Tuesday, December 26, 2017

The Koehler Incident


"Know upon whom you press."

This phrase is not often spoken anymore by the Russian Secret Service. There's not as much need to - for even the most evil of organisms must grow or die. The state police for Russia goes back centuries, a creation of the Tsars out of a self-awareness of their disconnected cruelty and the resulting expected backlash. At this point in history the ruling class need have no such fear as the Russian psyche is so self-inflicted with negativity they oppress themselves out of a false sense of patriotism. There's your riddle solved, Mr. Churchill.

Pride for a Russian is in how much abuse one can take. The more cruel a leader the greater the sacrifice. The more one can sacrifice the greater one must be! In futility they trust. How many empty Vodka bottles does it take to fill that hole? But all the while the Russian soul is desperately craving for the acceptance and respect from the West it does not give itself. This is how they are able to perpetually see themselves as victims, illusioned as a permanent lesser people. That gives free reign to the Secret Police to unleash the worst of the country's repressed demons onto the population - as their behavior is the measuring stick of their society's health.

In the 60's, at the height of the cold war, Russia wallowed in both her power and her helplessness. The only thing she fears more than her enemies is not having an enemy (for then who can they blame for their woes?). So they worshiped at the altar of an imagined peril from the West and the always present fear of a population that will one day throw off the yoke of an unjust and undeserving government. For the rulers at that time, this meant little was out of bounds when it came to sacrificing before these two gods.

Looking back, it's now seen the KGB of that era had gotten cocky with decades of resistanceless wins to its credit. It was business as usual when the government official - a very high functionary in the Politburo - and an assassin agent approached Heinrich Koehler [the 'oe' pronounced as a long ā] in a small dank room deep in the heart of East Berlin.


"You recognize this picture? It's of your mother, no? Soon she will know the freezing cold of Siberia in her bones. Your young nephews and nieces will know only the labor camps as their future. Your uncle to whom you still write will know the joys of a cell in Lubyanka [a notorious KGB prison of torture]. Years of tears will flow if you do not do as we say. Can you imagine these things happening?"

The assassin sat never taking his eyes off Heinrich, almost smiling as he heard the hells listed by his compatriot. He had the stench of death about him, a sewer rat who no longer cared in what filth he swam. The killer knew the effect his coldness had on strangers and enjoyed watching them shiver.

"I, I understand," acquiesced Heinrich in troubled tones. Then he received his detailed instructions.

In the language of the day, Heinrich Koehler was a henpecked man. He lived outnumbered with his wife and mother-in-law (who lived up to every stereotype and then some). His wife Lydia knew what she wanted and went after it with ruthless efficiency. She preyed upon the needs of men, eventually trapping Heinrich with a child. Having achieved dominance, Lady Lydia used her husband as a pack horse to sustain her (and her mother too, of course) in relentless suffocation. To hear her tell it the only thing her husband had ever done right was get his promotion to supervisor of the guards at the East Berlin prison where he was employed.

"You've got to be tough!" she implored their only child, Ian. "The world is never changing and you must suck it up if you want to get by!" Ian eventually joined the black market German underworld, providing his mother with forbidden fruit of the West. She couldn't have been more proud. Ian despised his father.


That night in bed, Heinrich heard the Russian official's hissing voice all over again.

"Next week, on your night shift, you will let in my man to these two isolation cells." In those cells were two Russian escapees. Why they had to be killed Heinrich did not know. One thing he did know for certain was the seriousness of the situation having two men such as these involved. After a lifetime spent in devotion to non-confrontation this was his was his worst nightmare. Heinrich would have blood on his hands with or without his cooperation. The only question was whose.

It was also a cruel irony that the only reason he was being pressed to do this was the fact as supervisor he had access the normal guards did not. The one single "good" thing he'd done in his life was now being used against him. That's what happens when you step outside of your circle, fool! Much as he tried, Heinrich could not convince himself of the worthless of the two men's lives even as compared to his own relatives. He tried to stuff the rationalization down his throat but could never fully swallow.

He also could not share his situation with his wife. She and her cohort mother would have no qualms about his cooperating, not even seeing a need to question it. The two prisoners' lives would be gone in the blink of an eye if it were up to the two scheming women. Daylight was nowhere to be found. (Had he lived a few decades later Heinrich would have found a bitter partiality in the #metoo movement with its narrative of only female victimization).

Me too

In his torment, Koehler also failed to realize one other ruthless detail: after the deed was done he'd become a loose end needing cleaned up - permanently.

As the days passed until he went onto the night shift, the official's photographs tortured the prison guard's mind. Having time to imagine the worst only made the pressure more difficult. He wondered if they planned it that way, knowing that time was working in their favor, softening him up. When the night in question arrived he was spent and his will destroyed. He'd have to be tough like the world. He'd have to become like his wife. Grow up, Heinrich! he could hear her demand.

The Iron Curtain was a land of dark secrets. Each soul lived for its failures never to be revealed. But Heinrich's time had come. His current secret being no matter how terrible the nightmares he couldn't fully resolve to the killing of the two men in his care. Heinrich was one of the few guards not hated by the prisoners. He could never lift his hand to abuse them - he already knew what it's like to live life as a prisoner.

The face of the creeping assassin was even more hideous as it delighted in the unrestrained glee of betrayal. Was easy to see his drowning soul lived for these moments of butchering, the crushing of all hope. He savored the telling of his final morsel from hell.


"It's you who will do the killing."

Heinrich stepped backwards as if physically struck. That very much pleased the assassin, his resolute smile giving no quarter.

"No...no..I can't..."

"You must use your gun. It's the only way. Do it for your family. These two men mean nothing."

The real plan was to have the entirety of the killings blamed on the guard, who then dies of a "heart attack." The assassin was there only to clean up the mess. He never could understand the stupidity of people who left themselves so vulnerable. They got what they deserved.

"You don't understand..."

"I very much understand. Do I need make this any clearer?"

"No. No, I understand."

The guard turned to pass through onto the isolation cells. The assassin grinned. The devil was coming to collect a soul that night.

But had the killer not been so smug, so self-assured in the sanction of his blackmail in a godless but blind world, he might of noticed the coming explosion in Heinrich's head. The shame of a lifetime was building steam. That "something wrong" that had plagued and hounded him for decades could no longer be denied. Finally, he decided he was dead no matter what he did.

They reached the first cell. "Unholster your gun," the voice to his right commanded. Heinrich did so. "Now open the door."

Opening the door meant exposure and permanent branding as a lifelong loser. Bad enough to be mocked and ridiculed at home, but now it would be everyone and everywhere - even at work! Heinrich snapped.

"FICK DICH!"

The revolver emptied all six rounds into the ordering agent. But Heinrich wasn't killing only him, but every tormentor of the "soft" man who could do no right. He had to preserve that final piece of his soul. Time for the world to grow up. In the corner of his ear he heard hastening footsteps stomping down the hallway.


EPILOGUE: Had it occurred in Russia and not East Berlin there might have been a full cover up. As it was, the photos and the entire story of the botched assassination came to light. The party official who orchestrated it was disgraced and denounced by the very people who ordered him to do it (not for the attempt or methodology, but for failing). Heinrich and his family suffered no repercussions. By losing himself he saved himself (the anti-Obama).

To persecute Heinrich would be to admit the killing of a KGB agent - a chink in their allegedly invincible armor. That could not be tolerated. But Koehler's shot was one heard 'round the Soviet empire, poking a hole in the secret forces' own naivete of the evil of its blanket oppression. A line had been crossed and to keep crossing it would ultimately mean their own destruction. While direct assassinations still continue to this day, the use of ritual blackmail of family members faded in disrepute. In the end, everyone wants to live.


Thursday, December 21, 2017

American Gulag And Vichy Democrats












Smirking jerks always look the same throughout the ages

So this is how occupied France felt. Raped, robbed and looted by an enemy force bent on destroying her in self-hatred and vile jealousy. The Inadequates, the No-Hopers, the Twitter Trolls, the Unindicted Oligarchs, and the rest of the professional losers are having their day in the sun, smiling in the same short-sighted and idiotic way as their hero and role-model Der Furor, who also did not realize he was losing when he thought he was winning. Inside, they know their time is short, taking all that they can carry away, waging holocaust on anyone who is Not Them. This is not from trickery or deceit of the Innocents, it's daylight theft for anyone to see.

Our need to feel we are moral beings drives our lives and decisions beyond all else. We are outraged at the robbing of a bank while acquiescing to the robbery of a nation; the Jungian thing. I was glad the Trumptard won because I knew it would finally rip off our veneer of assumed morality and the viciousness that has always lied just below the surface of the conservative movement, be it left or right. I hear people asking what has happened to the Republicant party. Nothing. Same as ever. Just more out in the open. Funny to see these shocked! shocked! lifelong Republicants renounce their affiliation to try and save face. Hopefully, they'll continue in that direction.


------------------

Their children hate them for the things they're not,
They hate themselves for what they are
- Carly Simon

Just as we hate the Republicants for what they are, we hate the Democraps for what they aren't. Feckless, spineless, toothless, without the courage of their convictions. Who wants to bet they take the "high road" if swept back into power and don't want to be seen as "mean or partisan" to the person hellbent on wrecking the country and ruining lives? "We'll vote to impeach only when we know it will fail." There is no adult in the romper room of Congress.

This attack on the rule of law started before Trumptard, beginning with anti-Christ 43 to justify the Iraqi pillaging, escalated and formalized by No-Drama Obama, and now taken to the insecure extreme by our current Traitor-in-Chief. Karma, baby. Terrorist killing drones are a big yuck today on foreign soil but just wait until you are declared a terrorist for want of a loaf of bread. Will be a tad late to bitch then.

The real war being waged here is on integrity itself. Self-respect, selfless dedication, honest competence - these are the declared enemies of the state that must be eradicated. Doesn't matter what your tribe or rank is, exhibit those traits and you will be outcast by the Bolshevik Reds who believe they have nothing to gain anyway. It's the Final Solution all over again - and we'll do nothing to stop it because it's too unpleasant to admit that of ourselves. It's true that holding onto one's integrity may not save the world. But it's guaranteed to save you.


Tuesday, December 19, 2017

Goupil: No Holidays For An Assassin

DD OverEasy

"Me? I'm an international assassin."

"Well, you certainly don't look like an assassin."

"I'd be worried if I did!"

"In fact, you look like you couldn't hurt a fly."

"I've hurt many a fly," I assured with my steeliest of looks.

She thought that was funny and relaxed. I'd accosted her at the newly opened Overeasy in the renovated Statler Hotel (now with residences!). I assumed she was a resident/guest and she assumed the same of me. But I was only an interloper, posing as a successful something-or-other having valid business in this fine establishment. But, yes, having killed overseas, that does make me an international assassin.

Holidays are horrible times for contract killers. It's a rare time for assignments, I having had only one, in 1997, when I was up and coming, long before the sordid Russian affair. (Yes, I know EXACTLY the methods of aching seduction they used on your American president.) Damn, that's twenty years ago. But I remember the feelings like yesterday.

The job was in Manhattan. The city was electric! I fed off the energy and I remember thinking how sharp my feelings and focus were, almost as if I were floating through the streets. To be outside of everything and yet right in the middle at the same time was a heady experience. Lucky Luciano claimed there is no other feeling in the world like having New York sidewalks underneath your feet. He was right. Christmastime only heightens the sensation.

DD Coke

It was difficult contract, though, and I had to make a helluva silencer but I got the mark in his parking garage. But in that instant a bitter cold wind blew in and I was suddenly transported back into abandonment, apart from everything once again.

I got out of the city quickly as I could, like a scalded cat. The giddiness of before was replaced with a burning fear. I felt every caroler's eye was upon me. "They know! They know!" I couldn't get that out of my head no matter how much I reasoned with myself. The holidays have never been the same since. I ruined Christmas for all time.

My thirty-something stringy-haired blonde companion sitting across from me could not possibly surmise this. Like all professional liars, I compartmentalize my life to show only those parts which I wish to be seen. It's a horrible, terrible way to live (and again, a condition the Russians know how to expertly exploit). I was completely stepping out of bounds to be having this sort of lighthearted conversation. I walked a straining tightrope.

"So who's your target during the holidays? Santa?"

"Santa's more likely to order a hit than be hit. Labor problems and all that. Of course, it could always be you."

I was taking a chance; scared shitless as usual. My defense mechanism pops up in moments like these. If she plays along I'm good but if she freaks out then I am the asshole she fears I am.

"Oh, why would I be your target?"

She's intelligent. I like that. Using logic on me, eh?

"Because there's a secret truth you have not shared. And somebody out there doesn't want you to share it."

"How could you possibly know I have a truth I have not shared?"

She has no intention of letting me out of this trap. I love it! "Because if you were someone with nothing to hide you'd be known to me."

That made her think, maybe even bothered her. Did my blind arrow hit a mark?

"In that case I'm a worthy target."

She had withdrawn into her inner world, revealing it to me, putting me off my game. Careful, I might hurt her for real.

DD OverEasy 3

"Then you understand my dilemma..."

"What dilemma?"

Shit, honey, help me out here! I was only saying that to buy time. Can't you give me a hint of what you're talking about? I retreated to using general terms.

"The dilemma of being trapped into doing something you don't want to do." Bite! Bite!

"Oh, that..."

Whew! But I still had to pretend to know more than I did.

"I used to think freedom could be bought." That snapped her out of her melancholy. "If I just get to this certain place - a certain stage in life - then I'd be free. But then you find another prison awaits you when the purposelessness of your false journey is revealed. So you just slowly drift off to sea, hoping for a benevolent wind to set you straight."

"Christ, it's like you read my life."

"No, only your face. It's vital in my business."

"So you're more likely an international pawnbroker."

"Actually, I'm no longer for sale. But you showed no fear when I supposed you a target for assassination."

"That's because I'm already dead."

The melancholy demeanor returned. Detached and disposable, I'd become a "safe outlet" for her. I rejoiced right down to the bottom of my toes. Any taste of usefulness in my life is my constant craving. (Being used for contracts is the direct opposite of being useful. Just one of the many bitter aftermaths of my criminal conduct.) She continued.

"You'd only be finishing the job. My husband beat you to it." She stopped herself. "No, that's not fair. It's death from a broken-hearted marriage. I fulfilled my Laundry List of Life - that 'certain stage', as you put it - and found out I was more trapped than ever, completely fucking empty. Who am I? I never dare to find out." Her eyes raised to mine. "I'm too afraid of what it might cost me."

I said nothing in understanding silence.

The rest of the cafe came into focus. Only two other couples were in there. It was late, dark and misty outside, holiday lights morbidly flashing in expecting cheer. For the first time I considered her as a sexual being. I wanted to caress her vulnerabilities. But she was one who considered opening the cell door to be criminal. Like most of us, she will die of staleness and rot in her prison while keeping up appearances, consumed with the futile politics of a dying nation and God's angry weather. She knew she could never face the thorns of the world at this stage of her life. But the price of that was to keep out love at the same time. Doomed for all eternity.

DD Butterflies

We parted in unspoken yearning. I told her we are "Doom-mates". That got a wry smile. I trundled back outside and down the couple of blocks to where my car was parked. I'd previously dropped my Uber fare off at the Joule Hotel before lounging at the Overeasy for a nightcap. She made her way back up to her husband's hotel room to be there when he arrived back from his all day meeting (topped off at the City Club). They'd flown in first class from New York, of all places.

Together, she and I were more alone than ever, but once separated, not as alone as before.


Thursday, December 14, 2017

Down For The Count

Neiman Window Red

It happened by accident - as is usually the case with revelation.

I got caught in a plate glass window downtown.

I was looking at a store Christmas display. A living family came up beside me. Then I saw my true reflection in the mirroring glass.

The comparison was stark.

So that's what I look like.

Shattered. Nowhere Man. Mr. Oblivion.
Lost.

Everybody wants to fool the world...

Nightmares have been increasing, growing stronger. I'm missing too many important people. I feel hunted by guilt. I lost my plausible self-deniability in that glass.

I felt the urge to strike, to destroy the reflection, to vilify the press. HOMELESS VANDAL DESTROYS NEIMAN'S DISPLAY. But would that make me any prettier - or just more obvious?

He was writing it after he wrote it, said an observing voice.

No one knows I died when Emily left. It's a state secret written right on my face. People know. This charade has been a waste of time. The sun left with her, my stepping stone to life. I've been writing only from memory of a face that no longer exists. Happy Revelation Day.


Wednesday, December 06, 2017

#Metoo? How about #Youtoo!


I had no idea it was so easy to bang starlets, walk around with your dick out, or even wantonly hit on high school cheerleaders. Shit! I've been missing out all these years! Not one to be left out, your man Harry is up to the task. Feel my power!

"Harry, only thing powerful 'bout you is your B.O.!"

OK, so Gretchen isn't impressed. But have you seen these other guys?? They must be using some sort of Jedi mind tricks I don't understand to get these women to do what they do. "Yeah, that's right, honey, you need to read that part NAKED!" I just ask to go out to a movie and get told to go fuck myself. Can somebody please tell me where all the unempowered women are?? I can't find them for shit. Hollywood babes, Olympic gymnasts, hot coworkers - these other guys are having their way! Hey girls, when is it my turn??

Read where that morning host guy making 28 mil a year is feeling bad ("broken") sitting in his home in the Hamptons. Hey, pal, I'll trade places with you anytime! You can be the midnight janitor the office girls laugh at and I can be the disgraced multi-millionaire raunching my way around. I guarantee you HR is all over my ass if anyone complains about me. Everyone knows that if you're guilty of having a dick then you must be guilty! Case closed!

So what's the secret, ladies? How can I put you under the spell of my power? Most of these guys didn't win the lottery on charm and looks. I made me a producer card. Is that good enough for ya? Or maybe I need me a D.A. card! "Hey, lady, give me your teenage daughter in the name of the law!" Someone really got that to work?? Jesus, I must be doing something wrong. At this rate I'll never able to cause a #metoo moment.

"Come hither and feel my respectful power!"

So how can I break into that world where women don't use the power of sex against you? "City girls just seem to find out early how to open doors with just a smile." So I guess the whole "bad boy" era is over now and women are finally choosing the "nice guy" that has traditionally lost out since the beginning of time. Woohoo! Bitches be demanding respect! From now on all us guys will be prim and proper and watch the girls go wild! War between the sexes is finally over.



Don't watch or you'll be scarred for life!

Sunday, December 03, 2017

In The Name Of...

Origins of ATT

"I saw the war today - and it's a good one. One that God wants." She is one who worships the world in the name of God. Driving in her luxury isolation tube, she passes telephone poles piercing the bodies of crucified poor who wriggle in silent agony outside the soundproofing of her gleaming glass as gospel music emits in death minor. "The war on the poor must be!" she surmises in the worldly wisdom of rejected religion. In tithing she rationalizes: "To do a great wrong, do a little right."

"You cannot help the poor by helping them. They have to earn it!" She keeps her face buried in the trough of greed, filth and waste dripping from her soul as mutual pigs snort and nod in understanding of the unspoken conspiracy. In the daily supermarket of delivered goods thorns of the world dig deep into the heads of cashiers, tears of blood running down their smiling faces in quiet desperation. For their efforts as willing victims of war, she always says Thank You.

"God wants good things for me, I'm loved so much for my faith! The more you have, the more godly you are. Look at my monstrous mansion!" She giggles marvelously delighting in the bounty of billions of sadistic slaves toiling in doomed duty of planet servitude. But to find a dangling thread from her tailored shirt is cause for wailing without hope or hindrance of worldly injustice lamenting lands and peoples lacking her integrity, godlessness in the unenlightened hinterlands.


"Look at the soul God has bought for me! The sun rises for us, the chosen ones. If it were not good, it would not be allowed to be - just like the tax bill!" she observes from the perch of her tilting San Fransisco condo. In the living room resides a mountain of gold ingots descended from Moses; an irrefutable wealth in the eyes of Man. She places her hands and knees on consecrated Berber in impassioned supplication. "Forgive me, holy ingots, for I have sinned, holding pure thoughts that would destroy this wonderful world. In God's gold we trust!"

"My love of God will never die! I relentlessly ensure the maid polishes the silver to the highest standards. My will be done." Her Facecrook page lays littered with morality bites to be digested for lesser lives - while implying her previous conquering of such - as AI software diligently scans in the background for forbidden bare breasts to keep the world pure. Her skyline savior bursts in lighted glory as sewers fill with homeless vomit. The Son also rises in hidden waiting pounce.

"Breathe deep my gathering gold. From my comfort throne thorns of the world are the devil's demise. A Rolls-Royce soul parts the unwashed masses in revered awe. Sweatless saints are carried by stained sinners to a place of virtuous vice. I rule in contaminated contentment with my radioactive Rolex, voting jaded Jesus into office to preserve the reverence of my reign. Reject the Maker whose art is in heaven, hollow be Thy name, revelation devastation is Thy game. I ask you: in a world that lives to screw, what else can one do?"