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by Kieron McFadden
The war on drugs is being fought on two fronts, not one. There are two enemies: one with whom we are slugging it out toe-to-toe and the other who stabs us in the back while we are thus engaged.
The war on drugs is being fought on two fronts, not one. There are two enemies: one with whom we are slugging it out toe-to-toe and the other who stabs us in the back while we are thus engaged.
The former is the garden variety criminal, motivated by greed and uncaring of whom he hurts or how in his quest for personal wealth. The more successful criminals, the cartel overlords, are responsible for the destruction through addiction, and on occasion direct violence, of thousands of human beings.
They have cut a swathe of carnage through our civilization from which it would nevertheless be resilient enough to recover if it were not for the fact that we are bogged down in an even more desperate struggle on a second front.
The organized criminal is a breed of cat we all know full well, whether through personal experience or having watched a good number of movies.
I myself have had some personal experience. In my mis-spent youth I found myself in the employ of a very unpleasant London gangster. Up close and personal this type of character is scary, dangerous and ugly in ways even the most grittily realistic movie cannot do justice.
My most abiding memory of Tommy Ronin (name changed to protect....er, me) is of him threatening to have his bodyguard, an ex-Kray Twin minder, escort me to the back of his Holloway Road establishment and remove my legs rather summarily with the aid of a firearm. The exact conversation, as I recall (and it is indelibly engraved as if with a blunt chisel upon my memory) went something like this:
Tommy: "You've taken me for a c*!t, Stevie! (name changed for no other reason than it makes me feel safer)" Eyes bulge, face becomes the darkest dark I have ever seen, meaty fist bangs on desk as he leaps from chair and proceeds to swell like a bloater fish to several times his normal size. Tommy Ronin closely resembles an enraged Alpha Male gorilla on steroids with whom one has just inadvertently made eye contact.
ME: "I never Tommy. I never took you for no c*!t" I contrive a look of wide-eyed innocence while at same time willing legs not to shake too obviously.
TOMMY: "You lying little *1&@+!!£$. You took me for a f*&1£*@ c*!t! Do I look like a c*!t! to you?" Turns to bodyguard, a man with shoulders broad enough to land a helicopter on, "Do I look like a c*!t to you Jonnie?"
JONNIE (in a voice preternaturally relaxed but without taking his dead eyes off me): "No Tommy, you don't look like no c*!t!"
TOMMY: (Turns his glare back on me, a look of murderous hate that would have felled a wildebeest, irises that are fascinatingly almost completely devoid of color) "You took me for c*!t! A f*&1£*@ c*!t!"
ME: (Starting to sound a bit whiney) "I never Tommy. I never took you for no c*!t. I never would take you for a c*!t!"
This cross-examination continues like a struck gramophone for a few more minutes, then:
TOMMY (clearly satisfied by now despite my compelling defence that I did indeed take him for a c*!t! In fact, a f*&1£*@ c*!t.) "You little s*!t! I'm gonna have Jonnie here take you round the skip and have him blow your f*&1£*@ legs off with a f*&1£*@ shotgun!"
Now the thing here is Tommy meant every word and Jonnie, bless him, was a robot who would do what his boss told him without hesitation, perhaps even with a sense of job satisfaction. There was no doubt in my mind in that brutally real moment that I and my legs were about to rather messily part company. It is simply impossible to convey what that much fear and that much certainty of immanent pain and suffering feel like.
Needless to say I survived and am still to this day in possession of two extremely useful legs. I won't go into what happened next except to summarize as follows:
1. I started shaking. My legs shook, my hands shook and even my scalp managed to shake.
2. I wet myself
3. I did some fast talking in a sort of whiney falsetto.
4. I avoided my rendezvous with Jonnie's sawn-off and kept my legs, although it did cost me a, to me, large sum of money.
5. I legged it out of London sharpish before the fickle Tommy changed his mind.
That was a long time ago and Tommy is - I hope - dead now and probably as we speak endeavoring to knee-cap Lucifer
(I'm routing for Lucifer personally, although don't be surprised of the next time he puts in an appearance at a Sabbat it will be in a satanic wheelchair.)
The point of this little anecdote is that criminals, the type that organize the broad scale shipping, distribution and sale of illicit substances, are very heavy and very unpleasant people virtually lost to all humanity. There is a war being waged against them by good men, a war good men are perfectly capable of winning but for one thing: while they are engaged in their war with an easily recognizable adversary, another adversary is busy stabbing them in the back
On that front stands a foe even more destructive, and with even more blood on its hands but he has been less easily identified as a foe, sometimes even mistaken for a friend.
He works behind our lines and seeks to undermine us at every turn.
While we fight to stem the tide of drugs that threatens to engulf our youth, he spares no effort in increasing the flood of drugs into our society. He targets children in an effort to start the very young on the short road to lifelong drug dependency.
While we week to educate the citizen out of using drugs, he seeks with massive advertising campaigns to educate the citizen INTO a dependency on drugs.
He use every ploy, device and trick he can think of to bring as many people of every age group, class and occupation as can be cajoled or seduced into it, to regular drug use.
The drugs he makes ands sells are WORSE in their effect upon the user than many, if not all, street drugs. Many street drugs began life as his, legal, products or were popularized by him.
He is very clever at what he does. Like Satan himself he is the great Seducer, the great manipulator of truth. He is motivated by profit and he does not care whom he harms in his pursuit of ever greater wealth.
I invite you to take a long dispassionate look at the operations of the Drugs manufacturers and their grass-roots level dealers, the psychiatrists.
Look at the advertising campaigns, the proliferating invented mental illnesses, the scientifically suspect testing, the PR distortions of truth, the devastating side effects of psychotropic medications and the extreme difficulty of withdrawing from them.
Don't take my world for it. Go and look at these birds and behind the PR gloss and glass fronted buildings and smart business suits you will see an ongoing war being waged against our culture, against you, me and our children.
You will see men lost to all humanity who will not stop until every opportunity to drug human beings and make a buck from it has been exhausted.
Unless good men rally to the defence of this and future generations and stop them.
