Archive for March, 2013

Euro-Socialism Unravels: The Cyprus Rip-Off

March 27, 2013

If you needed any additional proof that State Socialists are thieves, all you have to do is look to the example of Cyprus. The EU Commissioners, in their gall, have basically decreed that it is quite alright to rob outright “large depositors” of a huge percentage of their savings, although their earlier attempt to rob all depositors was so vociferously met by the Cypriot people that the Socialists had to back down. Then they “democratically” decided amongst themselves that they could pull the rip-off off if they only hit the “large depositors”, appealing to class hatreds which almost always work on Western Democratic electorates. Since they are only hitting the “rich”, those with just enough to buy a barely habitable home in Euroland, they knew that popular dissent would now not be harsh enough to be able to stop their pulling off the theft. And they have pulled it off.

As with most Socialist Bureaucrats, who have never worked in the real world where their income depended on themselves alone, or their business or employer’s business, but have had their Socialist wages paid out of the public coffers which are almost endless, they do not have any psychological conception of what their holy decisions have on those in the Free-Market economy, who have probably slaved for decades to build up their savings.

Socialist “solutions” always create additional problems which the Socialists never forsee because their thinking is mired in an economic ideology built on false and deeply immoral principles. Economic thinking needs to be based on sound principles, or it will always fail, and since Socialism is based on coercion, violence, the gun and the jail cell (try not paying your taxes and see what happens), it can never match the respect for Individual Rights, based on Natural Law, and non-aggression against Persons and Property, that Libertarianism champions.

What the EU Socialist Commissioners have done is to put every thinking Capitalist in the Western World on notice that if they live in a Socialist Economy (and who doesn’t now? Even Switzerland has vowed to inflate the CHF Franc if it gets too “strong”.), — if they live in such an economy, their savings in any bank are no longer safe, no matter what verbal “guarantees” the government officials gave the public yesterday. From Eastern Poland to Portland Oregon, all Capitalists in between now know that if their country’s banking system collapses, as all these Socialist banking systems eventually will, then their savings are subject to confiscation by the Communists, calling themselves “Social Technocrats” or EU Commissioners, or “The Democrats”.

In America, it is unfortunately comparatively common for a bank robber to be shot to death in the course of robbing a bank. But when the EU Commissioners rob thousands of people of billions of dollars of their savings, they can walk away scott free. Why aren’t they shot as bank robbers, or at least arrested, tried, and jailed for extremely long periods of time, as being a clear menace to Civil Society?

The EU Commissioners are nothing but a bunch of Socialist Looters engaged in full-scale cozenage, and the EU is nothing but a giant Socialist forced-labour, zwang-arbeit, camp, where any individual initiative and excellence is punished to curry to the self-indulgent masses and the government-allied corporations. How outrageous that vegetarians and vegans are forced to pay the medical bills for millions upon millions of meat-eating, booze-guzzling, tobacco-addicts. An outrage!

Let the Cyprus Crime be a warning to all Libertarian Free-Marketeers in the Western World: Either brake the Socialists at the polls by electing radically Free-Market Austrian-School-of-Economics Capitalist Libertarians, who will put the Individual above the State and the Corporations, or face further lifetimes of drudgery under the State Socialists in their alliance with the Corporations, not only for yourself, but also for your families and the generations to come.

So let Cyprus be a warning to all Free-Market Capitalists. And to all Socialists too, for you have forever destroyed the myth of a safe banking-system, under any Socialist Central Bank economy, like the EU, the USA, Canada and Australia.

Just try restoring “investor confidence” now by flapping your lips some more.

Hooooooooooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwww! — Silverwolf

The Charles C. Bunkley Infallible Roulette System

March 4, 2013

The Charles C. Bunkley Infallible Roulette System

A Short Story by “Lobo Silverwolf”

Charles Bunkley stared at himself in his hotel room mirror. He looked pale around the cheeks and the chin, but his nose and forehead were a Mojave nut-brown. He’d shaved for only the first time in the last six years yesterday, as he prepared for his trip to Las Vegas. Then, early this morning, he’d began the long drive from Wonder Valley, east of 29 Palms, to Sin City, taking the back roads at 35 and trying to stay calm. Now he was finally here, and in an hour would take place the culmination of six years of study, of spinning the roulette wheel he’d set up in his cabin thousands of times a day and recording the results, of reading everything he could on roulette and its strategies, and finally, only a few weeks previously, of coming upon the idea whose result was an infallible system. For centuries men had searched for a system in roulette that would guarantee them a profit, but it was only he, Charles Calvin Bunkley, who had, amongst all men on earth, discovered that system. And now he was going to use it.

Charles dressed leisurely, putting on the unused blue suit and tie he had bought years ago for just this day. Once finished, he looked like any other nicely dressed tourist who would blend in easily with the background. There was no need to attract attention. The casino must never suspect that he had a system, or he would be banned from every casino in America once the news got out.

Instead of taking the concourse that connected the hotel to the casino, Charles went out onto the street again, to look at America one more time before he became a wealthy man. Right now, financially, he was much the same as the tourists and dressed-up single ladies that passed him in the street, but in a little while he would belong to an aristocracy that had always been worshipped in America, in spite of the lip service given to its love of the poor.

He entered the main door of the casino, detecting immediately the hated smell of tobacco smoke. It was something he would just have to put up with for a time; the money would make it worthwhile.

He went to the cashier, withdrew the 50 Franklins from his shoulder money-belt, and asked for five thousand-dollar chips. The cashier seemed unfazed by the request; she must be used to high rollers.

As Charles moved in the direction of the various gaming tables, he repeated to himself, over and over, “middle-red-28”, the three bets he must make to win, that had come to him in a flash once he’d discovered the final key to his system.

Charles went in search of a roulette wheel, looking for a table that was fairly quiet. He spotted one, manned by a young woman with such jet-black hair that Charles thought she must be partly Native American. Suddenly he felt that this was a good omen, for had not Native Americans once been referred to derogatorily as “Redmen”, and since this was not a man, the “Red” corresponded exactly to the second element in his three bets. But then he questioned why he needed an “omen”  at all to confirm the validity of his system. Did not this show a lack of confidence in the system’s infallibility, and had he not been logically sure that, willy-nilly, his system must work?

The dealer invited the few players standing at the table to place their bets, and Charles placed his five thousand-dollar chips on the middle column, which paid 2-to-1. She spun the wheel, spun the ball in the other direction, and finally called out “eight”. Of course, Charles had won, and she pushed two stacks of five similarly-colored chips next to Charles’ original five. Then Charles placed the three stacks of chips on Red. The dealer spun the wheel again and Charles watched the ball intently. When it fell onto a red number and stayed there, he didn’t even notice what number she called out; he was waiting for that fresh supply of 15 thousand-dollar chips, which were pushed towards him a few moments later.

Deftly, he crammed the six stacks of $5,000 each onto number 28. He noticed that the young woman now watched him, and the betting table, intently. He caught the pit boss, standing off to one side, eyeing the proceedings and tightening his lips slightly. The other players and spectators at the table quickly became hushed as they realized the magnitude of the bet. Then the dealer spun the wheel, and sent the ball circumnavigating the bowl in the other direction. Charles watched the ball, then looked up, repeating to himself, over and over, “My system is infallible; my system is infallible.” He closed his eyes.

He didn’t hear the color called out, only the words “twenty-eight”.

He’d done it! His infallible system had worked and he was a millionaire! He’d done what no man had ever done before!

He could not help but grin, and several spectators actually broke into a small round of applause. He supposed they thought him plucky; but Charles knew that there was no luck involved.

He tipped the young woman a thousand-dollar chip, and placed it on “seven” for her, then walked away. He had not used the system when he placed that bet, but just random chance, and it didn’t surprise him, as he moved away from the table, to hear “thirteen” called out. She must have been sorely disappointed, but at least she’d had a momentary thrill. And it was important for the casino to see him lose a bet; they must not know of the  system.

At the cashier’s window, Charles asked for 50 Franklins, which he replaced in his shoulder money-belt, and a cashier’s check for one-million and forty-four thousand dollars. Tomorrow, when he got back to 29 Palms, he would deposit the check in a large bank, and, when it had cleared, spread the money around several banks so that it was all Federally Insured. He wasn’t going to lose it after six years of struggle.

Returning to his hotel room, he took the concourse that joined it to the casino. There was no need to walk on the street now, with the rabble. Did these well-dressed couples that now passed him know that they were passing the first man in history to successfully figure out an infallible system in roulette? No, of course they didn’t, but it was a fact which he obviously must keep secret. No, he would never tell anyone.

But, now that he knew the system actually worked, he would use it again and again, until he was one of the wealthiest men in America. A wave of euphoria swept over Charles: all things were possible for him now.

Back in his room, he prepared to leave, feeling too elated to sleep, and not even considering now that he was paying for a room till tomorrow, so he ought to stay to get his moneysworth. He would never have to think in such mean terms again.

He opened his suitcase, and began to carefully pack the few belongings he’d brought. Then he noticed his large, three-ring binder notebook with his six years of statistics; within that book lay the secret of his success. He picked up the notebook with a feeling of affection; it was his old, old friend. He put it down again, and opened the front cover. Then, carefully unclipping it, he removed the essential element in his system, the element that had eluded him for six years until recently when, in a flash, he’d conceived in his mind the infallible system.

As he removed the Smith and Wesson snubnose, he smiled at it. It felt heavy and powerful in his hands, like gold. He released the cylinder catch, twirled the dial, and removed the single bullet it held. Then he went to the bathroom, and dropped the bullet into the toilet bowl, flushing it so it moved out of sight.

This time he hadn’t needed that part of the system.

The End

Hooooooooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww! — Silverwolf

Silverwolf’s Short Story: “The Man Who Loved Margaret”

March 2, 2013

” The Man Who Loved Margaret”

A Short Story by “Lobo Silverwolf”

I am a murderer. I lay awake at night and think about it, over and over. I killed a man, although I know they’ll never come to arrest me. But I did it nevertheless.

I first noticed Judson a few years back, when he moved into the neighborhood with his good lady. One day I ran into Ted Bagley at the hardware store, and he told me that the property next to his had been sold, down at the end of the cul-de-sac where it hits the old abandoned City Park, and than the Judsons had bought it. Ted told me they were Rosicrusians, a sect I recalled had placed ads in most of the magazines I’d read as a teenager. “Send 10 cents for the answer to Eternity.” I didn’t think there were any Rosicrusians left by now.

What impressed me about Judson when he drove past was how spotless his truck always was, and, when curiosity sent me on a hike down to the old Park in the middle of winter, how immaculately kept his house and lawn were. There, in the midst of the pine forest, was a uniformly emerald-green lawn, with a home to match, right out of the San Fernando Valley. Not a twig was on the lawn, and those that had been were placed neatly in a stack, awaiting burning. The roof and gutters were spotless.

About a year later, it suddenly struck me that recently, when I’d seen Judson’s truck pass, he was always in it alone. Then I ran into Ted Bagley at the Senior Thrift Shop. He mentioned that the Judsons had gotten divorced, and that Clem Judson was living there alone.

I figured it must be pretty rough for a guy used to living with a wife to suddenly be on his own. Men like Ted Bagley and I were used to it, but for a man who was used to having a woman around all the time, it must have been hard.

My studies having completely absorbed me at that time, I don’t think I gave another thought to Judson for months. Then suddenly it struck me that I hadn’t seen Judson for quite a while. So, the next fine early spring day, I took old Madge Newgate’s two dogs out for a stroll to the old Park, knowing that it would score some points with Madge, since she can’t take them until she has her hip surgery, and she wouldn’t forget me when her trees started to rain apples in the fall. I figured that by walking Truman (Madge is a Democrat) and Izzy, I could get on Madge’s good side while seeing if Judson was still around.

When I got there, his truck was there sure enough, but it was caked with mud, and the windows looked dirty. Then I noticed that the roof of his house had a large patch of moss growing where the sun hit it; he’d have bear claws if he didn’t get up there soon. And the lawn was no longer green, but mottled with large brown patches, and covered in twigs and branches.

I smiled to myself: now that Judson no longer had to please his good lady, he’d let all that busy-work go by the wayside, and his place would gradually assume the well-worn look of a comfortable old shoe, like Ted Bagley’s place and my own.

Still, it bothered me a bit that Judson had let the place go like that so soon after his wife left. Had it all been her ship-shape insistence that kept the stead so immaculate, or was something else going on?

A few days later, curiosity sent me out once again to the old Park, not for the walk so much, but because I wondered how Judson was managing. I’d never spoken to him, other than the time he’d offered me a ride to town when the pump went out, having seen me walking down the street to Madge’s carrying several empty water bottles. I’d thanked him, but explained that I just had to go a block, and that had been the limit of our history of conversation.

As I passed the house, everything seemed the same. I went on, and was almost past his driveway, when I suddenly heard a yell.

“Hey neighbor!”. I turned to see Judson running down his driveway towards me. I could make out a big grin on his face, and as he approached, he had a look of pure joy on his visage.

He came up, extended his arm, and shook my hand vigorously, putting his other hand over it, like some long-lost friend. What struck me about him was the wild tousled appearance of his hair, which was greasy and matted, and plastered all over his head in clumps, as if it hadn’t been washed for weeks. A fetid odor of animal sweat hit my nostrils, such as I’d only experienced at a zoo.

He looked right at me, with a wild, joyous gleam in his eyes.

“Guess what, friend! I’m getting married! And to the most wonderful girl in the world!”

I mumbled a congratulations, but he kept on talking over me.

“I’m so glad you are the first to hear about it. So glad.” He suddenly seemed moved almost to tears, and his voice cracked a little. “You don’t know what old friends like you mean to me.” Then he brightened right up.

“I just got the news. Pa called and said that he and Ma have decided to give their approval. So now I can marry Margaret!” Judson clapped his hands together in joy, like a little kid. Since Judson appeared to be in his late 50s, I wondered how old his parents must be. “But you’ve got to come see a photo of her. Come on up to the house, and I’ll show her to you.”

The look in Judson’s eye told me that somehow it would  be a mistake not to go along, so I said “Sure, I’d love to see it.”

When we got to the house, I was struck by the huge mound of plastic garbage that lay just outside Judson’s kitchen door, as if he’d just been throwing out whatever used packaging he’d finished with. He led me into the living room, which seemed to carry the same, stale smell of sweat that emanated from Judson, and sat me down on an old sofa, in front of a computer and screen.

“Now look at this. This was taken a little while back, but my fiancee hasn’t changed a bit. Watch!”

A huge grin filled Judson’s face as he clicked the play icon. On the screen I saw an old black-and-white newsreel film. Horses were being led into a paddock, while well-dressed men stood around and talked. Then the horses were at a starting gate, and the camera showed a panorama of a large crowd watching the start of a race, and the racetrack.

The race began, and suddenly the camera shifted to several spectators in a reserved box. I thought I recognized the old Queen of England, the one before the current one.

“There she is,” yelled out Judson, so suddenly that I started for a moment. “There!” He put his finger on the screen, on the figure of a young Princess Margaret, standing beside the Queen. “Isn’t she beautiful? Isn’t she the most wonderful girl you’ve ever seen!” Judson was almost raving. “I tell you, neighbor, I can’t wait to hold her in my arms and call her my own.”

Then he looked hard at me. “Well, what do you think of her?”

“She’s charming”, I said. I noticed Judson suddenly looked at me suspiciously, and the start of a scowl crossed his face. But then he grinned broadly. “Yes, you’re right. Charming is the word. Now look at this.”

Judson let the clip play on. It showed “Monaveen” winning the race, and Princess Margaret clapping wildly, jumping up and down a little, and generally showing the camera that she was very, very pleased.

“Boy, am I glad it’s you I first get to tell the happy news to, at least in this neighborhood. But, the news is spreading fast, and the joy of my bride’s friends knows no limits. Look!”

He clicked on another clip, which showed the streets of a British town thronged with wellwishers, waving their hankies at Princess Margaret and smiling broadly. The commentator told of the Princess’ visit to Lancashire, and Judson mentioned that his bride was so well-liked by everyone she met, that she was known as a “Princess”. I tried to react normally, but by now I was deeply disturbed by Judson’s mental degeneration. The man was obviously a raving lunatic.

Finally, he put on another clip. It showed the Princess tapping a giant block of stone with two light fairy taps of a malet, and saying, “I now declare this stone well and truly laid,” which was followed by general polite applause.

“Doesn’t she have the most wonderful voice you’ve ever heard?”, he asked me. I decided, in light of his glare after my “charming” comment, that it was safer to just go “Umhumm”. This did not produce a glare. And he went on, “It’s the sweetest voice I’ve ever heard. I can’t live without it.”

Suddenly Judson stood up and said, in a most formal manner. “I’m afraid there is a great deal to do before the wedding, so if you’ll kindly excuse me.” He didn’t look at me, but strangely straight ahead as he said this. He wore a hangdog expression, as if he were so exhausted, he couldn’t move the muscles of his face.

“Of course, there must be loads to do, and I really should be getting back,” I said.  “Congratulations once again, and I am sure you’ll both be very happy.” He looked at me suddenly as if I were a stranger, and I walked out of the house and up the drive as quickly as I could without it looking unnatural.

“The poor fellow” I said to myself, as I returned to my “old shoe”. Judson had obviously completely lost his mind since his wife left. It bothered me immensely, and I found Judson coming into my mind all evening, as I tried to concentrate on my studies. What could I do for the poor soul?

That night, I awoke after a good sleep, and found myself immediately thinking of what I could do to snap Judson out of his delusions. I was ranging around for solutions in my mind, when I recalled a book I’d read perhaps decades earlier, in which a psychiatrist was mentioning that, with certain patients, he used an approach of telling them to their face that their delusions were pure drivel, and that they had fully the capacity to be sane if they wanted to be. He would then prove to the patient beyond any doubt that they could not possibly fly through a window as they claimed they could, or be Napoleon, or signal to a passing aeroplane pilot that they had been kidnapped by Martians and needed help. He claimed a very high success rate without long drawnout analysis with his “cold bath of reality” technique.

The next morning, while putting out the cat food, a plan came to me. I would download and print out a copy of Princess Margaret’s obituary, and send it anonymously to Judson, even driving the 30 miles up to Wedmore to post the letter there, so the postmark would not look local. I couldn’t let Judson know it was I who’d sent it.

Driving back from Wedmore after posting the letter, I felt like I’d done another good deed, like walking Madge Newgate’s dogs. Judson would be very disappointed when he’d read of his bride-to-be’s death, but the shock just might bring him around from his delusions.

I figured it would take a day or two for the letter to be delivered, and on the third day, after the mail had come, I walked down to the old Park to see if I could see Judson around his place. But when I passed the house all seemed quiet. His truck still stood in the same spot, and all was silent. Then I saw Judson in the distance, on the far side of his lot, gathering pine twigs. He seemed alright, and a hope sprang up in me that somehow he’d snapped out of his condition.

That night, about 3a.m., I was awakened by the noise of a diesel truck passing, and as I awoke, another truck passed. My bedroom walls were suddenly filled with flashing red lights and dots which swirled around the walls, and which then quickly subsided as the noise of the motor began to fade. I wondered if yet another drunken teenager had slammed himself and his girlfriend into a bloody pulp against a tree, as they raced down to the old Park for some teenage hanky-panky on a Friday night. It seemed to happen about once a year, year in year out. Then my mind drifted back to my studies, and what I must accomplish the following day, and then I was out again in the outer blackness of sleep.

I was awakened early at 7 by the phone. When I answered it, it was Ted Bagley.

“I hope I didn’t call too early, but I thought you ought to know. Clem Judson shot himself last night. He’s dead. I was out at Clarendon last night, fixing a pump, but got back around 2:30. Suddenly I heard a shot, and figured it was a deer poacher, but it sure sounded close. Then half an hour later two ambulances from the fire department showed up. They’d gotten a call from someone who kept moaning that “Margaret’s dead. I can’t go on living without her. I’m gonna kill myself, so please come and pick up my body. You can find it at…” and he gave his address in a clear, calm, voice, and signed off with a “Have a nice day”. The 911 dispatcher figured it was probably one of those goofy calls they get on the weekends from someone whose had a little too much, or some mischievous kid, — you know what this valley is like —but they know the County’ll get sued if they don’t respond and it’s genuine. They found Judson with half his head blowed out.”

I was too shocked to correct Ted’s grammar, and, thanking him for telling me, I rang off.

I sat stock still in the living room for perhaps half-an-hour, thinking to myself over and over, “I killed Judson. I killed him just as surely as if I’d taken the gun and put it to his head myself. I murdered a man, another human being. I’m a killer.”

So what can I do except tell you, and tell the world. I have committed the one crime that can never be expiated. I killed a man.

The End

Hoooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww! — Silverwolf