Posts Tagged ‘Gun Control’

The belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary; men alone are quite capable of every wickedness.

– Joseph Conrad

Fear ye not, dear reader. I, Victor Ulysses Neverman, continue to exist.

A fortnight ago, I entered into an abyssal pit of chigger-infested scrub brush with my greatest nemesis. It was Florida back-country as thick as Poseidon’s dreadlocked & barnacled crotch-beard; wilderness so untamed the feral children living beneath my back-porch eating corncobs would quiver in fear at the sight (and little ever quakes the nerves of those cob-thieving bastards). I entered this brutal landscape as a part of my training regimen for my future jungle exploration and it was my survivalist trainer, Cyrus Lee Hancock, who I feared more than the rabid bobcats fornicating in the palmetto. What did I have to fear? Read my previous blog detailing Cyrus Lee’s 27 motives for wanting a quick end to all things Neverman. Why would I train with a man who wanted to buy my farm, kick my bucket, shuffle off my mortal coil? Because Cyrus Lee Hancock is the best and if I wanted to survive the cannibals and piranha of the Amazon this summer, I needed to train with the best.

Canadian Duplicity meets American Paranoia: Cyrus Lee Hancock and Vic Neverman

Canadian Duplicity meets American Paranoia: Cyrus Lee Hancock and Vic Neverman

In this post-apocalyptic world, the letdown of the anticlimactic Maya Conclusion on 12/21/2012 put a lot of us doomsday survivalists into a bit of a funk. Cyrus Lee Hancock, whose primary source of income is as a Life Coach to the Paranoid would have been out of business post-Maya Apocalypse if not for Obama proposing gun control legislation and thus fueling the hysteria of right-wing gun hoarders. Despite the increase in revenue from consultation fees, Cyrus Lee still felt the post-apocalyptic funk and in a moment of wanderlust spontaneity decided a trip to the rooftop of the world was in order. Cyrus Lee Hancock began preparing his search for Shangri-La in Nepal. Across town, a rival adventurer was dusting off his maps of South America and planning his own search for El Dorado. Despite the animosity between Cyrus Lee Hancock and Vic Neverman, a truce was settled and we decided to train together for our separate endeavors.

Bygones were to be damned. After all, Cyrus Lee suggested, there were better places to bury the hatchet than between my shoulder-blades. “Probably” he added with his trademark smug smirk. On this trek he had brought along his wife, Layla Santana Crow. She was a mysterious creature with Miccosukee blood who denied the existence of dinosaurs and believed the sun was the cruel prank of celestial beings to parody humankind by illuminating our failures and weaknesses. Having her on the trip offered no more safety than it did sanity as her eyes were just as menacing as her husband’s. Layla’s presence did strengthen my resolve, however, as I do make it a rule to not cry in the presence of women.

It was near a gator-hole an hour into our trek before I began to feel threatened. It wasn’t the presence of alligators, mind you – both Cyrus Lee and I were experienced with the reptiles (though while I had captured crocodiles for science, he hunted gators for sport: a clear indication of who the madman amongst us was) – no, it was actually a conversation about granola that perked my paranoia. Call me coward if you will, but when Cyrus Lee Hancock mentioned he had a granola bar in his pocket and after rummaging around in said pocket only to withdraw a 9 mm pistol, I about shat my spine. His face bore a mask of bewilderment as he held the gun, “Wow, forgot I had this in there! Glad I didn’t wear these shorts to the airport.” Needless to say, I was not comforted by his feigned attempt at jest. When it came to fight or flight, the former was not an option against an armed maniac and the only place to flee to was the gator-hole. Diplomacy was my only choice, so I complimented his wife on her snazzy sneakers. We continued our trek deeper into the woods.

Either that is not granola in your pocket or you are happy to see me

Either that is not granola in your pocket or you are happy to see me

We were prepared for anything. Beyond Cyrus Lee’s guns and phantom granola, I was carrying:

Supplies: ginger beer, rum, water, tin foil , binoculars, camo-condoms, dowsing rods, compass and pocket knife

Supplies: ginger beer, rum, water, tin foil , condoms, dowsing rods, compass and pocket knife

  • Water (hydration)
  • A compass (navigation)
  • Bronze dowsing rods (to find water or to navigate with)
  • Binoculars (the better to see you with)
  • A pocket knife (the better to prick you with)
  • Camouflage condoms (the better to prick you with)
  • Tin foil and duct tape (conspiracy theorist must-haves)
  • Bermudan rum and ginger beer (to make dark ‘n’ stormy should I require some “Dutch courage”)

There were few souls to be found along on our path. Should you or the spy blimp hovering above spotted us, you would have been able to tell us apart by looking for Cyrus Lee in his Crips blue bandana, Layla Santana Crow wearing her jazzercise outfit and Vic in his Magnum Pi shirt (yes, a π disguised as Tom Selleck in 1986). The beasts in the wood were less obvious, though they were certainly audible. A suspected puma ended up being a pair of birds bouncing through dry palmetto. The typical wild hogs and turkey were distant, but certainly present. The skunk apes* were not to be smelled, but I had smelt them in these parts before.

*Some argue the Florida skunk ape is a derivative of the Sasquatch beast that wanders much of North America. I and other historians instead chalk-up the skunk ape to be an ancestor of the many movie monkeys let loose in Central Florida during the filming of Tarzan and other jungle-theme moving pictures in the silver screen era. Either way, should you see what appears to be a deranged chimp masturbating in your backyard you should probably alert animal control (or Cyrus Lee Hancock, should you be on good terms). You would likely smell the skunk ape first: imagine mayonnaise infused sushi left under your car seat for a week before being eaten by your gangrenous neighbor whose stomach (while attempting to digest the fishy snack) exploded into the compost heap you just fertilized with your infant bastard’s diaper residue… this is the scent of the skunk ape.

While in the wetlands, I made sure to always stay a couple paces ahead of Cyrus Lee

While in the wetlands, I made sure to always stay a couple paces ahead of Cyrus Lee

Our trek became a bit sketchy once again when we entered the wetlands. While Layla Santana Crow refused to cross the swamp waters of this moccasin hot-tub orgy (her past in Chokoloskee held enough water-snake muck for one lifetime), Cyrus Lee and I ventured as far into the aqua-terrain as we dared without becoming gator bait. Layla stomped her foot impatiently from higher ground, consumed with her desire for a late afternoon shopping trip to Kohls and yet captive to waiting for us to fulfill our fool’s dare. With a little luck, we returned mostly dry and unscathed (though with scabies).

At last, after dozens of miles and what surely must have been days off of the grid, we emerged from the bush. Cy and Layla said their goodbyes and there was no shovel involved – not swinging at my head or digging my bed. They even invited me to a dinner party and, of course, my being a sociophobic loner I declined. I returned home to the bungalow on Bayou St Bas and promptly deloused.

Two weeks have passed since I returned to safety. Without a single blog posting, many in the cyber community began to conjecture on what frightful end Vic Neverman had met. Having disappeared into the ether with final words prophesizing my demise at the hands of Cyrus Lee Hancock, many of you loyal readers took to sending your angry comments to his Hurricane Survival website. Others who figured Cyrus Lee was innocent hypothesized Vic must have been going like Hell’s delight chasing after cheap perfume when he fell into a cougar trap. This too, while a reasonable assumption, was sadly not so.

The truth is that I became ill between then and now. For years I have denied the Center for Disease Control’s suggested inoculations, realizing these “flu shots” were “tyranny bullets” meant to control the masses by neutering our sense of reason and tracking us with the GPS-tracked nanobots injected into our bloodstream. By rejecting these flu shots, I knowingly made myself susceptible to the flu du jour and all I can say about today’s influenza special, “Bravo, CDC, bravo!” They really cooked up a gonad-blistering plague this time. I was as congested as the last goat ass at a buggery petting zoo and my fevered delusions haven’t been that rigorously fucked since I watched Led Zeppelin’s Song Remains the Same during a bout of delirium tremens. All-in-all, a grand nasty sick, yet I survived without the damned nanobots leaching my brain proteins for battery juice. A pyrrhic victory, aye… but a victory for Vic Neverman, nevertheless.


War is God’s way of teaching Americans geography.
Ambrose Bierce

“Fast and Furious” for the uninitiated is the controversial program set in motion by the American government over the last decade, presumably to track gun and drug trafficking along the Mexican border. This summer, the National Rifle Association began weaving a conspiracy quilt, designed, like a conquistadore’s flu-ridden blanket, to infect the minds of Americans. The NRA claimed the Fast and Furious campaign was an Obama plot (despite being hatched by the Bush Administration before being overseen by Obama’s) to provide a catalyst for removing the 2nd Amendment Right to bear arms. I, Vic Neverman, proposed a different backdrop to the Fast and Furious story – that the American government was actually taking sides in the Mexican standoff between rival drug cartels. See my July 1st blog here:

This week, I received an email from my own personal ‘Deep Throat’ informant, who goes by the name of Reverend Chette Williams (not to be confused with the real chaplain, a disgraced man of the soiled cloth). The good reverend cited an article that backed up my claim, that the US was involved in playing favorites in Mexico and arming the Sinaloa drug cartel. His message was his typical alarm, warning me from getting too close to the edge. This time, however, he went as far as mentioning, “even my wife is concerned for your safety.”

In Chicago, a mastermind smuggler for Mexican drug lords gave testimony to his version of the truth behind Operation Fast and Furious, the gun trafficking program set into motion by the American Executive Branch in association with the Department of Justice, the ATF and the FBI. This smuggler, Jesus Vincente Zambada-Niebla was a “logistics coordinator” for the Sinaloa drug cartel, tasked with getting drugs into the United States by any means necessary. His claim is that the United States was working with “El Chapo”, the Sinaloa kingpin, to help eliminate his competition. Jesus called the American involvement a “divide and conquer” strategy.

While these are the allegations of a man on trial for federal drug charges and should not be taken with adequate skepticism, a similar account was given by a government official in Northern Mexico who claimed the United States was managing the drug trade rather than fighting it.

Would this be the first time the United States government armed evil men to fight for its own best interests? Absolutely not. Al Qaeda was armed by the United States decades ago to fight the Soviets. Around the same period of geo-political black magic fuckery, the Iran-Contra scandal involved the Israelis selling weapons to Iran in order to fund anti-commie Contras to fight the Sandinistas in Nicaragua. At least these attempts of manipulation just involved arming the enemies of our enemies, as we did in the Bay of Pigs, but if you go back a hundred years ago, American Marines were fighting the Banana Wars throughout the Caribbean and Central America to further the commercial interests of fruit companies.

Do not put it past us (U.S.) to try to influence the drug wars below the border by arming our favorites.

When I wrote the original Fast and Furious blog, it was after a dialogue I had with Cyrus Lee Hancock, a right-wing conspiracy theorist who suggested the media focus on gun rights is just a ruse to shift the light away from the truth. When I recently brought this new article to his attention, he cursed, musing, “guess who is definitely on Uncle Sam’s radar now?”

Jesus Vincente Zambada-Niebla will have plenty to say before his trial is over. How much is truth will be left to be seen. Whether the media, beyond the local Chicago papers, will pick up on the story also depends on whether or not our corporatized 4th Estate find it worthy of their special interests. Perhaps, even, the American Public will be fine with our involvement in assisting bad guys killing bad guys regardless of the collateral damage. Do the ends justify the means, though? The family of US Border Agent, Brian Terry, who was killed by weapons the United States sent south of the border, probably doesn’t give a shit about the ends.