, hair military short, muscles cut, with an open and friendly nature. Bambi may have just pushed past 5-2, bleached blonde hair and you knew that the carpet did not match the drapes. Bad skin, teeth, and breath from the meth, didn’t deter her customers.

Because Lamonte didn’t want to be found, I’d gone to see his mother but she’d died of the Covid Plague. I found his aunt, who moved into mom’s rusted home at the trailer park in Cape Girardeau, Missouri that looked as if it flooded through every time that the Mississippi. River did.

“Are you a government man?” Her rheumy eyes gave me the twice over, she closed one of them and stared hard. She stood there on the rotting porch wearing nothing but an old blue housecoat.  The old woman glared at me for all of a minute, making up her mind. “They was by here, them government men, looking for Lamonte.”

“The Police?”

“No, not them, not the Po-lice,  them other men who was like snake oil salesmen. They said that they was friends with Lamonte when he was a medic in the Navy, but he went into combat with the Marine Corps. They didn’t look like Marines—they felt more like politicians.” She spat the word. “Two fancy high yeller negroes wearin’ expensive suits with a plan for my nephew.”

“I’m looking for him because he owes me money.”

Her name was Matty and she roared with laughter, “Then get in the back of a long line,  son, because he was borrowin’ hard before he lit out.”

Lamonte sent her a Christmas card two months before and the postmark gave me the lead that eventually landed me on his doorstep.

I had to buy some time for Lamonte and had no idea how to do it. The curtain of night and the nasty humidity joined together to slow everything down in the railyard neighborhood. At the same time, street gang crews broke into boxcars on sidings, ripping everything from baby wipes to automobile tires and dishwashers, bringing in the local police, the railway police, and the county sheriff, making it difficult for me to move without bumping into their surveillance activities.

I’d been told that the people who wanted Lamonte dead were very good at what they did and the only reason that I stayed ahead of them, in this case, was because his aunt showed me that postmarked envelope. As I moved around the area I saw signs that they may have arrived. I can’t tell you why, but I ran hard on intuition in the Lamont Washington matter.

The apartment block seemed deserted, not even a dog barked when I banged on the door. No nosey neighbors. I jimmied the lock but that didn’t work so I splintered the door frame and pushed my way in. As I stepped into their apartment with the uneven floor, my eyes adjusted from the ghostly mercury vapor security lights that protected the box cars sitting on the rails.

The place looked the same as when he’d invited me in a couple of weeks earlier. There were a couple of pieces of threadbare furniture, fast food wrappers, empty pizza boxes, and old newspapers that had been dropped on the floor to absorb spills and then were left. It smelled bad in there, like stale breath and spoiled food. Clothes on the floor were mildewed stiff spread around a mattress with a yellowed sheet in a pile.  Light from the railroad yard filtered through window blinds onto me like prison stripes, which somehow felt fitting.

How could a guy like Lamonte have made the list? Nobody told me. I had been sent to save him if he could be saved.  I had favors owed to his friends and they called a marker in. I felt worn out trying to get close enough to the Lamontes of this world to get them to trust me. I don’t think that Bambi ever did. Lamonte pointed out previously to my break-in that I was white as if my efforts to get close were naturally suspect. I pointed out that Bambi’s skin, pale as a fish’s belly, was whiter than mine.  He took my point.

I found an opened bottle of Ten High and tipped it, sat down on one of the chairs, and waited. The crew who chased Lamonte would not expect me. They wouldn’t come heavy, he was a medic, an aid man, a healer. Lamonte had a wide streak of kindness that ran through his soul when he wasn’t dealing three-card, the exact opposite of a pipe hitter like me.

Trains moved. Laughter and curses came from the switching yard, and sounds of fornication came through the adjacent apartment’s shared wall, desperate in its intensity with crescendo after annoying crescendo. I nipped at the Ten High. I read the label. 51% bourbon and the rest of the ingredients were neutral spirits designed to harden your liver even faster. When I finished it, I tossed the bottle into the corner to lay in state with the other empties. Dead soldiers all in a row.

Killing is about creating wound channels. Ask any ER doctor. You could ask Lamonte. He knew all about that sort of thing. Hollow points expanded rapidly, creating larger wound channels. I thought about that as I twisted the silencer onto the threaded barrel of my Kimber Custom .45, the sights elevated to see over the silencer tube. I used +P+ ammunition, which required a stiffer recoil spring and a few other modifications, but those rounds screamed and the hollow points would burst open like blooming flowers as they tore through flesh. They’d likely bring body armor so I would make them headshots. It’s good to plan but the plan rarely survives the first shot in anger.

Somewhere after midnight, somebody fiddled with the front door and I could only hope that it wasn’t Lamonte, home early from his three-card scam games or Bambi, home early from the club. All they needed to do was to push because I’d broken the lock, but they didn’t do that, they went for a razzle-dazzle pick job, which means that they didn’t have anyone watching Bambi or Lamonte. Maybe they came for me? The pick made noise, it wasn’t a tier four professional crew. Maybe just a burglar? However, no burglar worth the title would hit Lamonte’s dump.

As the man cleared the door, I punched three rounds into his knees. Two hit with satisfying cracks, a third embedded into something beyond. The scream would have curdled milk. I don’t think that the neighbors noticed with the Oh-my-God! theme crooning from next door. He grabbed for his knees and I grabbed Lamonte and Bambi’s baseball bat. A satisfying thwack and the screaming stopped. A lay-off man ran off into the darkness. I heard his feet beating a tattoo down the old brick footpath.

It was sloppy on my part, not my best work. What if they’d sent in a professional team? I’d be dead, that’s what. I picked up the handgun he’d dropped. A new Smith .357 with the serial numbers professionally filed, then acid washed. I thought about tossing it, but it could have uses. The cylinder had six shiny new rounds in it.  The weapon didn’t match the man, who looked as if he’d been living in those clothes for some time without a wash. I gave him a closer look, dried blood, not his. He had a unique stink about him. Maybe he worked in one of the big commercial butchers combines on the other side of town,  not cutting the meat, but possibly swamping the floor and cleaning up?

I dragged the body and laid it in the corner. Then I went into a different corner, sat, and waited.

Lamonte came in through the broken door slowly, turned on the one dim bulb, and took note of the body and the blood from the drag from the point of impact to the point of rest. He saw me, sitting in the corner with the silenced handgun.

“What’s the deal with the dead nigger?”

“Maybe a burglar.”

“You bled him out, white boy?”

“I think that I broke your bat.”

“Did you pull his ID?”


Lamonte rifled the corpse and pulled out a cheap nylon wallet. “Says here he’s Malik Boudreaux of New Orleans. He’s a ways from home. We can wrap him in the shower curtain and take him down to the old folks home on Martin Luther King Boulevard. They’ll pay us fifty dollars and charge the medical school five hundred for the research cadaver. No questions.”


Coming this Christmas


      • Wife picked up one of those tourist ad magazines you can get at some rest stops. After looking through it she said she’d like to spend some time visiting Cape G. Still haven’t looked at that mag myself.

  1. Broken Toys: Really good start. Always enjoy reading your fiction.

    Arkancide: No, merely another coincidence just like the other three hundred and forty eight.

    Maxwell: How in the heck did she get convicted without any of the actual people that molested the young girls even coming to trial?

  2. I hope nobody found the last paragraph humerus. Medical (and dental) schools are always on the lookout for anatomy material.

    • I haven’t a clue what if anything is done with “research cadavers” but I can say that (IMNSHO) traditional Gross Anatomy done in the first year of med school (“M1”) is close to worthless. To me, it is a historical rite of passage, almost a form of hazing, and nothing else.

      1. Many of the persons who donated their remains were unhealthy for a long time prior to death. This often means severe wasting, to the point where muscles are very very atrophied, and other anatomy is quite abnormal. TL;DR = hard to find structures and not really a great way to learn anatomy for dealing with living, breathing bodies.
      2. No, cutting up a corpse preserved in formalin (or the modern-day equivalent) is nothing like surgery on a living person. The feel (and give, or lack thereof) of the pickled corpse is not like living flesh. (And anyone who gives IM injections or puts in central lines, not to mention doing actual surgery, can tell you that a frail little old lady (fragile thin skin and way more fat than muscle = minimal resistance to needles) is very different than a healthy young man (tough skin, mostly muscle; waaay more resistance to the needle). So it’s not “practice for surgery” either.

      This is not to say that I didn’t appreciate the lady who donated her remains to my Gross class. (For those who wonder what happens afterwards, all the remains were retained, and after the end of the class, each cadaver was cremated and laid to rest. A ceremony was held at the cemetery in June. Not all of us attended, I’m sorry to say, but many did, to pay their respects.)

      • You may not recall that the University of California, Irvine had a big scandal involving their research cadavers circa 2004-5 if memory serves.

        “The UCI problems unfolded when the university discovered during a routine audit that Christopher Brown, the then 27-year-old director of the program, had billed the school for a trip to Phoenix, where he sold several spines to a hospital for $5,000. The check was made out to a company owned by a business associate instead of UCI.

        “As the university and reporters looked more closely at the program, they discovered that families did not necessarily receive the remains of their relatives and had been improperly billed for the return of the ashes.”


        The matter was investigated by the Orange County District Attorney’s Major Fraud Unit at a time when I ran that Unit and others at OCDA. We could go into details about how they were selling body parts out the back door including skulls to a voodoo/vampire Satan cult for black mass. But there is no need.

        • Family members whose dead parent’s bodies were used in that way sued (at my urging) the University and received big money. There was a Samoan family that had deals with the old folk’s homes (“rehab centers”) to pick up bodies with a cash kickback. Some willed their bodies to science, some were just sold and then were brokered to the university or elsewhere. Some were vagrants, some had families that cared, but you could sell a murder victim to the University through intermediaries if you’d wanted to.

        • “UCI auditors could account for only 121 of the 441 cadavers donated”

          Good Lord.
          Did you ever write that stuff up (apart from as official reports)?

          Sadly, I’m not terribly surprised. Disappointed, but not surprised. My little tale here does not rise (or rather descend) to voodoo props, but at my school one of the MD faculty (a young man who had an unusually exalted position given his age and experience) clearly had an inappropriately close relationship with a funeral home director (FHD). (I’m not implying sexual — on that I have no idea.) But because of this young faculty, this “rando” FHD was permitted to lecture the entire M1 class of approx 170 students for an hour. He spent the hour gaslighting us students about how important it was to cultivate a close relationship with FHDs because they were the ONLY people with the skills and charitable inclinations to help young recent-graduate MDs properly fill out death certificates. That public self fellation (who knew a paunchy middle-aged man could be that flexible?) took about 25 minutes.

          FHD then strutted and fretted the rest of his appointed hour on the lecture stage telling mostly inappropriate “shop” stories about all the wonderful things he had done for “clients”. The only one I remember was about cremating some old guy, and then spreading his ashes on a golf course (not permitted by the course, and I think illegal in that state to boot). This was done by dint of putting a piece of hose down his pant leg, and the ashes in a plastic bag concealed inside his trousers (over his groin area) with the opening taped to the hose. Every few feet FHD would reach into his front pocket and squeeze the bag to “puff out” a little more of the dead guy. “Sure, I got it all over my shoes, but I was willing to pay that price to grant a man’s last request. Plus it washed off easy when I got home. And I got to play nine holes too! Hahahaha!” Whatta jackass. Tell those stories to your other FHD buddies when it’s just you guys having a beer, but you don’t tell that stuff to regular people. Sheesh.

          Oh, and that thing about wise FHDs guiding ignorant MDs on how to fill out death certificates? Complete nonsense, at least in my experience. Then again, I’ve only filled out a few of those. (My preference was to NOT kill my patients; call me crazy but there it is.) And there was never any FHD involved in the process.

          • Did you ever write that stuff up (apart from as official reports)?

            No, but I fed what I could to the reporters. I think that the flak from the Orange County Register received a Peabody for his reporting of this incident. How much investigation do you think that he did? The families used it to go after the University. The conduct of university employees was shocking. Selling body parts from the cadavers was a source of income to them.

  3. mr. stenger claimed to have the evidence of the funding of the antifa goons thru pelosi…..enjoyed the story…

  4. Broken Toys- Great start…draws you instantly into the storyline.

    20 lousy years for Maxwell…it’ll be 20 minutes of “Oh look, the surveillance camera quit working.” Surprised she made it this long…like The Walking Corpse who apparently thinks so highly of his cognitive abilities that he’s running in 2024.

    • Oh, it’s so much worse when you’re dealing with real people in the real world. Not sanitary, like a book. There is no smell in the book. Broken Toys is about our hero’s involvement in a shadow government that uses him here and there to do — things. He gets in deeper and deeper.

  5. Still have questions about GM. Why come back to the USA? She had plenty of cash and could have settled in a safe haven with no extradition treaty and lived happily ever after. Does she have the secret tapes and recordings that everyone knows were used to blackmail the clients? Seems like a perfect get-out-jail-free card, kinda like a fail safe. Was Epstein really an agent for Mossad? I guess we’ll never know any of the answers, the media has covered this story…with a pillow until it stopped moving.

    • The GM story, like the Epstein story, is an enigma in many ways.

      Ok, when you say “agent” do you mean a Mossad katza or case officer or are you referring to a recruited asset who can be used as a cat’s paw by the case officer? So, not a katza, but he’s the sort that MANY intelligence agencies would cultivate and Epstein would have been just the type as a sitting or unwitting agent that one would use.

      The word, “agent” means different things to different people.

      An FBI Special Agent is an employee. In the intelligence world, an agent is a recruited asset who is usually acting against the best interests of his/her/its country.

    • I’m about 100 pages into it now. It will be complete before Christmas unless I have a lot of distractions. It appears as though a new client is poised to barf six figures at me and I have a couple more possibles so that will slow things down a bit, but I’m into the book, so yeah, before Christmas worst case.

      • I’ll try to limit my comments until Christmas, give you more time to do actual work that we then can benefit from the new book being finished.

        • The book? I hope so. There is a conspiracy afoot in DC. Our hero, Frank Brandt, former SSG, 7th Special Forces, the Red Empire, is sucked into it because he’s a successful operator even though he lost a foot in the closing days of the war in Afghanistan. It’s fiction.

          • Without weapons, all you can do is hope that armed men will be fair and honest. Hope, is not a plan, and when people use it as one, they tend to end up taking it up their fourth point of contact.

          • ” exact opposite of a pipe hitter like me.”
            Given the drug connotations elsewhere, that came off weird.
            Unless he really hits the pipe.
            but I’ll buy the book.

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