Tuesday, October 25, 2011

The Morning Post

I have never been so calm and peaceful as I am right now. It is a peaceful morning in the City of Light, Toronto. The perfect blessings of diversity rain down like the forgotten snow we used to have before Global Warming made winter go away forever. I have my morning coffee, my croissant, my warm chow delivered by the thoughtful people of Meals on Wheels (they just started to deliver meals to my address, morning and night, and no amount of calling and e-mailing can get them to stop). I open my unpaid for copy of the Red Star (it just started up some months ago; it will not be stopped either: it gives something for the advertisers to pay for, I guess), expecting another lurid story about some queer teen who has shot himself in the face. Not today, thank any god but Christ. But my thoughts turn to gun control. Not that I have a gun, or anything. No, I do not collect guns. I collect mortars.

I am relieved that there has been no mortar suicides in today's Red Star. I am a responsible mortar collector. I keep my collection locked up, in a locked underground bunker, actually. Their ammunition, which I make myself, is also under lock and key.

My father brought a mortar back home from the war. Back then, in the days of hateful white supremacy, Canadians could have guns. They had freedom of speech, expectations of owning a house, a car, and a cottage; and the gap between rich and poor was so much less than now. Dad kept the mortar down in the basement: a smallish Japanese Knee Mortar * * , as it was called. A souvenir from his time oppressing Asian-Canadians in the jungles of Burma in 1944. Mortars are not high status among the collectors who collect such things. Aside from a novelty British Paratroopers Mortar, his collection was limited to the two pieces mentioned. Ammunition was difficult to obtain: the postal charges and paperwork to get it shipped in from East Germany was a concern to my dollar conscious father (he had a job in the private sector) and my childhood experience of mortar firing was limited to groundhog hunting and stump removal. The last time my Dad brought the mortar out of the basement was to take out a Beaver Den during that awful time when the state reintroduced the Beaver to Wellington county. After my Dad and the local gentry discovered the good price you could get for beaver pelts, bombardment was no longer an option. The mortar collection rested for years in the basement thereafter.

While studying Mathematics at the University of Waterloo
, I picked up an 81mm mortar as part of a package deal. It was 1979. Because state funding of my education was inadequate, I was forced into gun running to make ends meet. I would go out to Alberta and buy job lots of weapons, then sort them for marketable stuff, and sell them to N-people gangs down in the United States. The N-people were really more interested in resume writing software, printer drivers, or stylish canary yellow paper. My boss in the gun running business, a Baptist preacher from some small farm town in Alberta, would convince the N-people that they should sell drugs, rent their sisters out as whores, and shoot each other in the head when they caught each other cheating at checkers. For that, they needed guns. But even his legendary telemarketing skills could not convince them to buy an 81mm mortar. I decided to keep it, give it to myself as a Christmas, er, Holiday present. I vowed to myself to find some way to use up the fifty rounds it came with that winter. We had winter back then in 1979.

Gun control was fired up around the time I purchased my second mortar, a Russian model, a version of the 81mm so popular with those countries that resisted American Imperialism throughout the twentieth century. The wedge issue with gun control was suicide. I would be working down in the basement of my Westwall style cottage thinking about how bad I would feel if some suicide killed himself with my 81mm mortar. He would have to find the place first. Then get through the lock on the real entrance (the decoy door has a 600 volt, 50 amp, door bell that discourages and disintegrates those who are unwelcome), then find his way into the basement. I am a sloppy housekeeper, and an unwary intruder would inevitably trigger the mosquito suppression system, which floods the place with an organic pesticide marketed under the trade name of Lewisite *. I felt my preparations were adequate, but even then, how do you stop some suicidal homosexual from putting the barrel of a 81mm mortar in his mouth and pulling the trigger? An under taxed white patriarchy can be so oppressive. Tears ran down my face. I recall I went into the local police station and asked about the issue, but it was on a Tuesday, and the public liaison officer could not speak English. Holding my brochures about Social Injustice!, Your Rights When Arrested!, and Free 24 hour abortion clinics in the greater Guelph area, I came home. I have never read of a case of mortar suicide in Ontario. If there had been one, I am sure the Red Star would have talked about it for the mandatory week of coverage that they do for the gun related suicides (two weeks for queers).

No news is good news.
The mortar collecting fraternity in Ontario is small, only a few thousand. We meet yearly, when we have a flea market and swap meet. I know most everybody there, and none have committed suicide. We do not sell our mortars to gangs, unlike the Baptists and Catholics who run the monthly hand gun flea markets in Toronto. This year one of our members of the wealthier sort (he owns a few car dealerships down in the United States; he had a few sixes of zeros of bailout money to spend on his hobby) was showing off the railway gun he got. It is a Russian model, without the status that German railway guns have when you get snubbed by the snob Alberta gun collectors out West, and the kids got to climb over it for the three days of Mortarfest. I wondered how the owner, Karl, would feel if some emotionally distraught homosexual wrapped his depressed lips around the barrel and pulled the trigger. Probably pretty bad. He keeps his railway gun locked up though, on his property just 67km from downtown Toronto. Karl is a responsible guy.

Responsible citizens are criminals under Red rule.
Responsible owners of guns are the most responsible citzens of Ontario, or were. The do not show up in court. They pay their taxes, stop at stop signs, and never drink and drive. It is a clever bit of Red social engineering to make the least criminal class, the fattest tax payers, into criminals. Now they bury their guns. They expect a knock on their door from the Gun Gestapo. Where they once had a farmers shotgun to shoot rabid vermin or ward off dogs after the chickens, now they think that the state thinks they are criminals. They form secret combinations, study the manufacture of their own ammunition, and are becoming learned students of the black arts of the partisan, the insurgent, and the survivalist. If grandpa's old lead pumper is to be taken down from over the family hearth and hidden, then you might as well hide a decent arsenal. When the Reds erode the social contract, the social contract is eroded. Belt fed weapons, dumm-dumms, and armor piercing rounds were never of interest to the rural farmer, the peaceful taxpaying whitey; but now that the puny bird gun is a crime, you might as well go whole hog. When black markets form, blacker goods and services move into the stalls and onto the tables of the merchant class. Call someone a criminal, a racist, an earth rapist, and some of those attributes will truly stick, like leftist spittle on a campaign worker. Where once the farm folk had a dusty shotgun to shoot at the neighbors dog after their chickens, now they have an arsenal hidden, dispersed, across the farm; they have a secret arrangement with the neighbor who manufactures ammo; their opinions of N-people reflect that of crime statistics but not that of the state media; and they have and use more chainsaws because their ownership and use is frowned upon by urban effetes. Say it is not so. I read the Red Star, and all this is invisible to them. As long as it is invisible, I feel calm; when the Red Star notices, then there will be something red on the streets, something red and not to their liking. Turning your best citizens into something worse is not wise policy, and I will feel calm until the day that the chickens come home to roost; because there will be wolves following the chickens.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this.

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