A Dishonest Tale; A True Story Part
One:
There I was, all of about 23-years-old and working at a
McDonald's Restaurant – the State Street location - in Erie,
Pennsylvania. It was 1993. one morning, a regular customer of ours
came in while I was working the register. He was his usual friendly
self, saying hello to me and anyone else he happened to be within
earshot of. He just happened to always come across as a friendly
person.
During the course of the transaction, I happened to
notice a tattoo on – it was his left wrist I believe – and me, in
all my Panhandle-ofTexas-know-nothing-wordliness blurted out my
curiosity, “Hey, what's the tattoo about?” (Or something to this
effect)
He stopped what he was doing and without batting an
eye, losing his smile, answered my all-too-nosy question. He began, a
little louder than his usual tone-of-voice (and I'll do my best
paraphrasing here. It has been twenty-one years since, after all)
“When I was six-years-old, I was in Auschwitz. We were all marched
into the gas chamber and, just before everyone else was murdered, the
door came open and a Nazi officer said, 'I can take one.' Everyone
else pushed me up front to the door and I lived. I was smuggled to
London later” (This is, to the best of my memory – as a man who
can remember some things from his infancy – his exact words, though
I am not 100 percent certain. At the time, I did not realize their
full significance to me, which they would serve later.)
The
moment he finished his statement, the entire restaurant was silent.
The usual chatter of the other customers came to a stop. The kitchen
crew had even stopped working for a moment. The customers at the
drive-through found themselves waiting a minute or two longer,
whether they knew why or not. The other customers in the dining room
suddenly seemed as if they felt whatever they had been discussing was
suddenly so insignificant, compared to the power of this man's few
sentences.
Needless to say, I was dumb-struck. Thinking back,
I can't even remember if I spoke to anyone else the rest of the day,
myself. Just the thought of so many people being killed and yet they
chose to put this six-year-old boy's life ahead of their own had me
screwed up in ways which are difficult to describe in Human tongues.
He then went back on his way to his table, drank his coffee
and read his newspaper, just like every other day of his routine. As
per usual, when he was done, he went back on about his way.
Remember
this later. It was 1993.
A Dishonest Tale; A True Story Part
2:
Being the sort of young man I was at this period of my
life, I took it upon my self to befriend this old man. I found him
personable. I found his stories and the way he told them, quite
interesting. We talked whenever we could, either while I was at work
or whenever I would see him on-the-street.
I liked him,
genuinely.
Once, after having left this particular job and
hoping to start up a window-cleaning business, I ran into him once
more. During the course of our conversation, he asked if I was still
at the restaurant. I said, “No. I'm out washing windows now.” He
said, “Oh? Well, I need my windows washed. Why don't you come by my
place and I'll be your customer.” He then gave me his address at a
local hi-rise retirement community (or public housing project. I'm
not too sure.). Needing the work, I accepted and went there at the
agreed-upon time.
When I arrived, he seemed – let us say –
interested in other things beyond having the windows of his
sixth-floor apartment cleaned. See, some people find a little bit
“effeminate” in some ways and especially when I was younger, had
more hair and energy and less belly. I was good-looking, then. And he
was very gay.
(In and of itself, not a problem for me. Some
of the most intelligent and wonderful people I've ever known were
gay. So, this is not about his orientation, specifically, except in
demonstrating his real motivations.)
While I was there, I
asked him his age – perhaps as a means of reminding him I wouldn't
be interested in him, were I gay – he said, “62.” Eventually,
as I realized the ploy of offering me “work” had a different
connotation to him than it did to me, I left, wishing him a good
evening. I never had the “pleasure” of seeing him again,
anywhere. I couldn't tell you this man's name these days. But I
distinctly remember him saying he was 62. For some reason, unknown to
me at the time, the number rang out to me, as he said it, even though
he said it, as if it were an embarrassment to him.
Here's why
these two parts of this story come together. Grab your calculators
(The equations are easy. I promise):
If someone is
62-years-old in 1993, in what year would this person have been
six-years-old? The answer is obviously 1937. Even allowing for a
couple of years “here” or a couple “there,” the numbers
simply do not work.
From the United States Holocaust Memorial
Museum, themselves, "
...the first killing operations began at Chelmno in occupied Poland on December 8,1941." This “accepted historical fact” conflicts with the claim
made by my former friend. In his claim and in his gimmickry later,
he discredited himself, as much as he dishonored himself.
Now,
do I doubt he was, at some point, actually in one of the camps? No.
His tattoo convinced me, very much, he was. History itself convinces
me, many people were; Jews, among many others. But, in his desire for
attention, sympathy or whatever he hoped to obtain, he shot himself
in the foot, by lying to the mere fast-food worker, who was to one
day become who and what I am, now.
A Dishonest Tale; A True
Story Part 3:
Let me be crystal-clear. Is this one man's story
“evidence” of anyone else's claims being false? No. It is only
evidence of his, own, personal dishonesty and nothing more, in and of
itself. But this methodology – the appeal to emotions alone and the
evasion of facts - is so common among those who would call themselves
“God's elect” and thereby imply all others are somehow “less.”
By the time I'm done, I'll prove this.
I just so happen to be
one of those Gentiles, myself. And my people too, those who do not
wish to regard the thought-form sometimes known as “Jehova,” as
anything of reverence, for our own reasons, have been down-casts and
made to look bad, while being falsely associated with those my enemy
poses as. By the time I'm done, I'll prove this too.
We are
the falsely accused. We are the truly innocent but not the
“holier-than-thou.” The false paradigm of the convention of
“right and wrong” is often skewed for the benefit of a few,
anyway, yet we are also as law-abiding as can be. We have enemies on
many levels. We are strong, but we'd rather have peace, too.
I'm
simply one of a vast number of others who do not fit into many of
your social construct adherents. Some of us have seen through the Big
Lie and now live with open eyes. We are connected We are a spiritual
family. There are more of us than you are aware and you likely
encounter several of us, day-by-day.
Everything I claim in
this post is verifiable. Not one fact or statement is invalid. This
work has been around longer than I have, yet it is the only path I've
ever found which had any sort of a disprovable hypothesis – as
difficult as this has often been to understand.
I sincerely
recommend only those of a Gentile descent go further. But,
responsibility to the responsible and all that.
Would you like to learn more? Want to
see just how far the rabbit hole goes?
