Written by Auntie Matter
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Sunday, 5 April 2015

image for US Lottery Winner Chops Off Finger No Freedom Here for Dave O'Malley.

One Sunday morning in Spring, David O'Malley interior decorator living alone in a run-down apartment in New York woke from a royal Irish hangover and set about reviving himself.

Long since divorced from a childless marriage he had been living alone for over twenty years in bondage to a life of routine hard graft, restless sleep and the ritual weekend binges with his work mates in The Black Shamrock pub at the end of the street. An only child he had moved to America from Ireland with his parents while still a young man. America was his home. He had been taught at school it was the "land of the free" but brutal experience had taught him different.

Sipping a strong coffee, an icepack on his head, David O'Malley painfully checked his lottery numbers from his crackling old television. The mug fell to the floor by itself. He felt as if he had been hit by lightning as he realised that he had won $11,650,000 and fifty two cents on the State Lottery.

Next day, he went to get his winnings. It was true, he had won. His jubilation was ecstatic but they told him they needed "absolute proof" that he was an American citizen before he could be paid.

David did as he was told and collected the necessary documents from the Immigration Department in Brooklyn. Certain clauses in his citizenship papers made no sense to him at all. So, after picking up his cheque he raced to the local library to seek clarification. That is when he learnt something he had never before dreamt was even possible.

He knew now what he had to do with his money.

He had found a principle worth dying for... or paying for. For he realised, not for the first time, that not only he but his long suffering parents had been heartlessly betrayed, deceived and dishonoured. And he even knew by whom.

He would go pay them a visit. 'Debt' paid, he would have enough money left to allow him to retire with dignity.

What had he learnt? He had learnt that the government created for the District of Columbia via an Act of 1871 -- operates solely under Private International Law, not Common Law, and that this bogus government was masquerading as the 'freely elected' democratic government of America. It was nothing of the sort. It was in fact a private profiteering banking cartel that had been operating as the government of the nation for over two centuries. It acted with impunity because all those 'chosen' by the people to combat its autocratic rule... ie Congress... were in actuality the Corporation itself and employed by it to do its bidding.

It was a question of rights, of justice, of fair play, of honesty, of decency, of all the things he had been taught to believe in. As an Irishman, these outrages rattled the instinctive core of his very being. He had to find out.

So, after a night partying with his friends and helping them with their finances, David O'Malley hired a limousine to take him to the Headquarters of The United States Corporation in New York. There he was directed to the top floor office of Assistant Manager Hal Abiff Von Mesmer.

As the office door opened he saw a palatial room and at the far end of it a long marble desk beneath a tall window. The desk was cluttered with phones and computers while through the window could be seen the entire concrete jungle of Manhattan.

Behind the desk sat a blond haired man with strangely staring eyes who looked remarkably like the actor Christopher Walken. He spoke in sultry, soft tones that had a measured lilt to them. The voice sounded oddly familiar too. It had a sophisticated English timbre to it, aristocratic. Had the room been furnished to the voice or the voice to the room? It was hard to say. Neither seemed to be in the real world.

David sat on a red-velvet antique chair that might have come from the bedroom of Marie Antoinette and began;

"I am here to discuss my sovereign rights...."

"Stop right there, Dave," said the smiling face as the body leaned forward. "You do not have sovereign independent rights my friend... you have contingent rights granted to you by this Corporation which is at liberty to withdraw those rights at any time. Your government representatives not only act in the interests of this Corporation... they ARE this corporation. Its offices are called the Treasury Department, the Defence Department, the Home Office and so on. Your President is our CEO. His job is to carry out the will of the Corporation. He has no other purpose in life and speaks what we write for him. Like me, he does what he is told, willingly. That's why we picked him. You are badly mistaken, Dave. You have such rights as we allow you. No more, no less. Rights are given to you. Rights can be taken away."

"I just learnt all this. That's what brought me here. I can't believe it. Are you telling me we have been born into this world to be owned by you the way I own this wristwatch? Are you insane? Our parents only imagined they fell in love and reared a family, did they? What they were actually doing was breeding slaves for you and your buddies, to be owned by you, by people they had never met, never knew and frankly would not have wanted to know?"

"I see no reason to hide the truth, Dave. So, allow me to be perfectly candid with you, if I may. What you say is how things have to be and you are right in a roundabout kind of way. It has to do with law and international agreements. You and everyone else are, in effect, a legal chattel of the international bankers. THE UNITED STATES CORPORATION that you call your 'government' owns you from birth to death. That is the simple truth, Dave. It also holds legal ownership of all your assets,... even your children and their children. Your bodily net worth on Wall Street Stock Exchange is six point five million dollars. Your singular exchangeable asset, you, is owned by the Corporation. All that you are, have or own... or ever will own... has been pledged by law to the Federal Reserve Bank which is privately run. It is to pay off the loans from the British banks that financed all the wars from the Civil War of eighteen sixty one onwards. I hope you understand. You seem a charming fellow and deserve a degree of honesty."

David had heard nothing new. He was thinking. "Pledged by law"... what law? Their law. At least he now knew why Obama and the rest of his cronies prattled on endlessly about 'International Law". They could scarcely utter a sentence in public without dragging it in. Kissinger never talked about anything else. Take "international treaties" and "law" out of his rhetoric and he would be dumb as a doorstop. "Respect for International Law" was ever on their lips. Even Putin's. That was their ace card. "International Law" that they invented to safeguard their interests was the solitary rock on which they all stood; and they would nuke everybody on earth before they would get off it. He said:

"So the banks are praying for another war so that they can hold dominion over the American people for evermore Amen as the banks are called upon to finance the slaughter yet again? Isn't that the game? Millions are to die for your game. Is that what this Terrorism crap is all about? Is that what it is for? You rats want to rule the whole world for yourselves, don't you? I would ask you who gave you the right Mesmer but we both know you have all the rights you want because the rest of us, as you pointed out, have none!"

"I'm sorry Dave, I haven't time for this. I have an important meeting."

David scratched the grey stubble on his thin face. He was tired, hadn't slept, still had the accursed hangover he woke up with three days ago, had been told nothing new, but he was still perplexed. He stared around the lavish room with is myriad pictures in gilt frames of ex-presidents, Hollywood VIPs, the Queens of England, Popes and Freemasons. He had heard it at last from the horse's mouth and now had confirmation. But it was still impossible to believe. He felt his blood pressure rise. Being called "Dave" too was getting to him. Nobody called him "Dave"... only his friends. This was not one of them.

"All those Congress dudes are working not for the people, that's what you just told me. We all believed, for years, my ma and pa... everybody... that when people voted for them...." His voice trailed off into his emotions. "...What we voted for in reality was a bunch of greed-driven jackals many of whom do not even live here... . They see us as their "slaves"! Slaves they rob blind from birth to death with 'legal' backing of some hocus-pocus-smoke-and-mirrors bullshit they call "the law".

"Yes Dave.... but, your coarse language ill becomes you."

But O'Malley was not for stopping:

"And what did all those poor suckers die for in the World Wars and the Vietnamese War? Tell me, Mesmer! I had friends who lost their lives in Cambodia you Satanic wall of shit."

"They died for the corporation, Dave."

"Should I be thanking you for your honesty or somethin'?" asked the Irishman.

"Things are as they are, Mister O'Malley."

"Well let me put you straight buddy! First of all, things are what you bastards have decided they are. That debt was not incurred by me, David O'Malley. Secondly, it was not incurred by my parents who do not even come from here; thirdly, a war that was to emancipate slavery has ended up making slaves of us all by the same sods who started the war in the first place. And we are to pay you for slaughtering each other on your behalf? I want myself back! Here is my cheque for six point five million. Take it!"

Mesmer leaned back in his ornate chair:

"I'm sorry Dave, I cannot do that."

"I'm redeeming myself! I was born free. I am nobody's slave!"

"Do I take it Mister O'Malley that you are willingly surrendering your legal rights and your citizenship. Tut tut. Without such rights, I'm afraid you would be liable for imprisonment as an illegal alien. And probably deportation. No skin off our nose I may say as there are millions more where you came from. We have an endless supply. But, if I accept your cheque you do realise that I will have to phone the authorities. Is that what you want?"

"You got to be kidding me!"

"No Dave, I am deadly serious. This has gone much further than I anticipated."

David struggled to throw a net around the meteor shower of insights and ideas that played havoc with his mind. Although Mesmer sounded so sure of himself and logical, and his arrogant, English brogue gave a patina of colonial invincibility to his assertions, the facts as he imperiously announced them had no foundation whatever in reason. The weasel was tacking a duck-bugle overlay to the crime of the century, the crime of any century. So, he decided to get Mesmer to face his own lies.

'This body that you claim ownership of does not belong to me. Capiche Mesmer? You cannot buy something from someone who does not own it. Nor can you get them to sell it to you."

"Then who is the rightful owner, Mister O'Malley?"

"It belongs to Him who created it. Who created us both. God!"

"You would need to provide evidence of that Dave, for I certainly cannot," replied Mesmer chuckling.

"Fuck you pal! You and your buddies need to provide me with evidence that you own this body that you presume to have brought into being since you claimed ownership of it even before it was born! From whom exactly did you claim ownership, prior to its existence, Mesmer?"

Mesmer tried briefly to speak but made no reply; just sat there smiling, hands laced on his chest. But the lips trembled and the smile quivered, melting away into a vacant leer. He fixed his eyes on a portrait of Queen Elzabeth to his left in an effort to regain composure.

"I'm buying myself back, there's the dough!"

"I'm afraid I cannot do that, Dave."

"You sonofabitch, Mesmer!"

Mesmer was on his feet.

"I only do what I have been told!" he snapped. "You may have to take the matter up in court... but would you even be able to recognize the court Mister O'Malley?"

"Only if I've decorated it."

"Then I can be of no further use to you."

At that point the Irishman whipped out a Bowie knife and with a single blow cut off the little finger of his left hand. It rolled around on a blotter in front of Mesmer. They both watched as the blood seeped slowly into the paper.

There was a long pause finally broken by Mesmer:

"You should not have done that, Dave."

"What will you do about it?"

"I will have to ask my superiors."

By that time, his visitor was half way across the carpet dripping blood as he went. Some of it he flicked at the paintings he passed that seemed to mock him in his humanity.

"Close the office door, Dave!" Mesmer called after him.

A few days later, Dave O'Malley was 'served' a legal summons to appear in court charged with the "willful destruction of private property" and that his severed finger had been "impounded to use as evidence against him".

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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