Bill of Rights Press

L. Neil Smith's
Number 445, November 25, 2007

"The sound you just heard is the sound of the coffin
closing on the 'brand name' known as the Libertarian Party."

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When Saving Lives Becomes a Crime
by Francis A Ney, Jr.
Travel Gestapo Editor

Attribute to The Libertarian Enterprise

With apologies to Rod Serling

We present for your consideration a man, employed as a computer consultant, who splits most of his time between his primary contract in New York and his wife and horse farm in West Virginia. One winter weekend, after he buys a new car to be registered and used in New York, he brings his old, registered in West Virginia car back to the farm. To return to his primary contract and his new car, he is forced to submit to the tender mercies of AMTRAK for a period of twelve hours and three trains. Quite frankly, he would rather be examined for polyps. Without anesthesia.

At the end of the second train leg, this man finds himself cooling his heels in the waiting area of Penn Station, one of two train hubs in NYC, this one under the infamous Madison Square Garden. Comparisons to train stations in the former East Germany are particularly apt, given that there is no internet café and no WiFi; poor, filthy and uncomfortable amenities; food that is both expensive and unhealthy; and of course, the STASI wannabes in at least four different uniforms-of-the-day all carrying weapons denied to the mere prole-in-transit. The consultant amuses himself with various things on his laptop, having discovered long ago that activities involving one of his other hobbies, amateur radio, will bring him to the immediate attention of the aforementioned STASI and their drug/bomb dogs, an assurance that he would miss the last available train to his final destination. If he was lucky.

Forty-five minutes into a three-hour wait, less than ten feet from the traveling consultant, a youngish man with a swarthy complexion and an oversized OD Green field jacket screams "Allah Akbar!" and reveals a momentary switch in his upraised fist. Without even looking into the partially open jacket, the consultant knows what is there, and what is about to happen. The STASI wannabes, too busy playing kabuki security games and printing civil rights on rolls of soft, absorbent paper, have failed utterly at their supposed primary function, their excuse for demanding and abusing ever increasing amounts of power. And our consultant, over twenty years after his honorable discharge from the US Army knows he is already dead along with fifty of his fellow travelers, most of whom wear an expression generally seen on a deer facing headlights.

The one thing going for him is that the ersatz freedom-fighter, burdened by thirty kilos of Composition-4 plus accessories, is facing away. Seconds count, and while the not-so-smart-bomb makes his final prayer to Allah, visions of 72 virgins dancing in his head, the overweight, moderately out-of-shape computer consultant jumps him. Actually, there's another thing going for him—our misguided follower of Mohammed watched too many Hollywood movies and dramatically has his thumb extended well away from the boom-switch. The consultant helps by grabbing the thumb and bending it in a direction thumbs are not meant to go while tripping the threat into a perfect face-plant onto concrete. A struggle beneath the consultant's body results in several reintroductions of forehead to floor with what would have been a sickening crunch had the consultant not been hyped on adrenaline. The now-flaccid body releases the switch and it rolls on the floor as the consultant bends the entire arm behind the head.

"Where's the ka-boom? There was supposed to be an earth-shattering ka-boom," the consultant mocks the body, not caring if he is heard or understood. Much louder, to the room in general: "Get the bomb squad down here, NOW!"

"FREEZE, MOTHERFUCKER!" Without even looking, the consultant is aware that there is now at least one gun in the hands of a formerly bored STASI in need of an underwear change pointed at him. "HANDS IN THE AIR, NOW!"

"I'm cool," the consultant responds in a normal voice. "But you may want to secure this bozo first, he might be playing possum."


"Then I'm dead anyway, and so are you if this cum-stain manages to get to the button. Calm down and take a. . ."

The consultant hears a mechanical click behind him as more STASI arrive from all directions. "FINAL WARNING, TERROIST! SHOW ME SOME HANDS!"

Very carefully, praying that the technical human under him really IS down for the count, the consultant raises his open hands. He is tackled, stripped naked on the spot, trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, and hauled away to an undisclosed facility. The real terrorist is an afterthought and does not survive the night, succumbing to multiple skull fractures and a fatal concussion.

YouTube, Google Video, MySpace and other sites are flooded with images of the event downloaded from the camcorders and cell phone cameras of the sheeple who lacked even the sense to run. The consultant's family, friends, and fellow members of his volunteer fire companies recognize him from the files and are quite concerned. Demands from all as to the whereabouts and condition of the consultant are met with stony silence, even from members of Congress. Missing person reports are mysteriously closed without warning. Writs of Habeus Corpus are replied to with a single word: "Who?" Conspiracy theories and rumors of 'extraordinary rendition' abound, even five years after the event. The consultant has vanished, Without A Trace™.

"Impossible", you say?

"Far-fetched," you say?

"Clinical symptoms of paranoia," you say?

Everyone who remembers the name Richard Jewell raise your hand. USA PATRIOT wasn't even a semen stain in the Bush family underwear when Richard was bent over and royally screwed with Tiger Balm™ and sand by Jack-Booted Thugs and the 'Main Stream Media' looking to sell advertising. The next non-blessed 'civilian' who saves us from a similar scenario will get it harder, deeper, and faster and will be lucky to only be waterboarded and peeing blood. Not only will that civilian be guilty of daring to save lives without government permission, he will be guilty of something more heinous: Showing the entire world just how worthless government 'protection' has become.

This is the government that couldn't hack Katrina but ran around stealing guns from the victims. This is the government that had to set up a fake news conference to tell everyone how they were doing much better in California. This is a government that can't play Tiddly-Winks™ without killing someone.

This is a government with no credibility.

One apparently not interested in restoring credibility, either.

Think about it. And vote for Ron Paul.

Frank is a freelance computer consultant and professional gadfly. His main hobbies are guns, computers, ham radio and libertarian politics. He lives in West Virginia, along with his SO of eight years, a number of horses, and a cat that thinks he has 6 legs. He occasionally entertains antlered rats (aka whitetail deer), foxes, turkeys, woodpeckers and pheasant just because they show up for the free food. When he can he volunteers with the local fire department as an EMT.


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