Naming names

There is not a sliver of difference between Wakers and Baggers. They're both anti-American hate groups who happily watched George Bush drive our country over a damn cliff so he could play war president.

From my next novel

Splashed across the plaster wall is a bigger-than-life painting of a man who could be mistaken for Jock Shaw himself, skin-headed and kilt-clad, washed in a halogen halo. In his clenched left fist, a blood-drenched Claymore pointed hard in the direction of hell, where spike-tailed creatures scurried into caves. In the open palm of his right hand, an ugly jagged hole testifies to his sacred suffering. And on the calf of his sculpted right leg, the word CHOP tattooed with a swirl of red and black letters.

In the background of the painting, a shadowy hill where three rough crosses stand still as death. A turbaned man hangs on one cross, his skin flayed into bloody strips, while a pack of dogs clamber to reach his mangled feet. On the other side, another man, brown, disemboweled, with a Blue Hen rooster perched on his head. The empty cross between them shines bright, draped in glorious tartan, with a jeweled gold crown floating just above it.

The room stands still as the painting works its magic.

Until this very moment, Tweedside has never thought much about the son of god, on the cross or off. When he was a kid, greed not glory drove the family agenda. Advancing from Tupperware parties to blue-green algae to Amway and beyond, the family worshiped only at the altar of multi-level marketing. They were climbing toward the top of the American dream the old-fashioned way – scamming one friend at a time. But Tweedside’s old man stumbled. He sold the wrong guy a five hundred dollar Kryptonite cremation pendant that turned out to be cheap plastic. One thing led to another and the family high-tailed it out of Baltimore. They drove an hour north of the city before realizing that Amish country wouldn’t exactly mesh with their pyramid plans. That’s how they settled in Rising Sun, a stone’s throw away from the Pennsylvania border.

Tweedside fixes on the kilted figure. Sheriff Jesus? His eyes drift to the sword in the painting, the very one he’s been wanting – a carbon steel Claymore with a classic vee hilt and leather-wrapped pommel. That’s when Donny Roy dips a hand into his pigskin sporran and pulls out a crisp Ben Franklin. “Tis is yours, my friend,” he says. “For the amazing low price of one thousand dollars, minus an even ten percent.” He brushes Tweedside’s fingers with the hundred dollar bill, then tucks it back in his sporran. “Initiation fee.”

Wakers would earn commissions for not only the money they raise, but money raised by the people they recruited to raise money and so on, Brock said. * story

Two Dudes who just make it to the Ponzi prison of their choice.........

Thomas Paine said! " Beware of those who seek profit in Religion and Politics" He also said! " Beware of those phony Sunshine Republican Tea Baggers and their leader Beck"* paraphasing of course