Want to read a great, fictional story about what Americans should do if the communists take over and strip Americans of their freedom and liberty? Then read here!
genzconservative.com
May 3, 2021
To Live Without Freedom and Liberty Is a Sort of Death
Editor’s Note: This is a fictional story, like “they called themselves free born Americans,” but illuminates well the direction that America is heading. Enjoy!
America had long ago
slipped into the dark night of tyranny. She had failed to heed the warnings offered by many of our ancestors, between the years of 1979 and 2028, when Americans finally arose to fight a bloody civil war, that ended with the defeat of those who stood for liberty. And so, the country had soon found itself under the “Protectorate” of the sadistic Chinese Communists and the United Nations, whose leadership had been found more than willing to go along with the push into the new world hegemon, if it meant sharing in the spoils of all that followed.
By 2076, the American people were suffering unimaginable cruelties, as millions of people were sent to the camps for political prisoners that now scattered the countryside, from one coast to the other, on the outskirts of every major city in what was once known as “the United States”. Not many referred to the “United States” anymore, after it had become so apparent that it was anything but “united” and so many of its people had fully embraced the ideas of Marx and Mao, while so many others contented themselves in engaging in activities of no worth, as the nation drifted along to its demise. Instead, the long active, still standing resistance always spoke of “Free America”, while to the vile and evil forces who now occupied nearly the entire country, America was now known to the world as Xindalu, roughly translated as “New World”.
Axl had grown to manhood often marveling at the drive and hard-fought freedom his grandfather and father managed to protect, to some degree, in the face of constant assaults and weekly and sometimes daily firefights in the Basin of Middle Tennessee, where the people had successfully managed to secure the area against the foreign invaders and their willing amerikkan allies, the traitors.
Other such areas that sprang up in similar fashion, included the entire states of Idaho, Wyoming and South Dakota, Southeastern Colorado and the Oklahoma Panhandle, and areas like the Summersville Dam area between Summersville and Levasy, West Virginia, and parts of Arizona and Texas and most of Alaska, as well as several scores more.
Drifting into a daydream, as he momentarily stopped chopping wood, Axl looked back on his childhood, sitting on GranPa Grover’s knee, while GranPa spoke to those nearby and explained how their current misery at the hands of the world’s fascists and communists were the result of the previous generations of America forgetting God, even turning their backs on God, in favor of immoral pursuits and the much ballyhooed “
Free Entitlements” offered by the Marxists and Maoists. This had opened the door to every kind of evil imaginable, and each time cracks appeared obvious in the “perfection of Marxism”, the Ministry of Truth’s Cultural Control Commission rapidly struck down any voice that dared to speak of it or challenge the tyranny that had replaced a government of the people and self-determination, many terrible and sad decades ago.
The beginnings of this ongoing civil war were such that it had kept nukes of any type from being detonated, although the Democratic Party Communists in control of the military had suggested using tactical neutron bombs on certain regions; but then, someone got the bright idea of calling in “U.N. Peacekeepers”, who then turned to China for the bulk of its “peacekeepers” …..
“And there it was. Here we are”, Axl said out loud to no one in particular, since there wasn’t anybody for miles around, not out this far where he’d set up an outpost and a farm of sorts, that he enjoyed calling “Axl’s Freehold”.
Axl had been fortunate to have had parents, whose own folks and relatives had been deep in the many years long fights to rid the country of its invaders, and it had made him want to do all he could to gather more recruits to the effort and build an army of men, who were willing to kill for freedom and liberty, every bit as much as they were willing to die for America. And even now, as he thought of how easily the largest part of the country had fallen to the communists and One Worlders, he shivered in his anger, as he saw these radical, red communist bastards as the enemies of Liberty and Humanity and Justice and Truth. He knew America’s occupiers to be the Handmaidens, the Manservants, to the cruelest Evils his country and his people had ever seen.
Ambling on to the rough-hewn rustic cabin he had built with his own two hands, he didn’t think much that day of any impending danger. Oh sure, there were the occasional incursions by the hard-core True Believers who would come charging in on a Ministry operation to see how many more Free Born Americans they could kill. But technically, they had an ongoing “peace” and this area was largely seen as a “free autonomous region”; and still to this day, the “peacekeepers” were supposedly still bound by
U.S. Constitutional law, which meant any incursion required a search warrant. Today would be different.
The dawning of the day saw sunlight shining through the arbor window and warming the hardwood floors, where Mudflap, the house cat, napped and where Axl studied a painting he’d been working on. He turned to smile at his wife, Maggie, as she approached him and they embraced and kissed.
“You better not have paint on those hands, Big Boy!”, Maggie playfully warned, kissing him again and moving away to do her chores, as he gave her bottom a bit of a squeeze.
Deciding he’d dallied about the house for too long already, Axl thought to go set some traps and then head down to the nearby river to catch enough fish, hopefully for lunch and dinner, for today and maybe tomorrow, too, and he headed to retrieve his gear. If he hadn’t been thinking so hard on what needed to be done to prepare for the meeting of the local resistance that evening, he may have paid more attention to Sweet Mutt, a half pit half coonhound mix, who normally just laid around all day; but now, Mutt moved from his spot near the fireplace, barking and looking out the multi-paned door that led into the backyard, literally the back forty acres.
Sweet Mutt’s barking was most usually due to some squirrel gather food within eyesight of the backdoor, at least ninety percent of the time, or some other equally harmless annoyance. But his tone today finally got Axl’s attention, especially when it changed to a low guttural growl. So telling Mutt to stay, he grabbed his shotgun and headed towards the barn where Sweet Mutt had been intently gazing, his senses on full alert, standing next to the barn for a few minutes, before deciding nothing was out of sorts.
He turned to head back to the cabin, taking about five steps before he heard the crackle of leaves and twigs behind him and was knocked out cold, as something hard and solid hit him in the back of his head. “Stupid, stupid, stupid” he thought as time seemed to stop, with him falling through thin air grasping for anything to stop a hard impact with the ground, and he heard the voice of Elvis softly singing:
“We’re caught in a trap … I can’t walk out … because I love You too much Baby …”
Axl awakened some time later in his own living room, to the sound of Sweet Mutt barking and growling from inside a nearby coatroom, his hands, and feet bound with zip ties and his head pounding like a big kettle drum on the 4th of July, giving thanks they hadn’t simply killed his dog. Seven black-clad thugs from the United Nations Firearms Confiscation Bureau [UNFCB] stood staring at him, with their faces hidden behind balaclavas and sunglasses, holding their QBZ-191 assault rifles — the same standard 5.8x42mm with an effective range of 400 yards that they’d been using since 2021, capable of firing 750 rounds per minute. They were the new enforcers for the Communist People’s Republic of Xindalu, largely comprised of foreign private military contractors from Europe supported by a large contingent of Chinese military “advisors”, who had pretty much abandoned all pretense of being “peacekeepers” in the earliest years of the Times of Trouble.
The UNFCB’s motto said it all: “A Friendlier, United, DISARMED America”.
Through split lips and a few loose teeth, Axl demanded to know where his wife was, which got him another hard crack to his jaw from a short wooden club. One of the foreign thugs leaned in close to his face and shouted, “Tell us where your group’s unauthorized radio site is located, asshole”, as he flexed and unflexed his right hand, preparing to deliver more abuse.
“Show me your warrant, you rat bastard sonuvabitch”, came Axl’s reply and the huge smile that followed. He knew they didn’t have one, but such demands always served to remind them that they were occupiers without any real popular support.
After all the ensuing failures over the decades under their control, even their initial allies in America’s own communist and socialist ranks had soon become highly disillusioned with what was actually unfolding in the name of Marx, Mao and an all consuming Communist regime, that abandoned all semblance of truth and with it any chance for real justice for anybody; it was a regime that destroyed love and compassion wherever it was found and never exhibited any human kindness or mercy for anyone.
In Xindalu’s occupied land, it was “legal” to own slaves, and sex slavery had grown into a massive and lucrative business. It was also legal to murder a slave for any reason. All women were treated like chattel and baby murder was a regular occurrence, especially when those babies were female, since the goal was always to strive to reduce the country’s overall population, and in theory, to reduce the world population to a mere 500 million people. And for this reason, the Western and Judeo-Christian principles and virtues that once flourished openly across America were the targets of systematic eradication, and being thought to be a Christian always marked one for death, in just as cruel a manner as took place during the era of Christianity’s earliest martyrs — thousands of bodies each year appeared along the roadsides hanging from inverted crosses.
Upon witnessing the upside down crucifixions, one old man was heard reciting the following to all who would listen:
“Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Window shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?”
One of the black-clad PMCs came into the room with Maggie, hands bound behind her and a gag in her mouth, still kicking and screaming through the gag with the fierceness of a wounded panther. “Get your hands off me, you commie bastard” came her muffled words.
God how Axl loved her right at that moment, as saw what a strong woman he had married. It made him smile again, this time with al the warmth and love that he held for Maggie. And, as one of the PMC cowards made her scream with pain from having her hair pulled back quick and hard, Axl jerked against his ties as hard as he could, wishing to be free so he could bite the bastard’s neck in half and watch him bleed out, but once again, his efforts brought him another good clubbing.
The one in charge told Axl, “I’ll ask one more time and then we’re all going to take turns with your wife”, which brought forth a gleeful, raucous laughter from the group of deadly agents, reminiscent of a pack of hyenas. Maggie’s eyes narrowed down into two hot glowing embers filled with a venomous hatred that Axl had never seen in her.
Across the way from Axl’s little homestead, some twenty miles, at his nearest neighbor’s spread, another similar situation was unfolding.
Eighty-seven year old Sergeant Major H.C. Donlon, retired U.S. Army and Medal of Honor recipient, sat on his back porch, drinking coffee and looking at old family pictures, especially those of his wife, Libby, who had been dead these past ten years. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he looked at her grave in the backyard, now marked by a large boulder he’d painstakingly rolled to that spot and chiseled her name, along with the sentiment “loved and cherished forever”. His dog, Bowser, a wolfhound mastiff cross-breed, had been his only companion all these years, and as he took in the group of rolling thunderheads from the east, he saw the rapidly approaching blacked out suburban heading his way, and with a crystal clear clarity, he knew danger was coming with it.
Bowser started barking and growling like he was on a bear hunt, and so, following his usual procedure for whenever he had the rare visitor, he quickly put Bowser in his bedroom and closed the door. H.C. donned his Iraq War Veteran cap exhibiting his rank and a Combat Infantryman’s Badge displayed and went back outside to see just what would be, taking time to untangle his American Flag from around the pole.
Before he could turn around, H.C. heard the much familiar sound of a command booming from a loudspeaker. The anonymous voice ordered, “Put your hands on top of your head and slowly turn around to face us.” He hesitated just a moment too long, as he studied how he wanted to play this confrontation out, and the voice immediately screamed, “Hands on top of your head NOW!”
H.C. slowly turned and let his enemies see the smirk and disdainful look on his face, for to be sure, he had always known these UNFCB boys as “the Enemy”, target practice and rabid vermin to be put in the ground, tout de suite. He had to admit his surprise at seeing a man wearing no identifying patches in multi-cam camouflage and body armor with a snazzy high-tech assault rifle moving his way.
“I never would have dreamed I’d be such a scary thing for boys like Y’all, all fitted up to storm the Reichstag. Who could have known that an arthritic old man was such a threat to national security”, H.C. asked as the rest of the group gathered nearby.
“Are you armed, sir?”, came the question as they gruffly began to search his person. “Not this very moment” came H.C.’s response. “You can lower your hands now” he was told.
“What do you want?, H.C. asked fairly impatiently.
Pretty soon he knew he was just about to be deep in the mix, that point between life and death, where the slightest miscalculation would mean the difference between seeing the moon rise this evening and the sunrise tomorrow.
The UNFCB Commander asked about contraband and weapons in the house, as he explained that the area surrounding H.C.’s home harbored an armed insurrectionist group that also was operating an unauthorized radio broadcast site, and as such, they were going to have to search his entire property, just as they planned to search every home in the area, to flush any member from hiding.
It was also suggested that his Veteran status placed him under heightened suspicion, while the Commander also informed him that the American Flag was “a piece of capitalist, racist shit” and flying it was grounds to be arrested and taken to the “re-education” camps.
H.C. knew he had just been swept up in the latest crackdown on civilian ownership of firearms. He stalled for time, laughing in the Commander’s face, as he stood his ground and declared: “I’m eighty-seven years old, you crazy horse’s ass. If you think I’m part of some crazy resistance group, y’all are dumber than a bag of rocks.”
H.C.’s mind drifted back to years gone by, when he had stacked the dead carcasses of Chicom and Eurofascist trash all about him for as far as the eye could see, and he found himself longing for the feel of a BAR in his hands, so he could dispatch these self-made sonsabitches on their way to hell. He snapped alert, seeing a glint of light from the western crop of hills, just as one of the PMCs headed toward his front door, and he hollered out in his best command voice:
“Now wait just a damn minute here! I don’t give a good damn who you work for or what misguided authority you believe you are operating under, but you sure in the hell don’t have any right to barge into my home. Stop NOW and there won’t be any hard feelings.”
A split second later, a rifle butt was swung into H.C’s stomach, forcing him to one knee to vomit, and a flash later shots were ringing through the air dropping one PMC after the next, as angry and anguished cries of pain filled the space between shots. The exterior window to H.C.’s bedroom crashed outward, as Bowser entered the fray, in a mad fury, sensing his master was in danger and slashing at every throat he could reach, even after taking a slug in the side — one angry yelp and on he raced, bringing several to the ground from behind as they tried to run.
[Read remainder of story here:
To Live Without Freedom and Liberty Is a Sort of Death ]
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