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Title: Bio of James von Brunn
Source:
Elites TV
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Published: Jun 12, 2009
Author: Unknown
Post Date: 2009-06-12 07:23:12 by Turtle
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Views: 189
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In 1981 America’s future seemed dismal indeed. It seemed to me that IF the FED could be brought to center stage and exposed, the entire Illuminati structure would collapse. Enraged citizens would hang the International Bankers. America would resume its role as a bastion of Western Culture. To understand what I am about to relate, you should know a little about me. As with most of us, several key events shaped my character. They will give you a clue as to why a mid-Westerner, from an ethical, middle class American family; former Boy Scout, PT-Boat captain, Lt. USN-R; NYC film-producer, artist, and father of two sons, found himself on the steps of the FED on that bright, brisk December 7, 1981 morning wearing a London Fog raincoat to conceal his weapons, and with an camera-case slung over his shoulder. Character Shaper No. 1: Buddy B. was a loose cannon. He was ten and I was seven. I remember his tattered tennis shoes, Keds. His father had cut the toes out of them to accommodate Buddy’s growing feet. Those were depression years. Mason Elementary School had a dirt and sand playground, divided down the middle with a wrought-iron picket fence. Girls on one side, boys of the other. At recess Buddy would go on both sides raising hell, pushing people around, pulling the girls’ pigtails. He was bigger than everyone else. One day he went berserk running around the boys’ playground kicking and stomping on marbles the little kids were playing with. I went up to him and told him to stop it or else. The “else” was that he challenged me to meet him after school at the dueling grounds. He was a head taller than I and much heavier and stronger. All the kids had been alerted. We went down to the narrow, concrete alley, lined by rickety back-yard fences. This is nuts, I thought. Why didn’t he just admit he was wrong. You’re gonna get beat bad, Helen, told me. Everyone was patting Buddy on the back. Go get him Buddy. He was smiling, sure, cocky. He said whatdya want, fists or wrestling. I could feel my stomach tighten. Whatever you say. Wrestle, he said, I wanna strangle you to death. We grappled and rolled around. But he couldn’t hold me down and I couldn’t do anything with him. His face got beet red, he was screaming cuss words at me. Get him Buddy. Then he started punching. I was on my back, he on top. I could see his elbows were scraped and bleeding. He sat on my chest, grabbed my head and beat it into the concrete – again and again. Stop ! Helen screamed, far away, dimly. I went woozy and woke up on a couch at my house. Tears rolled down Buddy’s face. DON’t DIE, Don’t die, he pleaded. My nose was bleeding and my shirt was soaked in blood. I got up. I’m OK said I, weakly. But you were wrong to kick the marbles. I wuz, said Buddy B. Helen took Buddy’s hand and they departed. A pal of mine said, you sure showed him. MORAL: It’s better to be strong than right — unless you like dying. Crowds hate good guys. Character Shaper No. 2: My parents owned a cottage in a small vacation community on the Mississippi River at Chautauqua, Illinois.175-feet high, limestone bluffs, bare-faced, with grass- and- trees toupee, lined the east side of the river in both directions. A 2082; high Piasa Bird had been painted in different colored dyes by an ancient Illini Indian tribe, on one section of the bluff’s face. A railroad track curved in and out along their base connecting Alton, Ill. with Chautauqua and other small villages to the north. The train locomotive was a coal-eater guided by a friendly engineer, sure of his worth. In those days steamboats puffed and wheezed up and down the river. Occasionally the pilot would blow the boat’s deep bass whistle to say hello to the spectators. The sound echoed and reechoed over the landscape. Junior Frye — 12 years old and worldly wise — worked in his father’s auto-repair shop. He invited me and my pal Wacky Schultz, a plump, round-faced kid, to make a climb to Buzzards Cave. It was an honor to be invited by Jr. The cave entrance was about 100 feet above the railroad tracks, a round black hole punched into the face of the bluffs. We began the climb at an easy access about one-quarter mile south of the cave. It was a hot July day. The foliage was brown and dry. We sweated like dogs, panting up the rock-strewn trail. We reached the woods on top, where Jr. found a goat trail he was looking for. We followed it to the edge of the bluff where it dipped over the rim. There, leaning over the edge, we could see the sheer face of the bluff drop straight down to the rails glinting in the sun far below . Willows embedded in moist soil lined the river and dipped gracefully into it. A great area for hunting snakes. Upstream we could see the confluence of the Illinois River, and the fertile fields turning violet then pale blue as they rolled toward the horizon. Jr. stuffed his gunny-sack under his belt. He also had a Boy Scout flashlight clipped to his belt. In case the bats attack, he said. I looked down the sheer wall again. Wacky said, Are you sure you want to do this? Sure thing, let’s go — or be labeled gutless cowards forever. So over the rim we went. Slowly. We were on a ledge about 15 inches wide, about twenty feet from the cave. Jr. led, then I in the middle followed by Wacky. Faces to the bluff, we sidled along the ledge which was covered with loose shale. Between my skinny legs I could see the rails shimmering in the heat. I felt for a grip on the hot sedimentary rock. A piece of it came away in my hand, causing a miniature landslide. I could hear the shale bouncing below. Junior Frye said, Watch your step here. The trail narrowed. I came to a section of ledge that had completely eroded away. I was feeling a little sick. I forced myself to step across the open space almost freezing with fright. A few more steps and I crawled over the lip of the cave into the interior. Bats hung from the walls and ceiling. They fluttered about our heads then flitted into the sunlight. The floor was covered with guano. Jr. retreated into the darkness of the cave. He returned with a human skull, which he proudly displayed. Its perfect teeth grinned. It was yellow and had a tuft of black hair. Jr. carefully placed it in his sack. Didn’t think it would still be here, he said. I found it last time I was here but didn’t have any way to carry it back. We returned the way we came, scared all the way. When we got back on terra firma, we pretended the feat was a cinch. We were elated and proud. Later, University of Illinois anthropologists said the skull was that of an 18th C. Illini Indian. They suggested he had been fleeing Shawnees who, on the warpath, had vowed to kill the entire Illini nation. “Our” Indian had cowered in the cave and died there. MORAL: Things to be proud of often involve high risk. You can’t hide from death. It always finds you. Character Shaper No. 3: Red Lindow, a college team-mate of mine, telephoned me on Friday from Fort Leonard Wood, MO. I have two dates. I’ll pick you up at your house, 10:00am tomorrow. After trying everyway possible to escape the draft he had been inducted into the Army as a Private 1st Class. He made the barracks football team — loaded with pro-players — as half-back; Red was a tough dude, and smart. He knew more about history than the History Prof. He said wars are all about money. I was red, white and blue, and gung-ho stupid. Red arrived, wearing khaki, in a new Olds convertible, top down. Two pretty girls from Mary Mount College jumped out to greet me. Take your pick says Red. He got into the back seat with one. I drove. Anything for a I pal. It was a beautiful warm May day. Fresh green buds, azure blue sky. Hair flying in the wind with the radio blaring, we sped toward Chautauqua. Lots of laughter. Loads of smooching in the back seat. Suddenly, on a straightaway the brakes locked, tires screamed, we were tossed forward, the car swerved, I pulled it to the side of the road. The rear wheels were smoking. I backed the car up, the brakes unlocked, then slowly we proceeded forward for a few miles. They locked again. I repeated the process. We neared Alton, built on steep hills, limping finally into Frye’s Auto Repair. To my amazement, Mr. Frye was now a bent-over old man. He wore the same grease-stained ochre-colored overalls. His helper was a kid with a harelip. His son, Junior, my “Indian-skull” pal, was in uniform overseas (later he was killed ). Mr. Frye removed the Olds’ back wheels and emptied out the powdered brake shoes. He said the front brakes’ll be good enough. Don’t drive fast. Drive careful. He said, no charge. Hev a goot trip. I said, Too bad about your new buggy, Red. Not mine, he replied. My commanding officer asked me to drive it back; give it to his dad Sunday eve. Whoa ! After a nice day at Chautauqua, chasing but no catch, we headed home. Top up. Gale, thunder and rain. Blackness closed in. Visibility zilch. We headed down a bumpy country road toward a T. I applied the brakes. They wouldn’t grab. We kept rolling toward destiny at 30 mph, radio playing. I decided not to try to turn, possibly capsize. Hold tight ! We plunged over an five-foot embankment into a muddy fallow field where I once hunted rabbits. The car came to rest on its side, radio still playing dance tunes in the blackness. We climbed out through the top. Girls sobbing. No one injured. Nearby farmhouse took us in. Phoned a frat buddy who picked us up. We delivered the girls to their dorm. Lindow rode an a.m. Greyhound back to the barracks. Sunday I drove back to check the car and have it towed to Frye’s. No need. During the night locals stripped the new Olds down to its axles. Everything salvageable was gone — including the engine. There was nothing left but a melancholy skeleton glistening dully in the rain and mud. There will be hell to pay for this, thought I. Monday I visited Mr. Blick, father of Lindow’s commanding officer. His ranch-house, approached by a winding tree-lined driveway, nestled among flowering shrubs and trees. Somewhat like a cemetery, I thought. Mr. Blick, wearing a prayer shawl and yarmulke, greeted me at the door. He was squat, with heavy eyelids and kinky graying hair. I judged him to be in his early fifties. He maintained a stern visage. I introduced myself. He breathed hard, there was no handshake. He gestured for me to follow him into the living room, dimly lit by a menorah with candles. Sunlight seeped beneath the window blinds. He motioned me to sit down while he remained standing. He said, I expect full restitution for my son’s car. I told him about the brakes. I commiserated with him about the damage, and assured him his insurance would reimburse the loss. He insisted that Lindow must pay; the car had not been returned Sunday as promised; because I had not been given permission to drive, ergo, the insurance policy was negated etc. Therefore, he intoned, I insist that you replace the wrecked Oldsmobile immediately! But sir, I protested, the car was defective; your son authorized use of his car. Blick said coldly, I will sue your ass for theft and robbery. OK, we’ll counter-sue for attempted murder. Everyone could have been killed. Blick made a weird gesture, writing in the air with his finger. You’re a Nazi. Get out. Get out. The Jew community was small and close-knit. The word got around that I was a Nazi. On campus Jew acquaintances averted their eyes when we met. When they gathered on the quad, they would stop talking and stare at me. It was the custom for each frat and sorority to invite the presidents of their counterparts to dances. I got none from the Jews. Instead, I got stabbed in the back. I bled. The Hatchet, our yearbook, was in production. Seniors were to provide captions, listing their collegiate activities, to accompany their photographs. The deadline was 5pm Friday afternoon. I had ample time. Before going to the Hatchet office I stopped by the blood bank, located in the library, where I regularly contributed. Mounted on the granite walls outside the library, names of students in the Service were posted behind glass-faced bulletin boards. Though early in the war, gold stars for KIA and blue stars for MIA appeared frequently beside the names. One, Bill Baker, frat brother, BB team third-baseman, Army Air Corps, lost an arm, survived the Bataan Death March only to die in Japan. After giving blood I got up from the cot — and passed out. In the blur I saw two beautiful nurses kneeling beside me. I was on my back. I said, I’ve got an appointment. I got to my feet and fainted a second time. It was humiliating. They refused to allow me to leave. Finally, I managed to escape, but when I got to the Hatchet office the door was locked. I knocked. A girl’s voice said, You missed the deadline. Remonstrance. It’s your fault not mine. What is the publisher/printer’s address? I’m busy, ask Bob. The girl was officious. I knew the Editor well, Bob Stolz. We were long-time friends. I went to his frat and left a message. No one knew the printer’s name. Over the weekend I attempted to reach Stolz at his home, no answer. He had sealed himself off from distractions like me. So I thought to hell with it. Later, I received a copy of The Hatchet. I was aghast. This was the first horrendous blow to my character that I ever encountered. My initial reaction stemmed from hurt pride. Why did this creep hate me so much? I never even considered — at first — that anyone who knew me would believe I had written the phony caption. It was clever, listing many activities I had engaged in but including exaggerations and lies. I called Stoltz. He said they had handled my caption the way they handled all the others. I asked him to send me the caption copy. He said it had been destroyed. I was branded. I asked the Dean of Men what I should do. He said, I will see what I can do. He never got back to me. Meanwhile, the student body was being ripped apart by drafts and enlistments. I was soon called into the Navy V-7 Program. In the maelstrom of the war the Hatchet fiasco was forgotten. It was only after the war that the true significance of the slander hit me. My friends told me to forget it. But it has eaten at me all my life. I never knew how to handle it. Then, one day, many years later… in my mind, searching, I connected Blick to the Hatchet incident. Blick’s youngest son also attended the University. But I will never know for certain. Moral: Slander cannot be fought legally. Unlike libel, slander attacks unseen, viciously with whispers — very like a sniper’s bullet. Character Shaper No. 4: A Division of PT-Boats patrolled 5 miles off Genoa, 1944. It was a calm moonlit Mediterranean night, the sea breathed gently, phosphorous glinted in the boats’ wakes. The radar picked up a small blip about 3 miles from shore. Our Division Leader had to decide whether such a small target was worth disclosing our position to the shore batteries. We were hunting bigger game. But it was near first light and hunting had not been good, so he gave the command to attack. The three PTs tooled slowly in file using only the muffled wing engines. At about 300 yards we could see the target clearly silhouetted in the moon trail. Too shallow draft to torpedo. We could hear music and laughter. We turned broadside and opened fire with .50 cal, 40 mm, and 20s. The night was shattered with the blast, tracers arced through the night smashing into the target in a shower of sparks, ricocheting like red, yellow and green hornets into the night. Just as quickly we ceased fire. Our boat was ordered to investigate. The enemy craft was 4082; x 1582; with low freeboard, a nice cabin, and an open deck under a tarpaulin awning. No armament. There was blood everywhere. The occupants had thrown themselves overboard. Apparently, they had embarked on a pleasure cruise with lady friends, venturing too far from shore. We recovered a log, a few papers, and souvenirs including a Nazi flag (the flag was destroyed finally when my house was torched in 1977). We came about quickly and headed full-throttle toward base, thankful the shore 88s hadn’t opened up on us, and we hadn’t hit a mine. Then a strange series of events followed. I rarely relate what happened because it sounds contrived. But here it is. A doctor, Lt. Rosen (?), had been given permission to observe, as a passenger, a PT operation. He was a sallow-faced fellow, uncomfortable among us “red-necks.” On the way back to base, a crewman reported to the bridge, Mr. von Brunn, there’s a wounded German on the fantail. Somehow this badly wounded sailor had managed to climb the muffler stacks, up 582; of freeboard to the deck. We carried him to the day-room. He was in severe pain and shock. Gut shot and dying. His eyes wild like a cornered animal. He spoke broken English. He wanted to know how badly he was wounded. We removed his soaked, bloody uniform and toweled him off. Dr. Rosen bent over the boy to administer a shot of morphine. The German — he was about 18 yrs old — cried out no, no Jew, Jew ! Rosen turned white as a sheet. Our cook, the “medic,” administered morphine. I held the kid’s hand, looked into his eyes. My people are Germans, too, I told him. He seemed to relax. I had to get back to the bridge. Cookie told me later that the boy fell asleep and never woke up. When we got back to base, the boy’s rosary, his watch, even the buttons on his uniform were missing. Bastia, our base, had been occupied by German troops escaping N. Africa. They were liked by the Corsicans. Conversely, Americans were hated because we had air-bombed Bastia to prevent Germans from escaping to the mainland. It was a legitimate target. Several bombed-out German transports lay partially submerged in the harbor. The stench of corpses wafted ashore, reminding the Corsicans daily how much they hated us. The Corsicans, Catholics, asked permission to give the German sailor a High Mass and funeral. American Brass said OK. Great PR. The funeral was a demonstration of affection and protest, permeated with intense hate. Every Bastian who could walk attended the rites. The men wore their best clothes, and fedoras. The sad-faced women wore black. The church was a sturdy stone edifice with shattered windows and a belfry. Beginning at dawn, the bell tolled its mournful message, echoing across the crags and valleys. Swallows sailed across the sky. Americans were not allowed to participate or attend the church service. We stood in the courtyard. A group of French Commandos watched quietly (later their entire battalion, save one, was killed raiding Elba). We watched as the pallbearers carried the casket from the church. It was draped with a white sheet, a Crucifix lying on top, no German emblems allowed. I noticed the draped sheet had been pulled up at one corner. The casket was a wooden crate. Between the interstices one could see the German’s uniform. Women sobbed. The children were quiet, solemn faced. The bier was loaded onto a cart pulled by a gray mule. Men removed their hats or saluted as the cart bumped and creaked its way to the cemetery. Dr. Rosen took photographs. Later, I learned the German sailor had been stationed in Bastia before his unit was sent to Genoa. On Sundays he sometimes performed as church organist. That evening,Philips, a seaman on our boat, visited a local vino joint. He was stabbed to death, the killer never caught. Phillips, as had the German boat, strayed too far from home. Moral: Life and Death are opposite sides of the same coin. Fate flips the coin. Character Shaper No. 5: When the Esso tanker carrying our PTs slipped past the Statue of Liberty to join the convoy, I looked at the skyline of Manhattan and vowed to return after the war. I had gotten to know her as a plebe at Columbia University’s V-7 Program. The greatest Aryan city in American. When I returned after the war, New York had become the largest Jew city in the World. EVERYTHING had changed. The streets were unclean. Taxi drivers were officious. Cigar smoke dominated the fine restaurants, vulgar talk. Ugliness. Rudeness, push and shove, Prestigious chairmanships of the Metropolitan Opera, Metropolitan Museum of Art, Carnegie Hall, for example, were held by Jews. Almost all art galleries were Jew-owned. Newspapers, publishing, tin-pan alley . . . you know the story. The Herald Tribune, an Aryan newspaper, was put out of business because JEWS wouldn’t advertise in it. The city was bursting with “gassed” JEWS . It took 3 weeks to find an apartment. One day I was walking across 57th ST. at Madison Avenue and the light changed to yellow as I was midway. A car jumped the light, shot up to me, slamming on his brakes. He yelled, Get the fuuuck outta my way, asshole. I dented his car hood with my fist. Motherfucker, he screamed, pointing to the far corner of the street — I’ll see you over there, there, there — he pointed to the far corner. He was a young JEW. He found a parking spot and I went over to him. OK, foul mouth said I — get out. He said fuck you, rolled up his window and took off. This was 1948. The “Holocaust” was breaking news. I lived in an old 4-floor walk-up brownstone. $35 per month rent. Shared the bathroom with a pretty ballerina. My landlady was a nice 65-yr old Polish lady. When the news of Katyn hit the fan she chilled off toward me. Finally she used some lame excuse about needing to re-hab my room. Her son, about 35, apologized. It’s about Katyn. She won’t deal with you. Why, for heaven’s sake ? You’re German. So I moved across the street. I got a job at BBDO ad agency as a copywriter. Initially, we apprentices, Ivy Leaguers in Brooks Bros. Suits, except for me, were given interim spots in the mail room, or Production Dept. until a copy spot opened up. Those that couldn’t write were made account execs. I didn’t like waiting. I showed the brass my art samples. They put me on the paste-up bench, assuring me an Asst. A/D job was percolating. One lucky day, returning from a JEW deli during lunch-break, I entered the elevator to return to my cubby-hole. A guy my age — I had seen him around the agency — stood beside me. He asked, what d’ya have in the brown-bag, a JEW baby ? What, said I, are you trying to be funny ? You know what I mean — Nazis. With that I punched him in the jaw just as the elevator doors opened onto the Executive Floor. He spun across the lobby, hit the wall dislocating his shoulder. I remember that the execs were expressionless. The doors closed and I continued going up. Two days later I was called in to McNulty’s Office. He said, we have an Asst. Art Director’s job for you. It turned out the guy I hit had assumed blame for the incident. He was a Brit. A former bomber pilot. He returned to England. I’ll always be grateful to him. Suddenly I was earning $150 per week. Then bad news arrived in the form of one Berkley Ding, an art rep for Chaire Studios. Ding invited me to lunch from time to time. Occasionally we played tennis at a private roof-top club inhabited by tanned, well-manicured, JEWS. Marilyn Monroe had just married Arthur Miller, the playwright, and Sandy Koufax had just pitched a no-hitter. Ecstasy gripped the members. You could feel it and see it. Ding asked me what I thought of the marriage. I laughed, She’s bedding down with everyone else, why not Miller. I could have said every JEW in town, but in those days the word JEW was unmentionable. I was naïve. I know now Ding was a member of the Tribe. At the agency I designed several full-page black and white newspaper ads that required an artist to paint infant heads. Chaire had a top-notch staff artist who was assigned the job. His art work was then Veloxed to provide a print with half-tone dots, to make a line plate. The agency production dept. suggested that the Velox be retouched to enhance the highlights and darken the darks. To save back-and-forth time, I did the retouching, an hour’s work, then returned it to Chaire where a mechanical assembly was made. The next day, all smiles, Ding delivered the finished job. We went to a deli and had a sandwich. Afterwards, on the street, he said Mr. Chaire wanted me to be compensated for doing the retouching. I politely refused. Come on, said Ding, why not? You earned it. He thrust a wad of bills into my hand. I said, for God’s sake, man, there’s over $500 here. I can’t accept that. He insisted. Listen Berk, said I, take this back or I’ll throw it down the sewer. Tell Chaire (who I learned later was a JEW) he shouldn’t pull crap like this. Ding was pale-faced. Later, Chaire spread the word that I had asked for a kick-back! On another occasion, I was producing commercials at Elliot-Unger-Elliot Film Production. Steve Elliott invited me into his office. He showed me an engraved invitation from the Kennedy White House to attend a soiree. He also showed me a photograph of his wife, a lovely blonde he found starving in Germany while he stalked the ruins after the war. Elliot was a prototypical JEW, stocky, swarthy, with beaucoup facial hair. He said, You know, Jim, things are never going to be the same. This is a new World. The top three film production studios in NYC were owned by JEWS, as were almost all auxiliary services: film processing, opticals, sound recording, editing, stock footage, etc. Offend one and you and your job got skewered. These film enterprises, established during or immediately following WWII, were poised for the introduction of TV to America. The supportive ads would be shot on film. The JEW owners, in their late thirties and early forties, managed to get financing for these lucrative enterprises while brain-washed Aryans were overseas fighting. Elliott lived with his German bride and child on his Connecticut estate. I lived in a 2-BR apartment. My name was a problem. At two different agencies, I sat in high-level executive sessions. The subject was ME. The Aryan execs politely suggested that I drop the “von” from my name. I politely refused. They explained it was un-American. For the first time I actually realized “things were never going to be the same.” My parents had explained that our name had about the same significance as O’Malley, MacArthur, or L’Enfant. It was just an old European name. My mid-western American parents were wrong. The execs were correct. “Von” doesn’t belong in a “democracy.” Jews detest it. German-Americans say I didn’t earn it. Others feel it’s presumptuous. I agree with them. But I was too ignorant to understand when I was younger. The Commodore Hotel on Madison Avenue displayed two of my fly-fishing paintings in the bar. Erik Sloane also exhibited there. He had a full window display devoted to his popular New England barn scenes. Quite by accident I met him in the Commodore bar. He told me to change my name (his real name was Heinrich). You’ll never make it with a German moniker in this town. Several years later, I was dining at the Beverly Hills Hotel. I was on a film assignment. An attractive lady and her 18-yr-old daughter were seated at a nearby table. They were Texans. They were charming. We struck up a conversation. I had played football against Tulsa. Faith was celebrating Trish’s graduation. They asked if I would like to show them around Hollywood. We taxied to Sunset Boulevard Strip. They wanted to see the Gay Nineties Club, so in we went. Luckily a table was available near the dance floor. Overhead a scantily clad beauty sailed back-and-forth on a garland-bedecked swing. A mustachioed barbershop quartet sang the old songs. The pianist, with a cigarette behind his ear, pounded the upright. We ordered steins of beer. My two ladies, full of vim and vigor, were swaying with the music. When the quartet departed the pianist began his repertoire of Gay-Nineties tunes. About a dozen people from the audience gathered around the piano. Trish joined them. It’s amazing, I said, that Trish knows the words to those old timers. Her dad taught her, Faith said. Killed in Korea. Marine. The group around the piano were waving their glasses, swaying back and forth, getting crocked, feeling good. As we watched, Trish let out a scream. The music stopped. A little guy behind Trish had put his hands on both of her breasts, and was bending her back. I ran up and jerked him aside. I told Trish to get back to the table. I turned to face this little creep and he slapped me across the face — hard. Two big dudes emerged from the group, grabbed me and hustled me off the stage. Trish was crying, her mother upset. She said they were leaving. She thanked me, kissed my cheek, and gave me her card, telling me to forget about the drunken clod. My face stung. I felt like a cowardly dog. The two big dudes grinned at me as they departed, with the little guy leading the way. I paid the check, put on my London Fog and followed them into the night. It was drizzling. The three men were about twenty yards ahead of me, in the parking lot, illuminated by overhead lights. I called out to them in an unfriendly manner. The two big guys, my size, came at me. About a yard apart. I got in two lucky punches. One of them lost his teeth. They were on the ground grabbing at my legs, groaning, cursing. Fortunately, the uniformed doorman arrived with help and pulled them off — thereby saving my life. I stood under the Gay Nineties canopy awaiting a cab. A Caddy drove up from the parking lot. It was the little guy driving. The two body guards were in the back seat mopping up. The little guy gave me his business card. He said, look me up. We kin use you. I examined the card later : XYZ Air-conditioning Company, Denver, Colo. Pres. Irving Kaplan. Wherever I went JEWS made their presence felt. In 1964 Gen. Pedro del Valle gave me John O. Beaty’s The Iron Curtain Over America. For the first time I learned how JEWS had destroyed Europe and were now destroying America. MORAL: Never, never, never trust a JEW. Heil Hitler. Character Shaper No. 6: July 11, 1968, my birthday. I had moved to the Eastern Shore of Maryland and started a marketing/advertising business. I was elected president of the Academy of the Arts. The day had been good. Cambridge Economic Development Commission had assigned me their account. Mitchner writes about Cambridge in Chesapeake. Founded by smugglers and oyster pirates, they settled down and became a prosperous fishing village. But pollution, over-fishing, avarice and local cupidity turned it into a dirt-poor town with little to commend it other than its beautiful location on the Choptank River — with easy access to the Bay. It had been a long albeit successful day, it was blistering hot, and there was a cool bar and grill on the Rte 50 speed-trap. The tables were packed with workers recovering from the afternoon shift. I found a stool at the bar, a dude to talk to, and watched the Yankee game. Suddenly, the TV was interrupted by “an Important Announcement.’ The voice-over excitedly reported that President Lyndon Johnson had nominated Abe Fortas, JEW, to Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. Johnson, a clod totally controlled by the Illuminati, had lied about the Tonkin Bay “torpedo attack” to embroil us in Viet Nam, ostensibly to halt the spread of Communism, yet his patrons were almost all Marxist/Liberal/Jews bankers. I commented to my next door neighbor that Fortas was a crook. Which he was. A huge fat guy at the end of the bar, with sharp ears, said I was a liar. He personally knew Fortas. I ignored him but continued anti-Fortas talk with the dude next to me. I noticed the fat guy in the mirror. He had gotten up from his stool and was approaching me from behind. He threw a punch. I ducked, it caught me on the shoulder. I got up and decked this guy who was screaming vile epithets. The bar emptied.at the end of the bar It turned out that Fat Man was the CEO of Western Printing Corp. They produce high-school and University yearbooks, and have printing plants in cheap labor markets scattered across the USA. The FATJEW was visiting his Cambridge facility. I had decked Daddy Warbucks. Solicitous patrons lifted him to his feet. His eyes were bulging. The bartender dusted him off. He departed. I never saw him again. Ever. Shortly thereafter two cops arrived. The bartender, Milty, talked earnestly with them — about me. They sized me up, then they left. Milty said to me, You better stick around here for a while. They’re parked outside. Let them cool off. Then you can go home. I continued watching the ball game. Milty gave me “one for the road.” Don’t worry, he said, it wasn’t your fault. When the game was over I said goodnight. I was drunk, but not reeling. I got into my car and headed for home. No sooner had I hit the highway than sirens and flashers came after me. At the police station they said I was arrested for DWI. I said that I wanted my attorney contacted. They said first you’re going to be booked. I had never been arrested before. I didn’t like the idea of giving them my fingerprints and being photographed. They insisted. It was hot. I was getting drunker. There were five cops and the Sheriff. They insisted. I refused. They grappled me up from the chair and slammed me face to the wall. When they pulled me around there was the Sheriff with his Polaroid. I hit the camera out of his hands. The cops were all over me with mace and clubs. They kicked me down the stairs, then locked me up. General del Valle testified in my behalf at the trial. He said far worse went on every night at the VFW. It was a healthy way to relax. Milty testified that it was all my fault. The cops said I had no reason to fracture the Sheriff’s jaw. I was convicted and sentenced to a year in jail. I lost my drivers license. Lost my presidency at the Academy. My family was mortified. I was humiliated and ashamed. I raked the leaves in the prison yard, worked on Judge Mace’s homestead. He regularly used State labor, and State materials to fill and maintain his driveway, paint his house, tend his garden and foliage. I developed a staph infection in my neck. The prison doctor recommended that I be released immediately. I served about 4 months. While at home, working on a color brochure for Frank Perdue I received a telephone call from Frankie Lew. He had occupied a cell next to mine in Cambridge. Frankie was a water man. His grip powerful as a steel trap, his hands gnarled, calloused, the fingers permanently bent from handling oyster tongs most of his life. He was about 35, his face scarred from barroom brawls where chains and pool cues were favorite weapons. He hated “nigras.” He told me he’d go to Ocean City and wait for a mixed couple to appear on the Boardwalk. He’d scoot up ahead of them, then u-turn. When he approached the nigra he’d jam a knife into the guys gut. The Negro wouldn’t feel it, kept walking till he collapsed. Frankie said he wanted to come up and see me. He had an “old friend” of mine with him. They arrived drunk. The friend turned out to be one of the cops who had arrested me. He was from Texas. He said he and his partner had been drinking in the back room of the bar the night I took center stage. The Sheriff ordered them to “get him no matter what.” They told Milty to spike my drink. That had never even occurred to me. Frankie yelled, You never told me that you sonofabitch. At that point Tex was sweating. He begged for a beer. I went to the kitchen. While retrieving the brew I heard screams from the study. I ran back to find Frankie had ripped off Tex’s shirt, was sitting on him, and was pulling globs of flesh from his torso. Tex’s face was smashed. Blood was all over the place. I called the Cambridge cops who picked them up. I never saw them again. I had arranged to leave Maryland. Later I learned that Milty was killed by a bolt of lightning while fishing on the Choptank. The Sheriff was fired because he regularly beat his wife, and Abe Fortas and his co-crook Wolfson were convicted of embezzlement and perjury. Wolfson did time, I don’t know what sentence was given Fortas. America lost the war in Viet Nam and Johnson resigned. MORAL: Beware of cops. They ain’t like they used to be. Character shaper N0. 7: The things that went on in the Cambridge jail would make a book. But I have no time for that. After being chased out of Maryland, I ended up as a real estate broker in Florida. In 1972 the FED raised the prime-rate — the money supply suddenly dried up. Jobs vanished. Banks discontinued their construction loans. Unfinished condos dotted the skyline. Builders formed hit squads and raided their own projects. Under cover of darkness they stole copper wire, plumbing, air-conditioning units, anything they could get away with. The banks countered with armed thugs. It required 6 years for the economy to recover. It so happened that I was due a commission for property I had listed. It was sold by another broker. The buyer agreed to pay the 75-grand commission. At settlement he reneged, saying he needed more time. The selling broker said OK. Meanwhile, I had scheduled to drive West to join Noontide Press. I knew that when I left Florida, chances of ever collecting were slim. I visited the reluctant buyer at the motel/night-club I had listed. He was behind the bar, serving a drink to three young men. He was Jew, 50-ish. I identified myself. Grinning, he said, too bad, the market’s bust, you’ll have to wait for your commission. Like 15-minutes, said I. This led to an argument. I was hustled out of the bar by his young friends, the Jew followed, shouting invectives. So I turned around and belted him. The friends just stared. They didn’t make a move. I walked out, feeling like a sitting duck. Two days later I was summoned by the selling broker and — surprise — paid my $25,000. commission. General del Valle and Josephine Beaty, widow of John Beaty, author of Iron Curtain over America (ICOA), recommended to Col. Dall that I be given a position with Noontide Press in California. Noontide publishes right-wing books and produced the monthly periodical American Mercury. Dall, FDR’s son-in-law, was the president of Liberty Lobby; Willis Carto was its founder, treasurer and shadow power-behind-the-scenes. Lavonne Furr owned Noontide Press. She and her husband had some kind of an arrangement with Carto. He always was present when business decisions were made. When I reported for work at Noontide, Josephine contacted me about publishing a paper-back edition of ICOA. She had tried to work with Carto, but found him devious. I put together a contract which she signed. I then presented it to Furr for her approval. She immediately called in Carto. Smiling, he took me to a storeroom where several thousand copies of a new paperback edition of ICOA stocked the shelves! The ink was barely dry. It was a nice job, but the copyright page was missing! Carto claimed that Dick Morrisson, an underground publisher with no address, had printed the new ICOA edition, and hired Noontide to distribute them. It turned out that this was Carto’s m.o. He and Morrisson used this maneuver to produce many purloined books. Morrisson never paid royalties to the authors, or to their estates. To bring suit is a costly venture. Beaty wasn’t up to it. However, I had a meeting with Carto and worked things out. This required that Carto paste copyright notices in each illegal book. Josephine got her royalties. Because Carto had lost all credibility, I gave Noontide 2 weeks written notice. Carto fired me on the spot. (To learn about Carto visit Kevin Strom’s web site and read Revilo Oliver’s letter www.kevin-strom.com). A few days later, I received a phone call from Josephine, advising me that Mrs. Florence Robnett would contact me. She did. We set up a meeting and rapid-fire events began to occur. She asked me to help her publish a paperback edition of her late husband’s book, Conquest Through Immigration, George Robnett’s chilling account of Israel’s dispossession of the Palestinians. Florence was 83-yrs old, but possessed a brilliant mind. She had been Dean of Women at Northwestern University. She was a fervent right-wing Aryan. She had no children. She and her married sister, who lived elsewhere, were poles apart politically. They rarely spoke. Florence was lonely. She met my wife and step-daughter, Linda. They got along famously. In time she invited us to move in with her in her pleasant Pasadena home. Linda, 14, attended Pasadena High. 60% black. Negro boys wanted to date her. To refuse was to be called a racist. One day she was accosted on the stairs by a huge Negress, who leveled a barrage of filthy language at her. Linda, 110-lbs, drove a fist into the garbage-bag’s gut and pushed her down the stairs. The principal told me it would be best for Linda to transfer. Meanwhile the new edition of Rob’s book, re-titled Zionist Rape of the Holy Land, came off the press. Because of the subject matter I encountered many difficulties and delays in producing the book. The packager, for example, hired by the printer, turned out to be a Jew. He wouldn’t release the books to me. I had to sic the police on him. Meanwhile, we all agreed to get out of Pasadena and move north. In 1976, I plunked down $ 10- grand for 10 acres, near Mt. Lassen, with a beautiful view of Mt. Shasta across the valley, and a clear flowing trout stream nearby. In 1977 we designed, built and moved into a beautiful ranch house, thanks to Florence Robnett. That same year my youngest son, Erik, entered this world. Florence loved holding him. I sent the first shipment of Rob’s book to a right-wing buyer. Meanwhile, I received anonymous threatening and vile phone calls. One claimed to be Meir Kahane. A group of Hassidic Jews lived near Redding. They gathered in the park at the base of Shasta Dam, seven or eight of them talking intently, gesturing, wearing black hats and beards. Florence and I would sometimes go there to watch the salmon fight upstream. Florence’s health continued to deteriorate. Her physician placed her in a nursing home. She was still sharp as a tack. We took the baby to visit with her. Then came the bad times: I enjoyed giving the baby his 1:30 am bottle. I looked out the bedroom window at the pasture. The ground fog was pink. I woke my wife, handing her baby Erik, and ran outside. Flames were coming through the roof vents. I telephoned 911, then stretched the garden hose into the attic. The hose squirted, then died as flames ate through the wiring. While Linda held the baby, Pat and I had time only to save a few clothes. We stood in the crisp air and watched. The entire house was ablaze. Flames swirled into the heavens. Our white quarter horse frantically dashed back and forth across the pasture. He reared screaming against a full moon. The fire trucks arrived too late, they had gotten lost. Neighbors watched spellbound, some weeping. Our grand piano plunged into the basement sounding a deep, bass chord. Ammunition popped. Then all was silent. We spent the night at a Redding motel. Next morning early I poked around the ruins, futilely attempting to find some family rings and brooches. The pilot wheel from my old PT was there, the grips burned off. A man arrived in a Chevy pickup. He introduced himself as a retired logger who lived about 3/4-mile away, in the valley. He said his boar-hounds awakened him, and he went outside to see if the maverick bear was nosing about. The logger said he quieted the dogs, then he heard a POP, like a flare gun up my way. He heard car doors slam, then tires squealing as a car raced down the blacktop. He and I combed the ridge overlooking the burnt ruins searching for signs but found nothing. Allstate Insurance adjusters said it was a defective fireplace. We had used the fireplace for the first time that night. Later that morning I reported the disaster to Florence. She had heard about it. She was kind and sympathetic as she held my hand. Within two days this great friend and patriot died. In addition to the tragic loss of Florence, we lost our library, phonograph records, sheet music, personal records and heirlooms from both families. My art samples, vital statistics, resumes and references from employers were lost. I had no documented past. Later, I followed the advice of friends not to mention the logger’s comments, lest they have an adverse affect on the insurance settlement. Yet I know the logger was telling the truth. Over my years of adversity, it became clear to me that a JEW strategy had emerged: “Kill the Best Gentiles !” The tactics were WAR & DEBT. My father’s generation struggled through the Great War “to end all wars” and the Great Depression. One of my uncles was forced to take in washing and iron laundry. A dear family friend stole from the market to keep his young family fed. One of my father’s boyhood pals shot himself, another attached a hose to the tailpipe of his auto and gassed himself. My Brit father-in-law, a Sandhurst grad, Oxford student and RFC officer, stole food from the A&P so his family could survive. I had earned decent wages in NYC but I was never financially secure. I was chased from one job to another for not genuflecting before God’s Chosen. When a Jew CEO deliberately farts in a business meeting, to express his contempt, I seem to react unfavorably. Furthermore, corporate and business practice was to replace employees about to reach stock-sharing eligibility. Because of the arson attack in California, we were afraid for the baby’s safety — and our own. We bought a house near Hanover, NH. I acquired a real estate broker’s shingle. I listed several commercial properties including a Holiday Inn, and some prime acreage. Again, money was tight. Brokers were folding their tents. I supplemented my income by free-lancing layouts for local advertisers and an ad agency there. I sold two oils at a Dartmouth exhibit; another was stolen. In the evening I used Dartmouth library to research the Federal Reserve System. I met a conservative professor of Economics and knew I was on to something after learning the FED was a private corporation. Unable to earn a living, I was now on the run. My wife, despairing of my unprofitable obsession, wanted to return to Maryland, which we had fled 10 years earlier. In Maryland I placed my R-E brokers license with Coldwell Banker, in Annapolis. Brokers in Maryland also were falling like autumn leaves. I set a record for listings, but interest rates discouraged buyers. Banks were foreclosing, repossessing valuable properties for a song. I attended a real-estate brokers’ meeting in D.C. Paul Volcker, FED Chairman, was keynote speaker. One of his memorable remarks to the large nervous audience was: “You guys are going to hate me because tomorrow I’m going to bankrupt you.” Sure enough, there followed a repeat of the Florida fiasco. Prime-rate was raised and America was plunged into an even deeper depression. “Kill the Best Gentiles !”
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#1. To: Turtle (#0)
Who cares about this prick. The world is better off with him DEAD. The world would have been better off if he was never born or had died much earlier.
The world is not as simple as you appear to think it is. Yes, James von Brunn verged on crazy. But he was also an artist, and as Ezra Pound commented, "The artist in the antenna of the human race." Von Brunn knew exactly what blacks and Jews are. Unfortunately, he became obsessed and it destroyed his life. Jews have been expelled over 100 times in a little less than 2000 years. Do you know why? Because of their cowardice, their thievery, their treason, their spying, and their attempts to destroy any culture stupid enough to admit them. Someday, they will be expelled from the U.S. General Grant already tried it during the War between the States. Von Brunn was a warning bell of what is to come.
I can tell, and it is rather obvious to anyone with a brain, that you have a hateful god, full of blood, smoke, and death as your savior.
http://www.samuelcraven.com/work/susan-boyle-is-isis/
Turtle... I would not agree with that view. By the way, concerning the tennis shoes. I have a photo of myself in 1930s, wearing regular ankle shoes with the toes cut out. Evidently they had been cut out for some time as my toes overhang the shoes..
Either that or I exaggerate a bit to see how you react.
You mean some more nuts are going to kill some innocent security guard somewhere at a museum?
So someone hates evil and that makes them bad. Go with your liberal friends and worship at the alter of murdered children. Ok clitoris.
#2. To: Old Friend (#1)
Who cares about this prick. The world is better off with him DEAD. The world would have been better off if he was never born or had died much earlier.
Dancing Turtles and Bouncing Boobs
...that's Turtle Island.
#3. To: Old Friend (#1)
The world is better off with him DEAD. The world would have been better off if he was never born or had died much earlier.
#4. To: Turtle (#2)
Von Brunn knew exactly what blacks and Jews are. Unfortunately, he became obsessed and it destroyed his life.
#5. To: Clitora (#3)
I can tell, and it is rather obvious to anyone with a brain, that you have a hateful god, full of blood, smoke, and death as your savior.
#6. To: Turtle (#2)
Von Brunn was a warning bell of what is to come.
#7. To: Clitora (#3)
I can tell, and it is rather obvious to anyone with a brain, that you have a hateful god, full of blood, smoke, and death as your savior.
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