Chapter One
Sybil Norcroft had listened to the President of the
United States deliver a verbal bombshell. She was always ambitious, but that
request by President Willets was a shock to the woman of ice who was currently
serving as the director of the Central Intelligence Agency. His precise
statement had been: “Sybil, I am all but certain that Randall Broome will be
the next president of the United States and Dick Harris his vice-president. I
have two secrets I want to share with you since you are my most trusted
mistress of the vault of secrets and chief of the puzzle palace.”
She had smiled at his characterization of herself and
her agency.
He had continued, “What I have to tell you must never
be repeated…Harris is very ill, and no one else but Governor Broome and I know
that. He just found out two weeks ago, and it is too late to get a new V-P at
this late date. The best estimate by his doctors is that the poor man will have
to resign for health reasons before the end of his first year in office.”
Sybil digested every word, waiting almost without
breathing for the next sentence—the virtual next shoe to drop.
President Willits did not disappoint her, “And Governor
Broome has mild to moderate congestive heart failure—that’s another top
secret—and his prognosis is not all that good. I owe him my place in the White
House and could never do or say anything that would deny him his chance. He has
been a real patriot and has the good of the nation foremost in everything he
does.”
The president looked directly into Sybil’s intent eyes,
“He and I have discussed the need for him to appoint you to the vice-presidency
when the time comes for Harris to step down.”
He paused to allow Sybil to digest the import of what
he was telling her.
She said, “Mr. President, I would be proud to serve.
You know I would do anything for you.”
She was well known to be a woman who chose her words
very carefully and to be a person whose word was her bond, as old-fashioned as
that might sound in these unsettled times.
“Thank you, Sybil. I know you would. I am sure that you
know—should my expectations come to pass—you will become the first woman ever
to serve in that high office, just like you were the first woman to serve as
the DCIA. I think it highly unlikely that you will ever be the first lady, but
with the conditions of politics and the health of the two aspirants in head of
you, it is not outside the realms of probability that you will become the first
woman to occupy the west wing as its leader and likely will be the first woman
of the nation not so long afterward. I am pretty certain that your political
career is not over, my friend.”
Sybil remembered that she must have looked like the
proverbial deer looking at approaching headlights, “Who knows about such
things, Mr. President, who knows?” was all she could manage.
For the next few afternoons, Sybil used a rare period
of relative quiet in the spy world to ponder the implication of the president’s
information and his offer. She had always been convinced that the
vice-presidency was “not worth a bucket of warm spit.” [actually, the word V-P
John Nance Garner had used was not considered appropriate for polite society]
However, she did feel a strong affinity to the current president and was
willing to serve him even in an enervating position if that was what he needed.
The dangle of becoming the potential president after next was tantalizing to
her. That she could not deny.
The chief of police of Los Angeles received a letter
that was destined to change Sybil Norcroft’s life in ways she could not have
imagined as she contemplated the possibility of taking on the highest of
responsibilities. The letter was originally sent to the editor of the Los
Angeles Times, but the editor was loathe to print it because of its
inflammatory nature. He referred it to Chief Anderson, who elected to keep it
secret to allow his detective bureau to find the potential killer or absurd
crank without causing a panic in California.
That decision blew up in Chief Anderson’s face when the
threats contained in the letter came true, and he and his chief of D’s had not
a clue who the letter writer and probable killer was. Two synagogues and a Beth
Israel Temple kindergarten class were bombed with dozens of innocent victims,
and an African-American reverend had been shot to death in his church. Chief
Anderson was no fool, and he did not have any intention of taking the blame for
any failures to identify and to bring the monster to justice. He made a bold
move: he requested that the directors of the FBI and the CIA assume authority
for the investigation with help from Los Angeles and the State of California.
Chief attached a copy of the hand-written letter that
started all the angst to the two directors with an expression of his firm
conviction that they were dealing with a probable monster and mass murderer.
“You don’t need to know my name. I go by Beelzebub, and
I am the Magnificent. You will know all you need to know soon. Soon enough. You
think Teddy B. who thought he was so smart, will be remembered. Forget that.
Wait until I make the news. Anybody remember Timothy McVeigh, the Oklahoma Fed
building bombing as dramatic as it was? Or Wade Michael Page, who blew up a
bunch of rag-head Sikhs in one of what they dare to call their “temples”, or
Dylann Roof, who killed a bunch of what we’re now supposed to call
African-Americans in Charleston Church, or Robert Bowers, who took down
Pittsburgh synagogue in Pittsburgh? None of heroes that carried out the work of
God are still in the news, still remembered, still revered—except by me, I
suppose.
“If you go back a bit, there are a whole bunch of our
kind of people—WASPS, nationalists, real populists, true blood segregationists
who hardly get a mention in the news media of today, despite the great work
they did. Those workers just didn’t go about the publicity angle good enough.
Maybe they weren’t educated enough, or smart enough, or had the needed
stick-to-itiveness. Well, things are gonna change. I am smarter, better
educated—don’t bother looking it up, I’m what you’d call self-educated—better
organized, and more driven to get the job done for the good white folks of the
country and for the rest of the world.
“When Beelzebub, the Magnificent, makes his mark; and
he will—believe you me—he (really, that’s me), will never be forgotten and will
hold a great place in American and world history. Then—in the shrine that will
get built—you’ll all get to hold dear the names of heroes and martyrs like: The noble Klansmen and
segregationists—Thomas Edwin Blanton Jr., Herman Frank Cash, Robert Edward
Chambliss, and Bobby Frank Cherry, who showed their courage and conviction at
the African American 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, Alabama, and the
Mississippi Burning heroic action that got rid of three leftie Eastern
activists back in June, 1964. You gotta laugh when you learn that it was actual
Neshoba County Mississippi cops who did us that favor. It was during the
so-called. They disposed of the traitor to his kind, James Chaney, from up
around Meridian, Mississippi, Andrew Goodman—sounds like a Jew—and Michael
“Mickey” Schwerner—a radical Jew, of course—from New York City—of course. Let
the names of those invaders of the true South be forgotten, the White Knights
of the Ku Klux Klan be emblazoned in your hearts, brothers.
“They are: Cecil Price, Samuel Bowers, Alton Wayne
Roberts, Jimmy Snowden, Billy Wayne Posey, Horace Barnette, Jimmy Aldredge, and
Edgar Ray Killen. They all went through Kangaroo trials held in secret by Jew
lawyers and African-American judges—every one of them. You won’t read that in
the news, and all the records about them have mysteriously “disappeared.”
“Our people have been at the work for a long time. I’ll
give you some history; you can forget trying to Google this; the dark side left
has already expunged the records. Try to remember these heroes: the Armed
Resistance Unit who carried off the audacious bombings of the U.S. Senate
Building, three military installations around D.C., and four enemy sites in New
York City. Their names were Marilyn Jean Buck, Linda Sue Evans, Susan
Rosenberg, Timothy Blunk, Alan Berkman, and Elizabeth Ann Duke—all good real American
names. I checked all of them out. I have my sources; trust me. And there was
Paul Hasson from Maryland. He was a true White Nationalist Coast Guard
lieutenant who got fed up with all the commies, Jews, Papists, and atheists,
who run the country. In February, 2019, he carefully planned of plotting
targeted assassinations of high-ranked liberal—or do we have to call them
progressives now?—Holly Weird, and fake news alt-left, antifa, ideology of
death, celebs. Brother Paul had some well-chosen,
medium and high value targets. He had the arms and even biological weapons he
got from brothers in the CIA secret biological labs. Some commie ratted him out
on trumped up (no pun-intended, haha) weapons and drug possession before he
could get his great work done. So, of course, his contribution to American
history has been tucked away in some so-called “classified” archive in Langley.
“I would wish that you could have a little shrine place
in the sanctity of your White Christian homes to honor Gordon Kahl, a Posse
Comitatus brother, who killed two federal marshals who were illegally hounding
him. Then, they murdered him. Include in your sacred shrine Eric Rudolph who
executed a series of daring attacks back in the late nineties (ancient history,
right?). He did the 1996 Centennial Olympic Park bombing—which killed two, and
injured 111. You could ask why? Why the Games? I’ll tell you. It was to cancel
the games, because they promote global socialism and communism. He knew he
would embarrass the U.S. government and get us out of the foreign involvement
business. The man was a prolific hero. He bombed an abortion clinic in Sandy
Springs, Atlanta, the Otherside Lounge—dirty name—an Atlanta lesbian bar, in
1997, and an abortion clinic in Birmingham. The man was a hero, but I bet you
can’t remember him. When I am finished, people will flock to the All American,
All White, All Christian schools and libraries to learn about Brother Eric and
the rest.
“I’m coming; and when I come, the landscape will
change. It will be America for Americans—real White heterosexual Americans, and
an America where our White Children are safe from integration, stupid leftist
ideas, and the enemies of the real America. Did I say it would be easy? Oh, no
sir. I did not. I will start the way, show the way, and lead the way. My name
will be written in the hymnals of the real Christian religion, and there won’t
be any other foreign religions left in the country.
“Be afraid. I’m coming. Know that I am the Lord of the
Earth, Beelzebub, and I am Magnificent. You won’t know when or where; but you
will remember when I do. And you will love the new America I bring—unless you
happen not to be the White, Christian, Protestant, conservative, flag-loving
(Confederate and U.S. only), and have the right thoughts, hahaha.”
Signed:
Beelzebub, The Magnificent
“Hahaha.”
Neurosurgeon
turned Author who writes with Gripping Realism
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