Wednesday, January 05, 2011


I Saw No Dead Bankers
By Michael James
In Germany

When I awoke to a new day at the dawn of the year 2011 and gazed out of my window toward the coppice at the far end of a field, upon which the edifice of a building under construction was barely discernible under a frosty whiteness airbrushed by winter's artistically icy hand, the strangest, most inexplicably surprising sight met my vacant expression of bewildered incomprehension.
Something was missing from the trees. The "missing" were not swinging gently, as they should have been, from the end of lovingly greased ropes in the breeze of the happier new year that the fiercely merry tax slaves had promised themselves.
I saw no dead bankers.
I gasped in disbelief, and then my heart fell in its despairing realisation that it had all been yet but a dream. An exquisitely beautiful dream. A pageant of glorious justice, all lit up by fireworks and sparklers and the bright and beaming smiles of ruddy-faced toddlers screaming with Yuletide joy as we tugged at the feet of Armani-suited criminals to ensure that all life had left their predatory limbs.
How we frolicked in the snow beneath the cadavers of the thieves and life-snatchers we had spontaneously arraigned in a whimsical fit of patriotic, national revolutionary high-spiritedness; and how we had laughed as they pleaded with us to leave their cocktail bars, their private parties, their cosy family gatherings.
At first, they had threatened us with the police. I shall never forget the look on the face of the infamous local property speculator, David Bronstein, when the tallest among us, Herr Becker, stepped forward and unsheathed his Sig-Sauer-P225 pistol.
"Herr Bronstein," he had announced authoritatively. "I am the police."
Bronstein chortled nervously and let slip the champagne glass he had been holding protectively against his chest and, if I remember correctly, two of his guests fainted in the spacious, marbled parlour room that had been graced with priceless renaissance treasures, which the parasite Bronstein had acquired following his hostile takeover and closure of the local food-processing factory that had once gainfully employed almost seven hundred men.
"I'll take him," said Jens, stepping forward.
Jens Reiner Hertling, a 56-year-old former line engineer whose wife had left him following the loss of his job and subsequent nervous breakdown, wore the look of a fellow haunted by five years of unemployment and his consignment to the paltry Grundsicherung, Germany's "fuck off and die" hunger payment for those deemed surplus to requirement by the Zionist and financier-controlled Merkel government in Berlin.
"One moment, Herr Hertling. There are rules to which you must adhere," said Becker. "Now, Herr Bronstein!"
Bronstein smartened and stiffened somewhat as the New Year's Eve throng hushed itself to a respectful silence.
"Sergeant Becker, there must be some .."
"David Bronstein, Managing Director of Kramer-Ingnatz-Pyramid Holdings, I arrest you in the name of the German People, a culturally distinct folk comprised of sovereign individuals to which such God-given Rights and Liberties accrue in accordance with Natural Law, and in the name of all Humanity, for economic crimes that manifest in the wholesale theft of property and monies from the Common Weal, resulting in the economic destabilization of small businesses and genuine free enterprise, the impoverishment and destitution of a large section of the local community, the destruction of the lives of human beings as evidenced in increased rates of malnutrition, depression, divorce, suicide, physical illness.."
"But Sergeant .."
"The People being sovereign not only in name but also in deed, I deliver you into their hands for judgment and any subsequent punishment commensurate to the aforementioned crimes."
Katrina, a half-Irish girl with a pert, peculiarly upturned nose and an intriguing, suggestive smile behind which she concealed a certain unleashed femininity, tugged at my elbow and I heard a bustle at the window that overlooked the main street.
"They executed Ackermann!" she exclaimed, grinning.
"Josef Ackermann?" I whistled quizzically. "The Thief-in-Chief of Deutsche Bank?"
"A detachment of the army tried to grab him as he attempted a getaway in his private helicopter," she continued, the intensity of her features coquettishly crimping into that of an awkward teenage lass. "But he failed to surrender. They shot him right between the eyes. The marksman was a deserter from the Afghanistan front."
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