Those fellow Canadians

Who do you know? You have friends, family, co-workers. If you work in sales, you have customers. This may be a secret to you, but salesmen despise their customers. They are rude, condescending, and play games with your livelihood. But other than that special case, the people you know, you like. What about the strangers in your life, the ones you only see once. People on the bus, say; or people who drive past on the commute. In public transit, people avoid eye contact. Our socialist social services sector has decreed that the insane should walk among us; our politicians, who never mix with the creatures they have sent to publicly urinate on transit, carry unregistered weapons, and hate our skin.



I was standing out on my porch today, this night. I was having a smoke and watching the clouds. The news is bad, if you read sources of information and not the main stream media. The leftists are taking aim at pensions, to fund big government. There is terrible crime done by leftist voters. Foreign powers are moving in the shadows to take advantage of the power vacuum created by the dismantling of American power. The usual stuff that does not fit with the fairy cake reality of the sticky faced slurpers of white privilege. Across the street from me is the guy who works for the school board. He drives a school board van, which leaves promptly at 7:15 am and returns at 9:30am. He parks his van in the garage, with the door closed during the day. He is known in the 'hood as the handyman. He charges cash, gives you a deal on material, and always puts up an orange sign during elections. Good for him, I thought. I was thinking about asking him to help me get into that sort of gravy train job when the real story began.

Two people came down the wet sidewalk. Mom was pushing a pram, and Dad was slouching along with his hands in his pocket. You got a smoke, Dad asked. I was holding one in my hand. I looked at it. My pack was bulging in my front right pocket, tradesman fashion. It is cold now in Toronto, a symptom of that terrible Global Warming that will be our total annihilation unless we pay more taxes to create bigger government. I was wearing a coat, I admit. I said nothing. Dad repeated himself, he stopped walking, he said You GOT a smoke? Mom scowled at me. They both scowled. Not a buying signal, or sure. It was dark, cold, and damp. Global Warming weather, for sure. I said nothing. What should I have said?

They were staring at me. I never stare at people, especially strangers. Just try it in public transit. You could get killed, or have piss thrown on you by some youth just trying to turn his life around, feed his children by all the diversity of mothers, especially his special needs child, Krakhabit. What are you doing out in the cold? Mom asked me, in the same tone a German sentry would use on a Jew out after curfew.

I am talking to Wotan, I said. Which was true. I practice a non-Christian religion, publicly, to keep myself safe from anti-Christian persecution. Besides, Wotan rather likes cold Canadian weather between battles. There are still some leaves left in the Oak tree across the street (which does not grow in the front yard of the school board employee). Mom and Dad coughed in disdain. Dad spit on the ground. I could see that the pram was empty. There was a six pack of premium beer where the baby normally would sit. I cannot afford premium beer. What sort of those fellow Canadians of mine, and yours, would ask a complete stranger for smokes? I made a quick prayer to Wotan that they were the most vulnerable in our society. Then they would have an excuse. They were worried about unsettled Indian land claims, or the quality of drinking water in Africa, or the ever growing gap between rich and poor. Or the injustice done to Occupy activists. Or whatever would make the JournoLista cry when they sat together in their pub and agree with each other would tomorrows news should be. I think Wotan heard that prayer.

You got a smoke? Dad asked again. I said nothing. Dad kicked at my waist height chain link fence, right where the dogs piss. What should I say? I was frozen with indecision. I might have thought something, but in a country without freedom of speech, I will not share with strangers. I know where you live, said Mom. They walked off. Dad pulled his hoodie over his head. Off they went.

I was stricken with guilt over the injustice done to leftist voters. I watched them walk off a bit, then dashed back into my house. I put on my black coat, a black watch cap, and put on my comfortable leather gloves, the ones I buy at Army surplus: rifleman's gloves. I soften them up with mink oil. Some things I learnt from my father, a veteran of the second world war. He was in the British commandos and served and survived three missions behind the lines in that part of the world the Romans called Illyria. Keep your gloves in good shape. I followed them, I did, the Mom and Dad who strolled by with their premium beer. They knew where I lived: I now wanted to know where they lived. I could also use the excuse that I wanted to give them a smoke, being crazed with guilt over the failure of my taxes to adequately provide pensions and pay for the ability challenged activists to care for them. I carried with me a hammer, the sacred symbol of Thor, a friend of Wotan. The hammer is like the cross of Christ the activists like to dip in urine.

Mom and Dad never looked behind them in the dark. They never looked to see who was following them. I was wearing my rubber soled shoes, and my clothes were dark. Dad and Mom had their hoodies up, so their hearing was compromised. My father never liked me to have my ears completely covered. He liked to be able to hear what was going on around him. Something to do with the stealthy habits of Fallschirmjager, Gebirsjager, and Cetniks. The two premium beer drinking, smoke scrounging fellow Canadians live only two blocks from me. They live in the basement. They left the babies pram out beside in the driveway under a leaky eaves trough. The outside light was left on, illuminating the service where their phone line enters their abode, only six feet from their electrical service. Their garbage cans stank, even in the cold. They did not secure the lids, and there was bits of wet skank from previous raids by raccoons. Now I know where they live, but I did not have the courage to knock on their door and offer them a smoke. I feel bad. Would you not also?

My private sector job is a team effort: there are eight of us at work. Just enough tax payers to keep the two taxspenders, Mom and Dad, in inadequate entitlements, as doled out by a team or socialist social services sector leftists. If these two were removed from the face of the earth, all eight of us would have no higher purpose in life left. What would we eight do with all that extra more money? No taxes on gasoline, oil, books, vacations, tires, and clothes. No property taxes, license fees, or trades registrations. Gosh. All that bad evil money. Better to give it to socialists so they can tell me what a piece of shit we all are. I thought about that as I stood across the street beside the children's playground where people came to have their dogs shit in the sand box. It is a fenced playground, but the city workers neither enforce nor maintain the Law of No Dog Shit. There is a big scary sign, though. Someone has written Nigoon Town on the back of it (The Nigoons are the local youth gang, apparently * * * they mark their territory with graffiti, and lately, with ballet shoes from discount stores thrown over power lines). I finished my smoke and walked back home, indirectly (as my Father always did after his 1943 exposure to the merry pranksters of the Prinz Eugen Mountain Division * )

Knowing the address, I was able to use my computer skills to put names and phone number and other bits of identity on the personal face of the taxspenders that live so close down the street so that I may have purpose to my tax paying. My social engineering is a sleeping sword, a broken wand, and empty cup. I cannot express my opinions, let alone implement policy, when I am a despised member of the over powerful, over privileged, majority of white folks that are all serial killers, rapists, and racists. If Jack the Ripper walked the damp streets of Toronto this night, he would be a better person than me and my eight co-workers; after all Jack the Ripper has an excuse: he is a victim of social injustice. Me, I am an automatic scum, who grumbles about paying taxes for services never received. Oh well, at least I know the names of my most vulnerable betters, and can offer them smokes when we next meet. I can offer them smokes, a light, and then light them on fire, and watch them burn. I hope I feel better.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this.