Thursday, 9 August 2012

Money Enough to suffer Part 3...

My Dearest Elizabeth,

I miss you so very much, wishing beyond all reason that somehow this letter will in fact make it's way to your heart. It has now been seven months, eighteen days and eleven hours since you were literally ripped from my embrace. The Jackboots thought they had killed me, after all, plugging me with two lead slugs and cracking the shit out of my skull, should have done the job.

Ricky saved my life! From across the courtyard he saw me do a back-ender out our bedroom window. He never hesitate Elizabeth, he just acted with a courage I know I could not have mustered. One night, a month or so after that fateful day, Joey told me the entire story over a coffee. Joey said he looked over to our apartment as soon as the shots rang out. He saw me bust through the window and assumed I was a goner. Joey said he would never forget the bravery he saw next. Within ten or so seconds, he noticed Ricky making his way across the open courtyard. Joey said it was nothing short of a miracle the countless motion drones never picked up Ricky's image. The way Joey tells it; Ricky was like this super Rambo man, invisible to the enemy, a deadly viper. Yeah, you read it right Elizabeth, I know, it's really a very funny thing to imagine, a lovable 300 pound couch potato like our pal Ricky acting like Rambo.

Hold your breath, the story is about to get really weird. Joey admits he couldn't quite see ground level, so he was not altogether sure what Ricky was doing when he reached me. None the less, Joey figures it must have been a good fifteen minutes before he saw Ricky stand up with me draped across his back. Joey said he was so shocked he shit himself. Joey had naturally assumed a drone had killed Ricky, so when we popped up out of the blue, it all seemed surreal. Just imagine that Elizabeth, fifteen minutes in the open, whilst in the middle of a sweep team raid. There must have been at least 100 drones working the raid that night. I have seen a lot of shit in the last couple of years, however, I am sure you would agree Elizabeth, not many people would expect to last fifteen seconds in the open during a sweep team maneuver, let alone fifteen minutes. The story doesn't end there. Joey said he saw Ricky make his way over to the old Cedar tree that sits in front of Jenna's apartment. I know you won't believe this Elizabeth; with me draped across his back, Joey climbed the Cedar and completely disappeared. Shit, before this happened Elizabeth, I would have bet everything I owned Ricky could never get himself up that tree, let alone carry me up at the same time.

In any regard, Joey mentioned he watched the tree with binoculars steady until the 2 hour clear bell signified the drones to leave. Joey said he didn't know whether to head over to the tree or stay put. You know how sneaky those bastards are when they shut down a raid. In any event, Joey quietly watched the tree for a good hour more, then, he slowly sidled over to it fully expecting to find Ricky and I tucked away under a branch. Neither of us were there, Joey swears he never took his eye off that tree Elizabeth. We both know, with the tree in the open as it is, no one could leave it unnoticed, it must have been a miracle. To make a long story short, three days had passed until I finally woke. I realised I was in Ricky's bedroom, Angela's face was hovering over me as she changed my dressings. The entire scene was so discombobulated and surreal it scared the shit out of me Elizabeth. I jumped up sending spasms of pain throughout my body. It took a good week before I could move about without considerable pain. Things were real crazy then Elizabeth, the internet was painted red with global strife. Rioting, fires, blood and mayhem endlessly pulsated forth from the small square screen. Protests were rampant, it appeared to us all that victory was at hand. Anyone who could stand carried their signs to protest marches throughout the city. All healthy rioters were expected to join the "damage crews", hell bent saboteurs focused on destroying the elite infrastructure of NWO domination. Ricky was a team leader for our local damage crew, Angela was so very proud of him Elizabeth. Ricky knew I was too banged up to join his team, but at the same time, he also knew I was more than healthy to join Angela in the marches. Ricky and I argued daily Elizabeth, I cowered to his position, but could not articulate what exactly kept me frozen to his couch. I will never forget the look on Ricky's face the moment he heard the news Angela had been murdered by a police bullet to the head.

He blamed me for not being by her side, for not protecting the people who saved my life. His anger was very scary Elizabeth, I thought he was going to kill me right then and there. Beads of sweat fell from his brow dripping onto my face, as he was meaningfully strangling the life from me, time seemed to slow to a crawl. His crimson visage was a sight which still causes me to wake most nights in a cold sweat. Why he let go and walked away Elizabeth, I will never know. If the world were a righteous place, I should be dead. The way things stand now, Ricky refuses to speak to me, He thinks my cowardice  reprehensible, the worst thing is Elizabeth, I feel the same way. I don't know where fear comes from, but one thing I do know, it grips you like a vice and holds on like no tomorrow. Just the thought of being in the streets under the glaring eyes of the drones made me apoplectic. For no apparent reason, I would find myself trembling in the corner of their tiny flat crying like a little child. Each day, Angela would make sure I was fed and cared for. She never pushed me to participate, she knew I needed time to heal more than the scars. Ricky didn't have to kick me out, I left as soon as his fingers released their grip. For the last six months or so, I have been living with five others in this small apartment on Queen street. I am falling apart without you and the children, my life is like a nightmare which never ends.

This morning, I found myself blindly hovering over our stove deeply inhaling the rich aromatic salute to what portends to be another dreary morning . Bearing the role of casual witness, I observed a melange of black spotted foamy liquid belching forth in it's hurried exit from the darkened spout. My morning coffee danced and sizzled on the red hot burner below, helplessly, I swam trance like in it's wild torment. Of late, and with regularity, small tremors seem to form in my back, stomach, or somewhere in my lower extremities. The tremors course unimpeded up my torso, then down my arms, whereby, they always exit my hands exposing, what I have now become inured to as a signature tremble. Presently, in my semi conscious state, I can feel my fingers pulsate with release, much like I felt as I observed the coffee this morning discover it's true course along the glistening white porcelain. Friends of mine believe these bouts of trembling, and zoning out, are a result of the accumulated radiation, however, I am convinced they manifest from post traumatic stress. In any event, I know you understand my pain, you feel my grief, you too are doing your level best to survive. Like myself, you are probably suffering symptoms of war fatigue, bouts of semi conscious delirium, or at the very least, uncontrollable grief and angst.

It's like we are all living in a dream, isn't it?

Each morning, I plug my brain into what is left of the internet, only to discover our world has unraveled yet a little more. Thankfully, I can reach out to you in this letter, mere words that still my anxiety, give me hope, bring love to my world. Yesterday, marked the one month anniversary since the start of WWIII which, as I am sure you don't need me to remind, resulted in limited nuclear strikes against Tehran, Moscow, L.A., New York, Jerusalem, Netanya, London, Bandar-e Abbas, Tabriz, and Tel Aviv. Main stream media casually suggest the 84 nuclear arms killing over 36 million people was tragic but an unavoidable path to peace. What the hell does that mean? More and more, I find the media's caustic blathering bespeak to our good fortune. Yesterday, I heard a reporter eagerly maintain, "if things really got out of hand it could have been much worse, we could all be dead or underground by now, think about that!" I guess you could say it was a miracle humanity averted a massive planetary thermo-nuclear showdown. None the less, I find little solace can be gleaned amongst this rampant devastation, especially in the absence of you and the children. Aside from the nuclear arsenal, what the heck were those atom destabilising ray guns all about. Every day, stories fill the internet about some new fangled, avant guard, war toy. They must have been sitting on all this technology for quite some time. It appears to me, my darling Elizabeth, population earth precariously sits on a razor's edge, waiting, wondering, hoping beyond all reasonable hope, that the negotiated cease fires of three weeks ago will somehow be miraculously sustained.

It truly is unfathomable to even conceive how world leaders could find the stomach for war, especially after the devastation wreaked by the Canada Goose Flu Epidemic last summer. The other month, I heard the final death toll from the flu eclipsed 2 billion. The internet is constantly abuzz with rumors of government conspiracy. I honestly don't know what to make of it all, it seems almost impossible to dispute the epidemic was created in a CIA lab, as well, all indicators suggest it was designed as the ultimate killing machine. The official story, as per usual, has more holes than Swiss cheese. We know they are deliberately killing us, but, with the ban on assembly, there seems little we can do. Estimates now suggest, the global population to be less than 4.5 billion. However, over the next year or so, food shortages, rampant cancer, war and disease are expected to cull another one billion from the ranks of humanity. Total it all up my darling, half the world population will have disappeared within a 2 year period.

Riots, protests and marches around the world are seldom now, everyone knows resistance is futile. For the most part, the plethora of  NWO nano drones keep the streets clear during curfew hours which, if you have not heard, are still globally maintained at 18:00 hours. The internet rumor mill is rife with sites trying to establish just how many dissidents are imprisoned globally. Some estimates suggest more than 1.5 billion souls are captive, many of which are children separated from their parents. Whatever you may have heard in the camp, the last wave of seriously overt protesting was six months ago, about one month after you and the boys were taken by CSIS. It took me a few months to come to terms with my narrow escape. I felt terribly guilty I did not manage to protect you and the children from the sweep team raid of our apartment complex last Christmas eve. I know the children have been taken from you. I wish I could give you hope by saying I have found their location, alas, all my efforts have been in vain. There are so many rumors about what the elite have done at the children's camps, I won't speak to these atrocities as I am sure, like me, you are more than inundated with speculative drivel.

I laid low for a month after leaving Ricky's place. Most my food still is derived from forays on dark nights to risk raiding garbage bins for leftover food scraps. The drones are very dangerous, but if you are clever, attentive, and lucky, you can avoid detection. The day time is much safer from big brother, they retract the drones at 8:00 am, less than a minute later, the streets are filled with grubbers fighting for crumbs. All that is left now are workers and grubbers, you don't need me to tell you what category I have fallen into. The workers do their level best to avoid us grubbers, society is truly cast into two very separate experiences of reality. I don't speak to workers, they are the worst of traitors. Without their support, the elite would never have gained victory, the NWO would already have become an historical footnote. The workers don't use money, society is completely cashless now Elizabeth. We always dreamed of a cashless society you and I, but on very different terms. Unconditional love was to represent humanities ticket to freedom from the tyranny of debt slavery, not this nightmare. Each bona fide worker resident has been issued an entitlement card. All cards are controlled by the NWO central finance hub. Travel is greatly restricted, exit visas allowing a citizen to leave the city are probably the hottest commodity on today's worker black market. It is weird surviving without money. Grubbers are not authorised to use entitlement cards, therefore, we must scavenge for the right to survive. The irony is, I always wished people could realise one third of humanity lives worse off than the pets we own. Now, you, the children and I are part of that group! I can honestly say the average worker dog or cat lives a much better quality of life than all us sub worker beings. I will never get a work visa because I am related to a detainee, In addition, I am pretty darn sure they know I survived the raid, which would mean they have me tagged as an escaped convict.

I can't seem to shake the shame of my cowardice of January past. I know Ricky was right Elizabeth, we needed everyone on the battlefield. We needed people of courage like Ricky and Angela. If we all pulled together, we may have uprooted the elite, everyone agrees it was painfully close. Many of our friends will still not speak with me, I understand their anger, I shrink under their cold stares. I live with unbearable shame daily, most of us can't help but bump into each other whilst we comb the streets in the daylight hours looking for what we collectively call "opportunity". None of us know what or how opportunity may manifest, it could be a good afternoon scrounging the bins and alleys, or a successful day foraging, hunting or fishing.    

I miss you and the children far more than words could ever convey. Often, as I walk the streets of opportunity, I find myself in a peaceful dream where everything goes back to normal. You are cooking a wonderful evening meal, the children are tussling over one of their action figures whilst I quietly enjoy a cigar and read the newspaper. John Lennon plays imagine on the CD. Although I wish we could be together, it gives me great peace to know you are alive and reasonably well. Soon, I hope to offer you good news of Christopher and little Brandon. I have a friend who found his children in Alberta of all places, he sent them a letter by "resistance mail". He has yet to hear reply, but lives with immutable confidence. I hope to use the same resistance channels Elizabeth, but it won't be easy. You probably know I have been marked by the resistance as yellow. I accept my yellow tag, it is righteous, none the less, it burns my ass to know the children and you must suffer due to my inability to confront fear. What good is a father or husband who cannot muster the will to protect his own family. This letter I pen to you is being sent via Betty, who I understand is in your block. Mike agreed to send it through the resistance as one of his own. Now he must wait an additional month before he can send Betty another. I must admit my shock that Mike agreed with this hair brained scheme. Not many people help yellows, especially not those who were their friends. Mike did make it very clear he was doing this for you and not me. He told me to tell you this, as he intends to be very forthright with Betty about my status. I heard last month some camp women who have, or had, yellow husbands are often abused by fellow block mates and detainee guards alike. For the longest time, I thought it best if I just let you believe I was dead, at least you would not have to live with the stigma of having a living yellow husband. I guess the deciding factor was that I know the resistance has already tagged you a yellow lover.

The entire yellow paradigm is insane at best, yellow lovers, yellow children, yellow relations. Last week, I was speaking to a fellow yellow who was branded because his cousin, who he had never met, was identified as the resistance leader of a Halifax sect. How is it the resistance cannot see the similarities of abuse between the elite and themselves? They tarnish you, Christopher and Brandon with a yellow brush, never once considering it unjust to heap the sins of a man upon his innocent family. I pray every day that you and the children do not have to suffer too much at the hands of those bigots who cannot find love in their heart.

I must close this letter my darling, I hope what I have written will fall within the 5 gram limit, if not, this last page will be missing. Please thank Betty for me, let her know how much I appreciate her and Mike's kindness in forwarding this letter. Knowing it may be my only chance to convey my love, I pray it reaches you safely. I look forward to your reply, at least if Betty remains in accord with the deception. You must know her and Mike are taking a massive risk Elizabeth. If by chance this letter were to be intercepted, all four of us will be hanged for sedition against the NWO.

My darling, dearest, Elizabeth, I love you and love you and love you more. I pray you and the boys find it in your hearts to forgive my weakness. Stay strong, live with unconditional love, may compassion fill your heart today and forever more.

Love and strength, vive la resistance, shine on dearest Elizabeth shine on, you will always be in my heart.

Faithfully yours, Thomas.   xoxoxoxoxox.