VDH Speaks (again)
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.
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.
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.”
“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