...fuck this shit I want everything!
It's a nice cool day. so you must be happy today. that fairy is fantastic. had news on TV all day. can't believe the madness.
Several decades ago, when I was a young man amd while I was travelling in southern climes, a man came to the youth hostel where I was staying and asked whether there was anyone there who spoke English.It was late at night, and I was tired from a day of hiking with my companions so, at first, I ignored the query. The messenger repeated his question in great agitation and declared it was an emergency. He said that a "Gringo" was dying in a shepard's cottage several miles away across the mountains, and that the Gringo desperately wanted to speak with a compatriot if possible, and if not, then with anyone who could speak his own language for he had an important story to tell.I raised my hand and acknowledged that I too was a Gringo. The messenger led me through the darkness over mountain trails he knew well. It was a difficult journey with little light from a quarter moon, but finally, after midnight, we reached the hovel which served as a summer residence of shepards in the high mountain meadows.For perhaps four or five hours, I sat beside the dying American as he faded in and out of consciousness trying to tell his story.He had escaped from a so-called Work and Education Center on the outskirts of Duckburg. He said the inmates of the camp labored in deep mines beneath Duckburg to bring up U-235 which was sold to the United States' Atomic Energy Commission and to the U.S.S.R.'s Committee for State Security for processing into nuclear weapons. The man told me that he together with his brothers and cousins by the name of Beagle had been arrested during an anti-war protest in New York City in 1956. In the dead of night they and many other prisoners were transferred to a cargo steamship which had carried them in the ship's hold to Duckburg.At Duckburg, they were brought on deck of the ship where they learned for the first time that the ship was owned by the United Fruit Company in which the family of Allen and John Foster Dulles were major stockholders.Mr. Beagle said the prisoners were greeted by rows of ducks attired in the black uniforms of Hitler's SS. The duck guards used truncheons and bullwhips to organize the prisoners into a column to march to the uranium mines where Mr. Beagle said he spent the next four years.Year by year and one by one, the brothers and cousins of the Beagle clan died of various illnesses contracted while working in the mines.If the prisoners offered any resistance there were rows and rows of SS Guards to beat them into submission. Over the years, the prisoners learned that the SS ducks were the result of some eugenics experiments conducted by Nazi Dr. Felix Mengele, the so-called Angel of Death of Auschwitz. Mr. Beagle told me that during his imprisonment, he and his family members had agreed that one of them must escape to tell the story of Duckburg to the world. They had drawn lots to determine who would escape and who would sacrifice themselves for the sake of the escaper.They devised a plot in which some of the Beagles would charge to row of duck guards during the morning roll call as a diversion. Meanwhile, the escaper with two assistants would attack a blind spot in the wire fence around the camp. After the escaper got through the breach in the fence, the two escape assistants then sacrificed themselves to block the onrushing Alsatian attack dogs.As the sun rose, Mr. Beagle finished his tale and with his dying breath, asked me to tell the world of the terrible uranium mines which fueled the war machines of the two super-powers.I tried unsuccessfully over the next several years to re-trace the trail taken by Mr. Beagle in his escape from Duckburg, but I never found it. And without being able to tell the world where to find Duckburg, I was never able to tell the world that the nuclear arms race and the Cold War were simply creations of powerful oligarchs in Washington and Moscow who were ably helped by the hereditary Grand Master of Duckburg, Scrooge McDuck.
I knew it!
Who'd have guessed those innocent-seeming squeaky rubber chums could be so dastardly? Does Ernie know about this?
No, but Bert is in on it.
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