Morgan Fairfax Johnston is twenty-eight years old, and too young to remember how the United Kingdom used to be before the planned invasion of Islamic hordes, courtesy of the European Union and United Nations, serving only the interest of IMF bankers. He knows what it was like, however, because his parents have told him about those better days, not really that long ago.

In London, where Morgan grew up, before the Second World War, there was a small number of racial outlanders. They were usually industrious people with unusual talents or special skills, who were able to support themselves more or less honorably. 

Even then, thoughtful British people knew that, from a long term genetic standpoint, it would be better if these outlanders were back home among their own racial kinsman, but there were so few of them in those days that it really didn’t really seem like that much of a threat. Some even thought that it gave an “exotic” flavor to certain parts of the city where these people lived, and plied their wares. 

United Kingdom Present

Today, in 2020, Britain is swarming with Islamic parasites living on welfare, practitioners of a barbarous religion that condones the rape of women and children.

There are mosques everywhere. Christians have been ordered by government to take the symbols of their religion off their churches, because it might offend the Islamists. It is estimated that there are now as many as 135,000 ISIS terrorists residing among these “friendly immigrants” to Britain.

In London, there are Islamist acid attacks almost every day against indigenous British citizens. Every two weeks there is a major terrorist attack, like running down a group of British school girls with a speeding truck. Firebombing of cars to drive down apartment rent prices are common practice. The mayor of London is a glib, well groomed, Islamic thug and Globalist operative, named Sanjai Cahan. He is actually more worried about transgender bathrooms than terrorist attacks against good people, who deserve to be in Britain, and proclaims,

“Terrorism is par for the course in any modern international city. We must simply live with it.”

The city even has a team of 900 busy-body cops to investigate and arrest people for insightful comments about Islam on Twitter and Facebook, but no task force to deal with acid attacks and mass murder by Islamic terrorists.

Morgan remembers being particularly horrified by three news reports that he was lucky enough to hear through alternative media.

One was the case of an Islamic man who was angry with his wife. He put out her eyes with a knife, then hung her by her feet in the vestibule of their home. For the next three days he punched or kicked her every time he went in or out of the house. Then she died. The most horrible thing about this is that it was, and is, perfectly legal for him to do this, because under Islam, a woman’s natural rights are not protected.

The second case is that of an Islamic man in Scotland who stabbed his four-year-old granddaughter to death because her veil slipped from her face at the dinner table.

The third was a case in Sweden, of a man sentenced to three years in prison for the crime of “hate speech” for identifying, as Islamic, a man who raped his baby sister, then slit her throat. The murderer was held for three months, then deported.

Morgan wonders why a civilized race of people like the British allow a subhuman culture of institutionalized psychopathy to be forced onto them as the “politically correct” thing to do, by a bunch of avaricious bankers.

There is no reasoning with twits. One cannot educate ruined people. It’s time to hit back, but what is the best way? 

University

Morgan teaches European history at the City University of London. Lately he has come to feel more and more compromised by all the Globalist contrived curriculum directives he receives from the academic administration. They never suggest outright lies, but advise strongly about what to stress, and what to play down with hardly any mention at all. There is always an underlying tone of subtle threat about the possibility of imperiled tenure or loss of pension.

The directives usually center around propounding false generalizations about the goals and moral character of other cultures and races, falsehoods that are easily refuted simply by looking at unambiguous historical facts and news media not subverted to Globalism.

Morgan is conscientious in working for a better future, and in his lectures he often suggests to those who may be seeking “a broader outlook,” specific outside texts, which he knows are not on the administration’s list of politically correct reading. He does this infrequently and will sometimes mention, with gentle good humor, the administration’s need to please those who endow them. This is the kind of likable candor that is more apt to elicit student admiration than the filing of complaints.

Morgan is also becoming annoyed by the increasing open antagonism towards the Caucasian race, by Islamic students and occasionally by Africans. The Islamists often make it perfectly clear that they are working for a world theocracy under Islam, and that those who oppose this are “infidels” who must be defeated by any and all means. 

Mixer

Among Morgan’s many accomplishments, he has also completed a practical program in the tactical use of explosives.

January 16, 2020

Morgan reads a poster stating that in three nights there will be an Islamic mixer at a large public venue one mile from campus. Student status and age are not specified. The bulletin only suggests that guests be residents of London. There will be live music and food. It suddenly seems obvious to Morgan what he must do, but will there be enough time?

First he should inspect the target in detail. He’s familiar enough with the building already to know that the entire first floor is one big room, for dances and receptions. He leaves the university, goes home, changes into clothes he seldom wears, fetches a translucent mask with moustache from a recent Halloween party, drives over, puts on the mask, then past the building on a corner, parks nearby, and goes back on foot. He walks past the front, around the corner, and into the narrow alley on the right. Luckily any view from the side street is blocked by flowering bushes.

Along the bottom of the building, are windows looking into the basement. Morgan tries three of these in the middle, and concludes that the second is loose just enough to be easily opened later with a small pinch bar. The distance to the floor is eight feet, but there is a table he can use to climb back out.

Now to procure ordnance. An old school friend, Michael Smith, has military surplus bombs he affectionately refers to as blockbusters, because they are powerful far beyond anything one would expect considering their size and weight. Michael used one to demolish a large obsolete concrete building at an investment property in the country. His only complaint was that he didn’t park his car far enough away, and had to replace the windshield as a result. He told Morgan,

“The destruction was very contained, but so complete, that it made cleanup easy. All we had to do was use the front end loader to scoop up what was just a big pile of finely broken rubble wanting a ride in the dump truck.”

Morgan visits Smith and buys one of the bombs. He can easily lift it himself. Smith also sells him a remote detonation device, and shows him how to hook it up, and what must be done to detonate it.

Smith knows what a wicked old pirate his friend has grown up to be, and had sometimes called him Captain Morgan at Eaton. For this reason, he makes no inquiry as to the use of the bomb. He knows that whatever the use, it will be justly Libertarian, and expects he will hear about it on the evening news.

January 19, 2020   4:34 P.M.

Morgan has just finished an early dinner, and drives to the building. He puts on the mask, and parks in the same place. The pinch bar and bomb are in a big canvas tool bag with shoulder strap. He looks like a carpenter going home from work. He walks to the corner.

Hell! There are six kids playing on the side street near the alley. Morgan sits down on a city bench, as if to rest. He waits, and waits, and waits, for what is shaping up into more than a mere obstacle needing resolution.

5:20 P.M.

Damned Hell! Now two of the people involved in sponsoring the mixer are walking up the stairs, and going into building to start preparing refreshments. Morgan thinks of going inside, dispatching them both, then down to the cellar to plant the bomb. Less chance of triggering an alarm. He decides that it’s too dangerous, because other helpers might come along to join the first two.

5:37 P.M.

Finally, the kids disperse, and go home for dinner. It’s a school night.

5:38 P.M.

Double Damned Hell! An old couple comes strolling down the street. People really walk slow at this age. Morgan sits back down. After a few more minutes they are past and there is nobody in view.

5:43

Morgan was right. Three more helpers are going up the stairs into the building. He quickly enters the alley, walks briskly to the window, takes out the pinch bar, and noiselessly inserts it between the window and frame bottom. The window is hinged at the top. It takes more pressure than he had anticipated, but the window is now passable. He props it fully open with the pinch bar and, on his stomach, slithers down to the point where he is hanging by his hands. He drops the last three inches.

Triple Damned Hell! Why didn’t he notice? The table is gone. These are the times that test men’s souls, and cullions. He crosses the long room, and opens the door into the main basement hallway, and there she is. He is delighted, and sets down the satchel.

He enters the hall. Although the table is compact, it is heavily built and weighty. If he slides it back to a spot under the window, the people upstairs will hear. He bends, grabbing the sides of the table, as if in a bear hug, braces the edge against his stomach, and is just barely able to lift it. This will result in a sore back tomorrow.  He walks like a penguin back through the door, almost too narrow, because he must angle to get one arm and hand through at a time. Then more penguin walking to a place it directly under the window.

Morgan is breathing hard, but relieved. He gets the bomb in hand. Near the door, in this room is almost the center of the cellar. True center is only four feet away in the hallway itself, but not a good idea.

He closes the bolt on the inside of the door. All he needs to do now is take the bomb in hand, and unlock the detonating mechanism. He reaches into his pocket.

No key! Panic looms, but he must think calmly. Sometimes he absent-mindedly puts his car key into his left pocket by accident. He checks. There it is. He feels even more relieved than after finding the disappearing table.

He unlocks the mechanism, turns on the switch, walks to the table, steadies himself, climbs up on it, and now it seems he can’t quite reach the window ledge. He can only jump up once, because if he doesn’t get his proper grip on the ledge the first time, and lands back on the table, the people upstairs will hear him. He bends his knees deeply, draws a deep breath, and jumps. He just barely catches the ledge, and must carefully readjust his left hand. Then slowly he pulls himself up, gains the ledge, slithers back through the window, and puts the pinch bar back in the satchel.

Quadruple Damned Hell! The abominable little shits are back playing, and on a school night! Someone should warm their tuckers. Morgan will not be detained by them again. He adjusts the mask, and walks right out of the flowering shrubs. The kids look startled. Morgan tries to look sheepish,

“Sorry then! Just answering Nature’s call.”

The kid’s giggle, and continue their game.

Morgan walks briskly back to the car, takes off the mask, and drives about one half mile to a nice restaurant. He orders a big chicken pot pie and a tall glass of cranberry juice. The mixer doesn’t start until 8:00 P.M., so he relaxes and savors every morsel of this fine pie. For dessert he orders hot butterscotch pudding with vanilla ice-cream.

8:36 P.M.

Morgan leaves the restaurant, and drives to a nearby park on a small hill. He walks up and sits on a bench. This is an unusually warm day for January, but is still a bit chilly. He’s glad he brought a jacket in the car. He gathers the collar tight and waits until 9:45 P.M.

With detonator at the ready, he looks in the direction of the building, and presses the button. The time delay gives him a false fright, but the building goes up. The noise and fire cloud are impressive.

Smith undersold his product. This is more than Morgan expected. He thinks to himself,

“I hope none of my countrymen are injured, even those little shits playing in the street.”

Morgan drives home, and turns on the news as he prepares a grilled Swiss cheese sandwich. High adventure always makes him hungry. The newsman is trying very hard to sound sad,

“It is estimated that over eight hundred of our Islamist neighbors at a social gathering died when a bomb destroyed the Turkington Social center on Charles Street at 9:46 tonight. Police say the motive is unclear, but is probably extreme right wing racism.”

Moran snickers at the comment.

When he retires, Morgan grabs his toothbrush, looks in the bathroom mirror, and says aloud,

“Not a bad day’s work, Johnston! Eight hundred raping Billy-goat bastards are now in Hell where they belong.” 

Channel

Morgan finds it relaxing to sit at a distance and watch the barges load with passengers then, disembark into the English Channel. He has an old Oxford friend, Trevor Wilson, who is the owner of a barge excursion service, a fellow, who, like himself, is a committed Libertarian Nationalist. Trevor also believes strongly in the observable greater workability of indigenous populations in separate sovereign nations competing in a free world market. Both young men favor true diversity, not the phony kind the administration wants Morgan to push at the university.

March 3, 2020

Today, as Morgan contemplates the continuing ruin of Great Britain by the invading hordes of Islam and Africa, he suddenly has an idea too big to digest completely without more thought, but knows the basics already: trick large numbers of invaders into a free barge excursion, then drown them.

Morgan asks himself,

“Should I approach Trevor with this? How much alteration of a barge would it take? What would be the cost? Is it even possible?”

There is much to consider. He will sleep on it.

Trevor Wilson

Trevor Wilson is a very traditional young man. What he demands from life is natural and simple: absolute individual liberty, so that he can persue his chosen profession without unnecessary interference by government or anyone else, so he can walk down the street without being insulted, threatened, or attacked by moral inferiors, who have no right to be in Britain in the first place.

March 5, 2020

Morgan pays a visit to Trevor at his home. As he admires the Wilson coat of arms over the fireplace in the library, he begins his pitch,

“Trev, if you and I, on a regular basis, could send large numbers of Islamic blighters to Davy Jones’s Locker would you be game?”

Trevor looks happily intrigued,

“Of course, if the numbers justify the risk. Do you have a plan?”

“Yes, two days ago, as I was sitting, watching the barges, I got the idea. If we could privately induce a large number of invaders to enjoy a free barge excursion, and offer them a free lunch below deck, they would enter a long passenger channel from one end of the barge to the other. There has to be water tight compartments along each side for buoyancy.

“Then we open, except for retaining steel grates, both ends of the passenger channel.

The water comes in, the passengers drown, and at the right point, we open the grates, allowing the water to wash out the bodies, so the current can sweep them out to sea, as food for the sharks. This last part is very important, because we don’t want them washing ashore in London. We would need the walls and everything else, to be made of plastic, to dry easily. All the furniture would need to be bolted down, but that’s not unusual at sea.”

Trevor is delighted,

“Superb! Everything you mention is already in place, except the doors and grates. The cost will be fairly high. As to worker inquiry, we want two doors to allow passengers to bring bicycles aboard at either end. We will already have a small bike rack along the wall opposite the lunch counter. The doors will be opened for a fresh cross breeze on calm, temperate days, with the grates closed to keep people from falling overboard.

“The capacity to lower the boat in choppy seas already exists by taking on water into the compartment under the lower deck. There has to be space above the doors to accommodate tracks, cables, and pulleys, but the doors will move bottom to top, so the minute they start to open, the dining area will fill immediately to the top with water, because the high port holes, opened in advance, will vent the upper portion.”

Morgan grins,

“We are a couple of fucking trolls, aren’t we?”

Trevor chuckles,

“Yes, we are. I’ll need to study the cost. I’m guessing about twenty thousand pounds. It’s better to keep dark deeds simple, so there should be nobody else involved. Figure roughly ten thousand each.”

Moran shrugs,

“There goes my next four vacations, but the payoff for this is beyond reckoning.”

Welcome Cruise

April 3, 2020

The barge modifications are finished. Trevor took it out for a test run yesterday. Everything works perfectly. Now to round up drownees.

10:34 A.M,

Outside of the huge Marduk Social Center, open to Islamic men, Morgan is asking the doorman to place a notice on the events bulletin board inside. It reads thusly:

Enjoy Free Six Hour

English Channel Cruise

and Delicious Free Lunch

to welcome all

Our Islamic Friends

to Great Britain

8:00 A.M. April 16, 2020

Slip B at Long Wharf

Sign up below.

Hope to see you there!

Morgan adds,

“You are welcome too, but may I ask that, when our maximum of two hundred and forty have signed on, you remove the poster, so nobody will be disappointed, and please bring it along with you. We need it to augment our ship’s log and archive.”

The doorman looks pleased, and agrees.

April 16, 2020   8:03 A.M.  Long Wharf

Two hundred thirty-nine Islamic men and boys are milling around, looking a little perplexed because there is no barge in Slip B.

Morgan comes speeding up in a motorized dingy, jumps out, and greets the Islamists,

“Good morning, sorry about the mix up. If you are here for the free Islamic welcome cruise, the port authority has asked us to move the barge mooring to a slip one hundred meters down the wharf.”

He points,

“I’ll see you there. Again, our apologies.”

There is some grumbling, but the crowd moves quickly along the wharf to the waiting barge.

Morgan is there to receive them, and soon they are all on board, and heading out to deep water. The club doorman walks up with a hello, and hands Morgan the poster. At this early hour, the only people who have seen any of this, are two local fishermen, hurrying about their own business. Once the barge is well away from shore, Trevor gives them the traditional captain’s welcome at low volume over the PA system.

10:58 A.M.

The barge is near to the area where the current goes out to sea. Trevor throws the switches that allow the barge to take water into the compartment along the bottom. It will take a full eighteen minutes, and there is little noise connected with the process, so he is confident that nobody will even notice.

11:16 A.M.

The crowd on deck has been enjoying lively conversation and the bracing breeze, as they admire the sparkling water and fleecy clouds. Trevor comes back on the PA system,

“This is your captain again. It’s time for lunch. There are several excellent choices. Please file below into the dining hall.”

Most of the crowd are hungry and head immediately below deck. Two men remain above. When Morgan approaches them, they say in a rather brusque tone,

“We are not hungry, and will remain here, thank you.”

“Would you like coffee, then?”

asks Morgan, with an unwarranted gentility appropriate to good men. The Islamists look at each other, and the older says,

“Yes, thank you.”

Morgan directs them to the coffee stand. There are large sheets of plastic covering the deck in front of the counter. As he moves behind the counter, he looks at the bridge. Trevor gives him a thumbs-up to indicate that the others are all below and the doors to the deck are locked.

Morgan pulls out a well-oiled Beretta, shoots both men in the heart, comes back out, rolls each of them up in their own piece of plastic, then puts them into an on-deck storage bin which he locks.

Now for the fun part. Trevor throws two switches to raise both doors at the same time. Morgan can just barely hear the yelling below, but it’s music to his ears. Trevor gets to enjoy it in stereo, via speakers on the bridge fed by water-tight microphones in the dining area. He is amazed by the foul language he hears in English, now knowingly addressed to the those responsible for the impending bout of Islam with King Neptune.

After thirty seconds, there is no more noise. Trevor heads for the current. It takes four minutes to get there. As he feels the current start to propel the barge, he throws the switch to open the grates, but nothing happens,

“Oh boy!”

says Trevor aloud with furrowed brow. Always calm and logical, he thinks about what things could be wrong. Only one, really. He checks the fuse box. The fuse for the grates is blown, but what did it? He thinks back to when he tested all systems, and remembers closing the grates very rapidly. Maybe that blew it. He replaces the fuse, and tries again, but very slowly. The grates open. He steers the barge to be perfectly parallel with the current, and disengages forward propulsion.

Morgan is at the bow looking into the water. Here they come. The godless raping bastards look like the effluvium of a garbage scow. They are coming out rapidly like excrement from a pig’s tuckers. He looks up to the bridge with a grin, and gives Trevor a thumb’s up.

Next Morgan liberates the two fellows locked in storage by letting them roll out of their plastic sheets into the water with the others. Using a long gaffing hook through corner grommets in the plastic, he rinses each sheet in the water and then pulls them back on deck to dry. Waste not, want not.

Somehow, the American, Clifton Farris, has gotten wind of these goings on. Some think he may have his own satellite. Way out ahead in the current, hidden under the surface, about to respond to the trolling of an unsuspecting yacht, a three hundred foot prehistoric Megalodon, sees a nice appetizer coming his way, and allows the current to sweep two hundred and thirty-nine club members into his enormous mouth.

Port Authority

April 16, 2020   8:15 P.M.

After they return to the wharf, Morgan and Trevor spend the rest of the afternoon, and well into the evening, with sponge mops, drying the dining room, door sills and all. They have decided not to contact each other for a while. At this point, are famished, and begin to cook an impromptu dinner of beer battered fish and chips on deck, when two Islamic women hail them,

“Hello! Do you gentlemen know anything about a free channel cruise for Islamic men, that would have left around eight o’clock this morning? Our husbands were to be on it, and should have returned home five hours ago.”

Trevor says,

“No, I’m sorry, ladies. We went fishing and didn’t see any excursion parties all day. Most of the Long Wharf barges, however, would leave later than we would on a fishing day.”

The disappointed ladies move on,

“Thank you”

they say in unison.

April 17, 2020   9:23 A.M.

The Port Authority have received fifty-eight telephone calls, mostly from anxious wives.

There are city officials they must answer to, and decide to launch an inquiry by speaking to every captain on the wharf if necessary.

Morgan is at the university as usual. Trevor anticipated there would be an investigation and decided to take the day off and stay aboard the barge, so as to get the interview behind him as quickly as possible.

Trevor knows Belton Hooker, district inspector for the Port Authority, and despite the fact that the fellow is something of a prick, has managed to stay on the good side of him. He sees him coming, and walks to the stern,

“Hello, Belton. How can I help you this splendid morning?”

“Yes, it is certainly a fine day, but not for a good many of Islamic ladies whose husbands and sons didn’t come home from a cruise yesterday. Do you know anything about it?”

“No, I went fishing yesterday, but last night around eight o’clock, two Islamic ladies asked me the same thing. Said their husbands were to go on a cruise around 8:00 A.M.”

“Very well, but I’d like to come aboard for a routine look around, if I may.”

“Of course.”

Hooker steps aboard, walks around, and opens every door he sees. When he goes down to the dining area he looks surprised,

“You certainly keep this room clean. It’s absolutely spotless.”

Trevor replies,

“Well, in this economy there are far too many days when I have nothing better to do.”

Suddenly Hooker notices the doors,

“What’s up with these? Makes the room look like a big double door storage unit.”

Trevor smiles,

“That’s exactly what I thought when the work was completed. I had doors installed to make it easier for people with bicycles. Plus, they can be opened on calm days, when there’s a nice breeze. The grates act as a safety railing, floor to ceiling. Easiest way to make them.”

Hooker seems satisfied, if a little perplexed.

“Most unusual, though. Do you think it’s going to be worth the expense?”

“I’ve been wondering that myself. I just had the work completed, but time will tell. I plan to key my ads to bicycle people.”

Hooker looks thoughtful,

“Yes, you should… but do you think that rack will be enough?”

“Probably not. The minute I book a large enough bike club tour, I plan to buy additional ones. There is just enough space for three more on that wall.”

“Well then, I’ll be going along. I’ve a good many skippers to talk to today, and plenty more worried wives, I suspect.”

Trevor feels some relief,

“Glad to be of service. This has been a very unusual visit, I must say. I’ll be interested to see how it turns out.”

Bicycle Girls

Trevor runs ads in bicycle magazines. He gets only one response, but it leads to a very good booking of thirty-six young European women touring Great Britain. He immediately goes out to buy the necessary bike racks. Each retains ten bicycles, now he can accommodate forty.

On the way back, he thinks of Brian May’s lyrics mentioning bicycle cuties, and finds himself humming Fat Bottom Girls, for a good part of the afternoon. Indeed, this should be a very pleasant outing.

April 28. 2020

8:25 A.M. Here they come fast, with the many colors of their helmets bright in the morning sun, and, yes… when they dismount, there are protruding buttocks aplenty. Beautiful girls, and a beautiful day. Trevor feels invigorated.

And what a splendid coincidence! From the bridge, Trevor sees Belton Hooker walking by on his morning beat, just as the girls are taking their bikes aboard through both of the doors.

There are forty-eight other people already on board, so the minute the bikes are in the racks, Trevor, lowers the grates only and heads out into the Channel. After giving the captain’s welcome, he leaves the bridge so that he can circulate and meet a few of these cuties.

Within forty minutes, Trevor has lined up two dates with bicycle girls, and has had a quick poke with a third in the utility closet.

And yet another splendid coincidence, or even synchronicity! There is an Islamic man with his son, aboard. Now, something that has been in the back of Trevor’s mind, comes into play. Easy-to-explain reason for Islamic DNA on the barge will be a good insurance policy in case Hooker comes back for a closer look, and finds some from one of the drownees.

Back on the bridge, Trevor realizes, however, that there is a big spanner that could completely foil the entire business. Morgan said there were two fishermen who walked by just as the barge was heading out. Did either of them see the passengers well enough to be aware of ethnicity? If so, and one of them comes forward, DNA will be a moot point.

Mosques

May 16, 2020

Regarding the disappearance of 239 Islamic males on April 16, the Port Authority has taken an official position that unknown benefactors induced homesick members of the Marduk Social Club, to board a cruise boat to be transported back to the Middle East.

The mayor of London, Sanjai Cahan, in a TV interview, exploits the matter by saying,

“This should underscore the fact that we need to be more conciliatory with our Islamic friends, so they won’t become discontented and want to return to the Middle East.”

Morgan and Trevor each hear this Globalist media spin, are amazed, and relieved. The fact that police will not be under pressure about the disappearance, of course, does not guarantee that they will not continue to investigate.

Trevor calls Morgan and they meet for dinner to discuss future plans. After telling Morgan about the visit from Hooker, and the bicycle tour, he explains his insights about the Welcome Cruise,

“It’s easy now to see that we got so caught up in the imagery of drowning Islamists, augmented by the idea that an absence of bodies would draw minimal attention from police, that we rushed ahead without thinking of how unlikely it is that we could actually pull it off even once, let alone, on a regular basis. We have been very lucky, so far.

“If we had slept on the idea for a night or two, we would have realized that we could just wait for a big function at the Marduk Social Club, then blow it up. Take the fight to the enemy.

“It’s too risky to ever use the barge again for outlader purge. Just because the doors were installed for drowning, doesn’t mean they have to be used for that in future. They’re working out fine for bicycle people, plus there are also moped and scooter clubs.

“There may be enough members left in the social club to make a good explosion pay off later, plus there are other social clubs all over London, and … mosques.”

Morgan grins,

“My thought, exactly. The best and safest thing would be to blow up every mosque in the city simultaneously, and then retire completely from the extermination business. Setting a fine example such as this will undoubtedly inspire patriots everywhere to fight for their ancestral homelands.

Plan

May 20, 2020

There are roughly 500 mosques in London. Morgan has a pilot’s license, and prints out an online map showing all of them. On a mutual day off, the two patriots rent a small airplane to get a bird’s eye view of the problem. At the approximate center of the most densely infested part of the city, Morgan says,

“Over nearly one year, we will need to place waterproof explosives in places they will never be found. Probably ten percent will not be doable because of poor access. We will need several disguises each, and should use long range radio detonation, roughly from this point, but much higher up.

“Flying all over town sending signals at low altitude, will attract more attention than one powerful one from a great height. We can mix it with static. The cost will be high. The risk will lie in placing so many explosives… but imagine the final satisfaction of pressing the button, and seeing nearly 450 targets blow up all at once. I suggest we have a dart match to see who gets that privilege.”

Trevor chuckles,

“Rather than darts, I think we should compete to see who can place the most explosives. That will speed things up, and this is the kind of thing I want behind me fast. I agree about retiring afterwards. This business will probably make us both prematurely grey.”

Method

May 28, 2020

Morgan and Trevor have each been studying the possibilities for access to mosques in the areas where they live. They both reach the conclusion that it would be better to place explosives from the outside. The problem now is how to place them for effective impact, and also remain undisturbed for a long time.

At a lunch meeting, Trevor says in jest,

“If only we could get a stealth fighter plane, speed around the city, and take them out one at a time with rockets.”

“Or an entire fleet of stealth fighters.”

adds Morgan,

“Or a satellite with laser cannons.”

replies Trevor. Morgan looks thoughtful,

“… Actually, I wouldn’t completely rule that one out. I know a chap in the UK Space Agency…”

Morgan pauses, Trevor injects,

“Is he a Libertarian Nationalist, and can he be trusted? We don’t need to tell him about the Welcome Cuisse.”

Morgan replies,

“I agree. My principle is to never disclose anything to anyone, unless they are essential to the accomplishment of the task.

“It’s probably impossible, but it would certainly relieve us of financial expense. After all, the government should pay for it. They are the ones letting the Islamists into Britain, not us. Let me sleep on it, and maybe I’ll ring him up.”

Ian MacBane

June 2, 2020

Morgan phones his Space Agency friend and they meet for lunch. Morgan says,

“Ian, I’ve been having a daydream: that you, with as much help as I can provide, destroy every mosque in London using lasers from a Space Agency Satellite.”

Ian looks only mildly surprised,

“Strange coincidence, I’ve thought of that myself, but only casually, because I would need help, from two others.”

Moran looks delighted,

“Perfect. I have the other fellow. Without putting too fine a point on it, he and I have been engaged in a good deal of heavy-duty patriotic endeavor lately.

“There are nearly five hundred mosques.

I envision fifty volleys of fire, using ten lazes at a time, to get it done fast before the Agency can interfere.”

Ian replies,

“I have access to one that has twenty lasers, so we can pare it down to twenty-five volleys, but that in itself is fairly negligible time wise, because the volleys will be one only three seconds apart.

“I can preconfigure the entire operation with a self-erasing program to make it look like an outsider accessed my computer in my absence. I will be elsewhere in a public place with unimpeachable witnesses to the fact.

“The main problem is this: To activate fire, I have to have program confirmation from two other fellows, both of whom have computer stations in large collective work areas. They cannot be drawn into this, but are nice enough chaps that we don’t want to kill them.

“My two helpers, in disguise, unrecognizable to anybody else in the room, will have to wear clearance badges, casually walk in, go straight to the confirmation stations, appear to be chatting with the monitor, while bent over looking at the screen, knock him out with a subcutaneous injection from a pen, type in the confirmation at precisely the right moment, and leave without being detained. Are you sure that you really want to do this?”

Morgan looks worried,

“There really is a lot that could go wrong, isn’t there? I better tell the third fellow, and each of us will sleep on it for a day, or two, or three.”

Program

June 8, 2020

 Trevor and Ian have met with Morgan. The three chaps are in agreement. Ian first gets a satellite map of London and pinpoints all the targets. This is the hardest part, and takes all of his spare time for eleven days. Then he begins work on the laser firing program,

which is fairly straight forward, but requires meticulous attention to detail. It will not do to destroy inhabited buildings not intended.

June 20, 2020   UK Space Agency 11:58 A.M. 

Morgan and Trevor enter the work room on schedule and go straight to the respective work stations. People look at them, but see their security badges, and go back about their own business. The two patriots have rehearsed the entire business several times, but it is indeed fortunate that each of the confirmation chaps are at their stations.

The knock-out pens, and firing confirmations go like clockwork. They get the confirmation programs off screen, and are just leaving when one of the knocked out fellows slides off his chair. People rush over to see if he is all right.

Morgan and Trevor close the door behind them, race to the elevator, go down to the ground floor, out the main door, and back to the car. As good luck will have it, the first alarm doesn’t sound until they have driven off the property. They take a tricky, circuitous route back to town and break for a long lunch. There is a television at the lunch counter, but no news yet. Both men order prime rib.

Meanwhile, out in space, twenty laser-guns fire, and way down in London, twenty mosques and the inhabitants inside are vaporized. Then the twenty guns move slightly, and fire again, and twenty more mosques are vaporized. In a total of one minute and fifteen seconds, nearly five hundred mosques are eliminated, and close to 600,000 Islamists at prayer in them.

Two old fellows are sitting in a pub in Brighton. When the numbers are reported on the TV, one of them says,

“Looks like London has freed itself of jabbering Abba Dabbas. This makes the 911 event in New York look like an Easter egg hunt.”

Aftermath

2:08 P.M.

Ian arrives back at the Space Agency. There are intelligence people waiting to talk to him, but he was conducting Agency business in the field, so his absence, was not unauthorized or even that unusual. His was the only computer that could have been used, however, so the question now centers around the unlikely coincidence of someone else jumping on it so quickly in his absence.

Ian shrugs and says,

“Probably an inside job. I’m very surprised by these events, but in the aftermath, a bit more surprised they didn’t happen sooner. Like Mayor Cahan says, terrorism is par for the course in a modern international city. Better talk to Boris Pilos and the EU. They may have done it as a false flag operation.”

The intelligence people chuckle. Two of them are assigned to keep an eye on Ian, who goes about his normal routine, and has no contact of any kind with Morgan or Trevor. After six weeks the surveillance is stopped.