Sands of Iraq... America's Shores

by Nick White

8 October 2004


Officer Tommy O'Brien of the New York Police Department walked purposefully down the street, enjoying the beautiful October evening, watchful nevertheless, as his years in the NYPD had taught him was necessary. "Damn nice night," he mused, his blue eyes scanning the well-to-do environs of Manhattan's wealthy, exclusive East Side, longing to be at home with his wife Kathleen and their infant son Seamus. "Too bad it has to be wasted guarding jews."

And guarding jews Officer Tommy O'Brien was, for since September 11, 2001, the NYPD's priorities had been dramatically shifted. The City's powerful jewish rulers had, behind the scenes, forced the Department to allocate nearly 50 percent of its assets to protecting jewish neighborhoods, schools, and synagogues like the one he was now tasked to protect.

"Kevin," he thought, sorrow's cold, cold fingers stroking his heart. His brother's face reappeared before him for the millionth time as he remembered their last moments together. It was Sunday, September 9, 2001, in Kevin's backyard. The late summer barbecue had been a great time. Some of the firefighters from Kevin's firehouse were there, with their wives and children, along with some of the guys from Tommy's precinct. He could still see Kevin's face as they said goodbye in the fading late summer sunlight, his older brother laughingly admonishing Tommy to "...take it easy on the bad guys, little brother!"

Two days later Kevin was gone, along with all his brother firefighters from his Engine Company, buried in the smoking, toxic rubble of Tower One of the World Trade Center. Kevin and the other men in his Engine Company died because their obsolete, failure-prone communications equipment had malfunctioned yet again; they never got the order to evacuate the doomed skyscraper as it neared collapse.

"Focus on the job," he told himself, knowing that Kevin would want it so.

As he turned the corner of East 61st Street and strode up Fifth Avenue, with Central Park on his left, at the end of the block the synagogue festered (as do the jewish "people"), like a humongous hemorrhoid on the hindquarters of humanity. He noticed a beat-up van standing in a no-parking zone down the block from the unsightly, jews-only building. "Oh boy," he thought, "I better get this thing out of here before the jews start complaining about possible car bombs." Approaching the dilapidated vehicle from the front, he saw a man in the vehicle's rear, his back turned to the officer. Tapping his nightstick on the driver side door, Officer O'Brian barked, "Hey buddy, move..." As the van's occupant turned and sat in the driver's seat, O'Brian saw the black yarmulke, the dirty, greasy ringlets of hair, the grimy, filthy white shirt that screamed hasidic jew, and he stopped in mid-sentence, aware that the slightest complaint to his superiors from any jew, no matter how low, could damage his career. "Is there a problem, officer?", the sidelock-wearing driver asked quietly.

"No, no problem, you are in a no-parking zone, that's all, just please try to move as soon as you can," Tommy asked quietly. "Yes, of course, officer," the yarmulke-wearing driver responded loftily. "As you must know, tonight is yom kippur, the day of atonement, one of the holiest days for us jews. I am waiting for a very important member of the jewish community who is in the synagogue right now." With a nod Officer Tommy O'Brian stepped away from the van and resumed his patrol, walking up the street, past the ugly, fortresslike synagogue.


Inside the synagogue the yom kippur service had ended. the jews had all finished reciting the Kol Nidre.

(Kol Nidre is the prayer which jews recite on yom kippur, the so-called jewish day of atonement. Jews have for centuries successfully fooled non-jews into believing that kol nidre is the jews' apology for sins committed during the past year. The truth -- truth being a concept mutually exclusive to judaism -- is far different. The kol nidre is in reality the jews' prayer to their "god" that, during the year to come, any and all promises and agreements are not binding. In essence, it is a license to lie freely for the next year, to be renewed each October. In this fashion can jews lie, with a clear conscience, to whatever extent the foul race known as jews possess a conscience.)

In one of the synagogue meeting rooms sat a small group of jews. Their laughter rang loudly, sinister in its malice.

"Good work in getting that dumb goy Busho to send America's stupid goyim military into Afghanistan and Iraq, Daniel," gloated Mordechai Goldberg, the owner of the corporate conglomerate which was the main supplier of military items to the United States Armed Forces. Mordechai Goldberg had raised the prices of the Meals Ready to Eat (MREs), bullet-proof vests, and other war material now that America was destroying Israel's enemies in the Middle East, by 50 percent. That the MREs were, unknown to the goyim, intentionally made with poisonous chemicals that would, years in the future, cause vicious, life-shortening cancers in the goyim American troops, only increased Mordechai Goldberg's pleasure. "Using the American goyim to kill themselves to smash the muslims, while poisoning the goyim, and the goyim pay for it -- just like the talmud says!", he was fond of chortling wickledly.

(The talmud is a set of approximately 18 large volumes of jewish "laws" which jews have successfully fooled non-jews into believing is a collection of holy, spiritual directives. Sadly, the truth is far different. Sex with three-year-old girls, and sex with boys under the age of nine, among other unimaginable monstrosities, are permitted to jews by the talmud, as well as the advocacy of cheating, robbing and murdering non-jews.)

Assistant Secretary of Defense Daniel Silverfisch nodded, a satanic smile spreading across his classic, ratlike jew face. The smile was cut short by a horrid, loathsome hebrew-accented outburst from the squat, ugly, dark man clad in the hideous, poison-green uniform of the israeli army. "Chhhuhhh! Vhat iss takink you so lonk to make the schtupit goyim invate Iran? Vhat iss takink so lonk!!! Arik (Ariel Sharon, the swinish, repulsive prime minister of Israel) seys he iss very ankry at the delay!"

Silverfisch nodded nervously, the Israeli general's outburst cutting short his fiendish pleasure at being acknowledged as one of the primary driving forces behind America's self-destructive attacks upon countries which posed no threat to America's national security. "I'm working on it," he whined, "but there is resistance in America. The goyim..." The Israeli general interrupted Silverfisch again. "No more delaze! You understant? Invate Iran NOW!!! NO MORE DELAZE!" With that, the ugly Israeli general rose to his feet and stormed out of the room as Wolfowitz stammered, "I'll go to Washington tonight, immediately..."


Shrouded in darkness, tears streamed down the man's cheeks. With the night came the memories of his former life. His brother Marines. Iraq. The throbbing pain in his leg reminded him of his final day in country. On the suffocatingly hot road to Fallujah. The blazing sun set in the beautiful blue sky. The heat, and the fine, dustlike sand that got into everything. How his life had changed forever at Fallujah...

Boot camp was rough. He had joined the Marine Corps on a whim, only to realize he had made a mistake early in boot camp. But he struggled through it, never giving up, no matter how far behind the others he was. Unlike the Army, Marines don't get to choose their Military Occupational Specialty (MOS), so when he received orders to the Marine Corps School of Infantry after boot camp, he groaned inwardly. "Oh no," he thought, "Infantry - the roughest job in the Corps." But he sucked it up and struggled through. His initial deployment to Fleet Marine Force, Atlantic, was rough. Some of the other guys in his Platoon gave him a hard time. One day in the squad bay the platoon bully was pushing him around. Try as he could to stand up for himself, he was outmatched physically, and about to take a bad beating.

At that moment Gunnery Sergeant Forsberg walked into the squad bay. It took the Gunny less than a minute to physically put the bully in his place. When he finished, the Gunny laid down the law. "This man here may not be the strongest, or be able to run the farthest or fastest, but he puts 100 percent, everything he has, into being a Marine! And, in combat a chain is only as strong as its weakest link! I see any more of this nonsense, and I'm gonna kick the crap out of every one of you! Gung Ho means work together! And, one more thing. I've been in combat, and I can tell you, when the bullets start flying, some of the biggest mouths are the first ones to wet their pants, and some of the quietest guys turn out to be the real tough guys. You all think about that!!!" With that, the Gunny turned on his heel and exited, slamming the squad bay door behind him.

And, it got better. His platoon mates took him in as one of their own, and even gave him a nickname. "Badger," they called him from then on.

When the Battalion deployed to Iraq, he was scared. Training and exercises were one thing, combat was something else. He tried to hide it, but the savage fear filled his chest like a wild, uncontrollable animal that threatened to tear him apart. Gunny Forsberg, wise with experience, saw the young Marine's internal struggle, took him aside, and once more set him straight. "Son," the Gunny told him the night before the Battalion arrived in Iraq, "fear is normal. Courage isn't the absence of fear, it's overcoming fear and doing your job! I have over twenty years in the Corps. I was in Grenada, Panama and Desert Storm One. Just rely on that good Marine Corps training, and your brother Marinnes, and you'll be all right!" The Gunny's words calmed him, and gave him courage.

As usual, Gunny Forsberg was right. Upon arriving in Iraq, the Battalion engaged in numerous skirmishes with Iraqi insurgents, performing well as a fighting unit, upholding the proud tradition of the Corps. Badger acquitted himself well in these minor engagements. The Gunny himself said so.

But none of this prepared him, mentally, for what happened at Fallujah.

It was over in an instant, and yet it seemed like an eternity.

As Badger's badly understrength platoon approached the outskirts of Fallujah the lead Humvee lifted into the air sideways, destroyed by the roadside bomb which detonated underneath it, its Marine passengers instantly killed. The second Humvee was perforated by AK-47 founds, its unarmored exterior providing no more protection than tin foil. Lance Corporal Smith died behind the wheel, riddled by AK-47 bullets he was unable to escape, for his long legs were trapped by the Humvee's poorly designed, too-low steering wheel and dashboard, which forced its 6' 2" driver to sit cross-legged. Lance Corporal Smith slumped dead behind the wheel as the Humvee's other Marine occupants dragged themselves out and sought shelter along the roadside, too badly wounded to return fire.

(It is a matter of record that our American political "leaders," a repulsive mixture of jews and shabbos goyim, have tasked approximately 1200 of our United States Marines to take Fallujah, a city of 250,000 Iraqis. Obvious to even a child should be the fact that our Marines have been asked to complete a mission that, given their extreme numerical inferiority, is well-nigh humanly impossible. That our Marines have bravely attempted to do so reflects well their honor and esprit de corps, in keeping with the finest traditions of our United States Marine Corps. In so butchering our Marines, our political leaders have revealed themselves as the cowardly, lying, traitorous and murdering pack of jews and shabbos goyim that our political leaders are.)

Seconds later a barrage of rocket-propelled grenades exploded, damaging and barely missing the other vehicles as the column skidded to a halt, the deadly beautiful, brightly lethal flashes sending geysers of sand, smoke and dust into the hot morning air, adding to the noise and confusion. Cries of "Corpsman!" echoed up and down the column.

The rest of the columns' vehicles disgorged their occupants, the Marines quickly taking up positions alongside the road, looking for targets to engage. Lieutenant Nordstrom, the Platoon Commander, shouted, "Ambush -- put out rounds!" and called for Private Vitelli, his radio operator, intending to call for artillery support. M16 and M4 rounds rapidly cracked through the air, their higher pitch contrasting with the lower-pitched, slower rate of fire of the AK-47s used by the Iraqi insurgents. But Private Vitelli was nowhere in sight. "Where's Vitelli?", Lt. Nordstrom shouted to Sergeant Johnson, first squad's leader. "Don't know, L-T!", Sergeant Johnson shouted back, the stocky Marine rapidly sighting, acquiring and blowing away two AK-47-wielding Iraqis.

As the smoke cleared, Lt. Nordstrom spotted Pvt. Vitelli near a wrecked, smoking Humvee, motionless, facedown in the middle of the road.

His legs were two ragged, bloody stumps ending above his knees.

Lt. Nordstrom instantly jumped to his feet, shouting "Corpsman!" as he ran to drag Vitelli to cover.

Lt. Nordstrom had taken three steps when the RPG round exploded, the concussion knocking him off his feet. Stunned, the Lieutenant recovered and half ran, half crawled to his gravely wounded radio operator, grabbed Private Vitelli's shoulder steps, and began dragging him to the roadside. As the two Marines neared the roadside's relative shelter, another RPG round impacted nearby, killing Vitelli and blowing Nordstrom back into the middle of the road, where he remained in a tangled, unmoving heap.

A Marine AH-1W Super Cobra helicopter gunship roared in overhead pumping rockets and 20mm cannon rounds, shredding and blowing to bits an approaching group of AK-47 and RPG-carrying Iraqi insurgents whose arrival could have overwhelmed the decimated Marine platoon. As the Super Cobra banked into a sharp, tight turn to come around for another gun run its gearbox locked in the sand-filled air, its engine screaming out of control.

(The Super Cobra was yet another mechanical casualty of an American military budget that has been bled white to send billions of American dollars to Israel, while denying money for the most basic maintenance and spare parts to our own American military. Indeed, our Marines are being forced to use 40-year-old CH 46 Viet Nam era helicopters that are falling apart from old age and unavailable spare parts, while we buy brand new helicopters for the israelis. The israelis then use the brand new American helicopters to routinely murder Palestinian women and children, as well as the occasional paralyzed, blind, wheel-chair-boundl, 70-year-old Palestinian man.)

As the Super Cobra fell like a stone from the sky, its Marine pilot, Major Petersen, was well aware of what was about to happen. He made a speed-of-light decision to focus on what was most important to him in his last few seconeds of life.

The Marines in the comm shack back at the airfield sat and stood in frozen attention at the doomed Marine helicopter crew's last words, their voices strong and clear.

"HQ, we're going down - our gearbox just gave up the ghost." Major Petersen's final words were directed to his gunner. "It's been fun flying with you, Al...Semper Fi." "Roger that, sir," Lieutenant Dietrich replied quietly. Both Marines focused their thoughts on the loved ones they would never see again.

Scant seconds later the disabled Super Cobra slammed into the Iraqi desert floor, detonating in a fiery, ground-shaking explosion that sent a cloud of thick black smoke billowing skywards.

Before beginning his strafing run, Major Petersen had shrewdly sized up the danger the Platoon was in and called for more air support. A flight of F/A 18 Hornet attack jets, on station for eventualities such as this, arrived less than a minute after the Super Cobra crashed. The primitive though well planned Iraqi ambush collapsed in a hailstorm of precisely delivered ordnance that impacted with thunderous effect.

As quickly as it began, it was over. Except for the crackling flames from the destroyed Marine vehicles, small arms ammunition cooking off, and the cries of the wounded Marines.

A nearby Army Special Forces detachment had overheard the Marines' plight over the Tacnet and quickly piled into their Blackhawk helicopters. They arrived minutes later. Among them was Special Forces Sergeant First Class Stumme. "That's Forsberg's unit," he thought as his bird flared and landed. Quickly disembarking, the Special Forces men rapidly secured the perimeter and began providing medical attention to the wounded Marines.

SFC Stumme searched frantically for his friend, finally finding Gunny Forsberg where he fell, near Lieutenant Nordstrom.

Gunny Forsberg had seen the Lieutenant dash into the road to bring Vitelli to safety, only to be knocked down twice by RPG explosions. When Nordstrom didn't rise the second time, Gunny Forsberg instantly snapped to his feet and ran to drag his platoon out of the line of fire. He couldn't know that the already dead Lieutenant was beyond any earthly help; all he knew was that a brother Marine needed assistance. The burst of AK-47 fire that killed Gunny Forsberg would have been stopped by the body armor he wasn't wearing. The chronic shortage of such equipment had led him to give his body armor to one of theplatoon's newest members, a Private fresh from Infantry training, who had joined the platoon the previous day. "Leadership by example," the Gunny had said with a wink as he removed his vest and handed it to the wide-eyed young Marine, "this thing's too damn hot and heavy for an old man like me anyway, Private!"

Badger cradled the dead Gunny in his arms like a baby, crying, oblivious to the pain in his own bullet-torn leg. In his dead hands the Gunny clutched the plastic-covered photograph of his wife and three children; his last act had been to pull the cherished photograph out of his BDU pocket as he drew his final agonizing breaths. SFC Stumme stood transfixed; for all his years of training and experience, he could do nothing except mourn his lost friend.


Days later SFC Stumme visited Badger in the hospital before the young Marine returned to America. "Gunny Forsberg and me met in Grenada during Operation Urgent Fury back in the early 1980s, and we have been good friends ever since," the Sergeant said. "He told me a lot about you, kid," the Special Forces SFC told Badger. "He was like a father to me," Badger replied, somber, still under the effects of shock and grief, "like the father I never had." Before parting the two men exchanged contact information, united by the loss of their mutual friend. "I'll be in touch, kid," the grizzled SFC promised. His last words before leaving were to say, "You and I are going to be friends for a long time." Only much later would Badger come to fully understand the import behind SFC Stumme's words, and the burning in his eyes.

Badger's return to America was unreal. There was a war going on, but no one seemed to care. He went out to bars and clubs a few times, but no one wanted to hear about Iraq. Soon he just stayed home, trying to ignore the pain in his wounded leg, and the alternating sadness and anger in his heart. "Why are we there? What is the war all about?" he asked himself angrily. "What are we fighting, bleeding and dying for?"

And then he discovered Vanguard News Network.

It was serendipity, in its purest form. He was sitting on his couch surfing, trying to take his mind off the horrors of the war he could not understand the reason for. Flipping through the many television channels which the media screamed praises of ("daring!" "edgy!" "barrier-breaking!" "controversial!"), he found precious little of substance, and nothing that came within a mile of addressing the horrors that he and his brother Marines had faced in Iraq. "It's all crap, the same crap, over and over," he thought, the television flashing screenful after screenful of nonsense. News shows whose so-called analysts and experts talked for hours, yet never said anything. Moronic cartoons. Idiotic music videos full of slutty women and punk men acting like tough guys, all boring in their sameness. A talk show with a skinny fag who used to be a fat fag explaining the difference. He pressed the remote buttons faster and faster, the screen rapidly flashing snapshot images.

Then he laughed loudly, his first real laugh since returning from Iraq. 'What was that?" he asked himself, "a talking pig?" When he found the channel he had zoomed past, he found it wasn't really a talking pig. It was a fat, piglike man talking. The bottom of the screen said the fat, piglike man was named Abe Foxmanstein, and that he was head of something called the "Against Defamation League." Badger laughed long and loud at the fat, piglike Foxmanstein squealing about "...hate websitee like the Vanguard News Network, an antisemitic website full of -- oy vey! -- the most hatefully horrible hateful hate..." Then, losing interest, he resumed channel surfing, and quickly fell asleep.

When he awoke, the words Vanguard News Network were fresh in his mind. Going to his computer, he logged on and did a web search, chuckling to himself at the memory of the piglike Foxmanstein screeching. The home page flashed onto the monitor, bold and proud:

Vanguard News Network
No Jews. Just Right.

At first Badger was skeptical. He had never understood politics; he had always followed the standard thinking, dictated by the government and the media, that anyone called "antisemitic" and anything called a "hate grouop" must be condemned, but he gave it a try. He read some of the articles, the emails and the Forum threads, noting the names. Alex Linder, Antiochus Epiphanes. "Cool name," he thought, "wonder what it means?" he wondered, making a mental note to look it up. Rich Brooks of "White Alert." T. Garrett. Douglas Wright. And others. Their words fascinated him. Some of the concepts were difficult to grasp at first, but he worked at it.

And, he was hooked.

He learned about the jews, and how they had started World War One and World War Two to murder tens of millions of White men and White women. How the "Federal Reserve" was not a government bank, as its name implied, but a privately owned jewish bank that manipulates politicians and laws to rob honest White Men and White Women. How the "Federal Reserve" intentionally created the Great Depression so that wealthy jews could rob and impoverish hard-working, honest White men and White women. He learned about the jewish lies about Germany and the so-called holocaust, which was really just another jewiswh swindle. How the jews had manipulated America to torture and murder Germany in what the jews called World War Two. How the "Against Defamation League" claimed to be devoted to advancing the interests of all people, yet its membership was all jews, and well paid jews at that. Abe Foxmanstein himself made over $400,000 dollars per year! And more. His head spun, and he had to lay down and rest. But he returned, and studied. And studied.

But, it got worse.

When he learned about the jewish involvement in manipulating America to invade Iraq, his head felt like it would explode. The knowledge that jews privately gloated over American troops bleeding and dying so that israel could expand its border to include Iraq, and steal Iraq's oil, infuriated him.

The worst was yet to come.

Badger learned the truth about why the Marines in his unit never had enough food for everyone, enough rounds of ammunition for everyone, or enough body armor for everyone. He remembered Gunny Forsberg dying in his arms, the light fading from the Gunny's eyes, the Gunny's hands clutching the photograph of the wife and children he would never see again, and he felt rage welling up in him. "Gunny Forsberg was like a father to me. The Gunny died in a war started by jews to benefit jews. The Gunny died because he wasn't wearing body armor, and he wasn't wearing body armor because the jews stole the money that would have paid for the body armor that would have saved the Gunny's life." All it took was the basic construct of information to ignite an unquenchable fire of justice, of vengeance, in his soul.

It took all his self-control not to run out and slaughter the first jew he saw, and continue slaughtering jews, until either he was killed, or he ran out of jews to slaughter. "Think," Badger told himself over and over. "Think."


A nervous Daniel Silverfisch quickly walked out of the synagogue, into the mild October night, exchanging mazel tovs with the other yarmulke-wearing jews clustered around the synagogue's entrance. His limousine waited at the curb. "Daniel. Oh, Daniel?" the high-pitched male voice called out to Silverfisch, who stopped, turned and greeted the effeminate man. It was Isaac Cohenowitz, one of New York City's most successful and celebrated jew lawyers, famous for suing the New York City government in useless lawsuits which made him wealthy, hastened the financial demise of New York City, and furthered the destruction of American society.

But, Isaac Cohenowitz had a lesser known dark side. He was one of NAMBLA's high-ranking members, as was Daniel Silverfisch.

(NAMBLA, an acronym for North American Man-Boy Love Association, is an organization founded and run by jews that is devoted to the rape of young boys. One of NAMBLA members' favorite sayings is "eight is too late," meaning that the best time to have sex with young boys is before the age of eight. Any doubters are encouraged to search the Web for the word "NAMBLA" to find proof, horrid proof, of this truth. One of NAMBLA's stated goals is the repeal of laws against sex with children, and, in the meantime, to facilitate sexual contact with underage boys while avoiding prosecution. The NAMBLA website is full of "tips" on how to do exactly this. These jew perverts should all be in jail, but their jew cousins in the jew media and jew legal system protect them all!)

Cohenowitz reminded Silverfisch of the conversation they had earlier in the week. It was one of Silverfisch's reasons for coming to New York. Cohenowitz had a special "treat" for him - an imported seven-year-old blonde, blue-eyed Russian Christian boy, kidnapped from Southern Russia, drugged and smuggled into America, to be used by jewish perverts, before being "discarded."

(Well documented is the fact that the nation of israel is the world leader in the white slave trade. Indeed, israeli law permits the kidnapping and enslavement of non-jewish women! Thousands of Eastern European White women have been lured to israel by the false promise of well paying jobs as maids and nannies. Upon arrival the passports of these women are confiscated, and they are threatened with death for non-compliance. So forced into prostitution, these young, helpless women are subsequently brutalized and tortured for long periods of time. The jews also practice similar tactics with young children. Recently a ring of jewish child pornographers was smashed in Italy. These jewish perverts were abducting Eastern European children, some as young as five, and filming their rape, torture and murder, then selling the videotapes. Especially revealing of such jew contempt for humanity is the American rap group "Necro," whose members are Brooklyn jews. These jews have actually published a song mocking the kidnapping, sexual assault, torture and murder of Eastern European White women!)

"Daniel, aren't you coming over tonight -- we have that "toy" for you," the evil, perverted jewish lawyer said coyly. "I'd like to," responded Silverfisch, "but something came up, and I don't have time."

He was right, but not for the reason he thought. Daniel Silverfisch, child molester and butcher of thousands of American military men and women, was all out of time.

The M16 assault rifle has had a long, controversial and varied history. Some disdain the weapon, and some love it. It has spawned many variants, one of which is the M4 carbine. While far from an ideal sniper rifle, the M4 carbine can be, given a mission-specific configuration of scope, ammunition, upper receiver, barrel length and silencer, just what the doctor ordered, especially when the malady in question is a "jewish cancer" that requires removal from the body of White society.

The 5.56 mm jacketed hollow point round hit Daniel Silverfisch between his beady ratlike jew eyes, expanding as it penetrated his skull, and fragmented into his depraved jew brain, killing him. The murdering jew Daniel Silverfisch toppled forward like a felled tree, landing face down, his head near the curb. The other jews scattered, screeching like frightened old women, concerned only with their own wellbeing, in keeping with the cowardly nature of the jew throughout history. Silverfisch's bodyguards piled out of his limousine, too late to do anything.

Down the block the dilapidated van started up. Screened by the several trees between it and the confusion in front of the synagogue, nobody noticed the old vehicle as it pulled out of its parking space, merged with the early evening Manhattan traffic and drove down Fifth Avenue.

Inside the van, Badger sat in the driver's seat chuckling as he ripped off the black hasidic yarmulke, the wig of hasidic sidelocks, and the filthy white shirt, revealing a clean white t-shirt that read Stop The Hate, and underneath, in smaller letters, Ask Me How.

He nudged up the Skrewdriver, but not too loud, as he sped away. In the back of the van lay the silenced M4, it's tripod mount now collapsed, its lethality cloaked by the ragged oil-stained blanket covering it.

"Man, that silencer worked well," Badger thought, reaching for the encrypted cell phone to call Sergeant First Class Stumme. He laughed, harshly yet contentedly, at how the yarmulke atop Jew Silverfisch's head was knocked loose by the impact of the dead jew's body slamming into the pavement. The repulsive circle of jewish fabric rolled on its side, over the edge of the curb, and down into a storm drain which fed into New York City's sewer system - a fitting end indeed for that repellant symbol of the jewish "religion."

May jewry, in its foul entirety, soon follow.

To be continued...


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