The Brown Squirts Will Kill You
Faster Than the Drought
by Michael Steger
Sacramento, Calif., April 12—The dust bowls of the thirties will be no comparison. Farmers in the Central Valley are targeted as criminals, threatened with terrorism against their farms. The forgotten urban and suburban populations, as well as the poor farm communities throughout the state, face food shortages and skyrocketing food prices. There are now public showers to save water, which itself is eerily reminiscent of fascism,—but what will happen when those showers have no water? What will happen when those poor towns can no longer afford the water rates? When Wall Street firms, represented by the Bush family, or T. Boone Pickens, or Jerry Brown make water a private commodity,—who will die first?
There are Nazis in Sacramento, and it’s not only Arnie or Jerry,—it could be you.
The swastikas were not hanging on the door, nor in the room. He was seated at his desk surrounded by books of past legislation, diligently working on what we assumed was water crisis legislation. Yet there was something unusual about his expression. We said we had a solution to the water crisis. That we had an immediate political approach, as well as a scientific program that could solve the water crisis in California. He was intrigued, and so we sat down, although we were still uncertain about his unusual expression, as it was framed by the shaggy hair that flopped over his collar.
We had stopped by the office of the State Senate Committee for Natural Resources and Water earlier in the day, and were told to return later when Mr. O’Connor, the Principal Consultant, was available. The rest of the day was filled with typical discussions with staff and legislators in Sacramento. Most were clueless. The few offices from the Central Valley with whom we spoke were either over-confident of their meek proposals, such as a new dam in 2025, or were unwilling to address what they all knew to be true: that indeed there are Nazis in Sacramento! Not merely Nazis, but the most vile ones.
So, we returned to the committee’s office at the very end of our day, and found Mr. O’Connor at his desk.
A Solution Posed
He asked us to proceed with our two-part solution. “First, Governor Brown’s proposal is a failure, and he, personally, is a fraud,” I began. “He played the dominant role in destroying his own father’s development of the water-resources of California, beginning in 1975 with his first term as Governor, and is now only finishing the job. He has no commitment to the people of California, nor has he ever, and until this is made clear, no solution to the water crisis will be possible.”
Mr. O’Connor twinged, said he disagreed, but grunted something indicating we should proceed with our second point.
“Second,” we said, “the water crisis will not be solved by reducing carbon emissions. Shutting down coal plants will not make it rain,” I remarked. “There have been droughts in California for millions of years, so this drought cannot be blamed on man-made global warming.”
We had hoped to proceed with a proposal for viable measures, such as nuclear desalination and atmospheric ionization, which would actually increase the water supply available to the farms and people of California, when we were suddenly taken aback.
A Sudden Change
What had seemed to be the calm, yet peevish Dennis O’Connor was now transformed, in front of our eyes, into a wild ape-like creature. He sprang up from a cowering posture, as if attacked from behind by a female gorilla, and motioned with wild gestures that demanded our immediate removal from his office. Although stunned, we remained seated at first, hoping that our conversation could somehow resume, even after this beast-like outburst.
“Mr. O’Connor! Mr. O’Connor,”—but it was clear that he was barely able to hear what we were saying. His mind had been taken over by some demonic-like force,
“Are you suggesting there were no droughts ten million years ago? Mr. O’Connor, please, calm down. Were there no droughts before mankind existed? We must solve the drought, Mr. O’Connor.”
“This is harassment!” he finally blurted out with a strange growling undertone, his hands and arms still flailing in wild gestures as if he were being swarmed by flies, “This is harassment, and you must leave or I will call the police.” What police he was referring to we were unsure, but clearly Mr. O’Connor was not well, and his expression, something about his eyes, was highly disconcerting.
Fearing that Mr. O’Connor might not survive this episode, whatever it was, we packed up and left the committee’s office. As we walked down the narrow hallway to the exit door, the secretary’s face seemed horror-stricken. Had she ever seen this side of Mr. O’Connor before?
The Eyes of Truth
Yet on the wall, in the glass pane of a picture frame, there was a reflection of Mr. O’Connor, breathing very heavily, his face red with anger, and his back now so slumped-over that his knuckles nearly dragged along the floor. And yet still there was some uncanny expression in his eyes, but it was too hard to make out in his reflection.
“Mr. O’Connor,” we tried once more, “You cannot possibly deny that there have been droughts over the last ten million years. This drought is not man-made, and we must create a solution.”
“Call the police!” he ordered the secretary, but which police we were still unsure.
“Mr. O’Connor, you are responsible for the effects of your policies! Millions will die. We must create more water, and we know how. You are responsible Mr. O’Connor,”—but as I turned around, wanting to make this point directly to Mr. O’Connor’s face, I now saw what had been there from the very beginning, but only now was clear.
His eyes, which had had a peculiar spin to them, had now, in this fit of rage, finally settled down,—and as I looked him in the eye, hoping to find what remained of Dennis O’Connor the bookish consultant, I could see that he was there no longer.
His eyes, without a shred of possible error on my part, were now no longer black pupils and brown irises, but in this fit of ape-like terror, in this uncontrollable demonic episode,—they had become a perfect image of two slowly-turning Nazi Hakenkreuze, literally swastikas,—pure evil glaring back at me in total horror and fear.
Mr. O’Connor shrunk back, as my own face expressed my reaction.
For poor old Mr. O’Connor had exposed to us, in what seemed at first to be one of those run-of-the-mill discussions that are habitually ignored every day in the offices of the State Capitol, what may have been his best-kept secret. And now, in just this one small encounter, he had exposed, as others may in the halls of Sacramento, that he is a member of an elite Nazi brigade.
Call it the Brown Squirts.
It is fair to say that until they are removed, California and the nation will not be safe. However, this drought may be their last, as we, who have sat in fear of these ape-like Nazis for far too long, may now recall the nation to its proper place of scientific and technological development. The likes of Franklin Roosevelt, John Kennedy, and Pat Brown would have done no less.
Perhaps there is no future for Mr. O’Connor, less even for poor Mr. Brown. But, for California, free of these Nazis, we have a remarkable future, as does our nation as a member of a community of nations dedicated to mankind’s long development.