“. . . Brought it up to me like room service. It was a real choice mission, and when it was over, I never wanted another.”
Jack Rackham eases slowly into his chair. He’s exhausted. Placing his Beretta M9 and KA-Bar onto the computer desk before him, he takes off his boots, props his feet up on the desk and takes a long drag off a cigarillo. He pensively strokes his beard contemplating all that he has seen over the past few days and remembers so many other similar missions. Los Angeles. San Francisco. Denver. He stares off into an infinite distance for a moment. Snapping out of his trance, he mutters to himself, “No time for bad memories now.”
Sitting up in the chair, he takes a sip of beer and placing his hands on the keyboard, he begins writing his after action report . . .
True to my promise, I have returned. I have once again successfully completed an incursion deep behind enemy lines. This one was a reconnaissance mission from Southern Oregon, straight up the I-5, through pinko permeated Portland, and into snowflake saturated Seattle. Now, like that annoying relative that we all have, I will force you to look at some pictures of my trip that you really don’t want to see and tell you stories that you’d rather not hear.
I maintained constant contact via text with Jsbear throughout the duration of this mission. He was my QRF and commander. Fortunately, he never had to be utilized as the QRF.
About halfway up the 1-5 we pulled into a rest stop to, you know . . . “rest.” Walking back to the heavily armed Humvee (ok, I made that part up), I glanced at the car parked next to ours. It sported a big fat “RESIST!” bumper sticker. I immediately snapped a picture of it and texted it to Bear with the caption, “Target.” He responded, “Yep.”
I knew what that meant. My mission was not to engage the enemy, only to observe and report. I deleted said photo from my phone to preserve the integrity of the mission. I’m sure that Bear kept it in case of Civil War. Targets need to be identified.
As we neared the Oregon/Washington border we pulled in to a truck stop for rations. Now I know some of you out there think of the Pacific Northwest as just a collection of flaming liberals but look at some of the awesome t-shirts they were selling here.
I immediately texted this intel to Bear. He wanted me to buy him the “Snake” shirt. I reminded him of my current pay grade and respectfully declined.
Crossing the (Do Lung) bridge from Portland into Washington, I payed a little bit more attention to my surroundings. This is Danahan country. I knew him and his companions were lurking out there somewhere. I could see no evidence of any explosions, but I knew they were there. Watching over us. We continued the journey up the river of the I-5 and into the heart of darkness.
I started to see it on the outskirts of Seattle. Row upon row. Endless rows of tents lining both sides of the freeways. The homeless.
Scenes like the one above continued on for miles. I began to have feelings of disgust but reminded myself to consider that some of these might be veterans. But for the grace of God . . .
We continued on to what would be our base camp. Seeing this sign on the way:
Rainbows AND safe space on one sign!
Arriving, I surveyed the area for potential enemies and avenues from which they might approach. It only took a moment to find a potential threat . . . the porn video store across the street that featured “private video booths.”
I found it ironic that it was next to an “oral care” facility. I texted Bear this information. He accused me of frequenting the establishment. I denied his accusations. He wasn’t buying it. Oh well.
The next morning I went to the hotel lobby for coffee. There was a tranny there. I pretended to ignore it and reported it to Bear. Bear accused me of having sexual relations with it. I denied these accusations.
Later that day my wife had to go to the mall to do some shopping. Left to my own devices, and depleted from our travels, I decided to walk to the bar across the street and prepare for a nap. Upon entering I spied three big screen TVs. All were tuned to CNN. A smug faced reporter was going on and on about Paul Manafort and how Trump should be jailed as well. Oh well, it’s Seattle. I can deal with that. Let these fuckwads think what they want. I ordered a well whisky and a beer. Ten minutes later, a very feminine man wearing a pink shirt walked in. The bartender chatted with him. It was very obvious the individual in the pink shirt was gay. Two minutes after that, a pair of flamers entered. That was enough. I downed my beer and went back to the room. On the way out, I noted the name of the establishment.
That was appropriate.
Later after my wife returned, she was glad I had not accompanied her to the mall. She explained that there was a large gathering of trannies attending a seminar on how to properly apply make-up. She knew I’d be laughing and taking pictures of them. She also knew that I’d have to send these photos to Jsbear and that he has been trying to get over his fondness for trannies for quite a while. I’m glad I didn’t get the pictures. He needs help.
The next day I had to take the light rail from a station at the University of Washington. It was populated by soy boy douche bags, geeks, and lesbians. On the way there I saw rainbow flags hanging from apartment windows, this sign on a Seattle bus:
And this sticker stuck to the back of a street sign:
The next day the freaks were out en masse. The reason was the Seattle naked bike ride to celebrate the solstice. Why a naked bike ride? Because . . . fuck if I know. An excuse for them to be naked around children and not get arrested for it I guess. See the article. I mean who wouldn’t want to see shit like this?
I wasn’t there but I saw some riders going home, now clothed, thank God. I knew who they were because they sported body paint on the areas their garments did not cover. Freaks.
Later that night, there was a casualty. Less than a mile away from a BBQ I was attending, a man was shot and killed while sitting in his car. I heard no shots, but I did hear the sirens. My first thought was Bear. No, he’s too far away. 2,000 + miles is a long shot. Even for him. I mention this incident only because where this happened was once a small peaceful area. Now it’s overrun by Somalis thanks to liberal immigration policies. The police have no suspect but I’ll bet you a handful of khat that one of these Somali fuckers was involved.
The next day I saw this truck on the road.
I don’t know if someone etched these things on the truck unbeknownst to the owner or if he did it himself. I lean towards the former because would a libtard really own an F-150? That’s why I blacked out the license plate.
The next day was our egress from Seattle. We were making good time as for once, there was amazingly no traffic. Until I saw these emergency vehicles ahead. Another casualty.
When we drove by the scene, there was a fat shirtless man lying on his back in the fast lane of the freeway. A fireman was frantically giving him CPR. There were no crashed vehicles. It was directly under the edge of an overpass and there were also police vehicles on that overpass with cops and bystanders looking down at the victim. Adding all those things up, it seems to me this guy jumped off the overpass. I’ve searched and searched for info about this but I cannot find a single article about it. During that search I did find that a hell of a lot of people in Seattle tend to jump off the freeway overpasses there, and suicides are up all over the state. Trump Derangement Syndrome is a hell of a thing. Look at this.
Driving out of the enemy stronghold, I was depressed. I’d had enough of rainbows, safe spaces, trannies, and other assorted freaks. And Bear kept reminding me I couldn’t kill any of them. We pulled off at a rest stop south of Olympia, Washington. It had a free coffee volunteer program. I walked to the free coffee window half-expecting some flamer behind the counter to throw glitter at me and preach about gay pride month. Instead, I saw this:
A Marine sporting an open carry sidearm! He explained to me that he also has a concealed carry permit but as Washington is an open carry state, he doesn’t conceal his firearm at the rest stop so that people feel protected. And he doesn’t want anyone to steal the tip jar. I thanked him, and we went back down the river . . . I mean the I-5. My spirits had been lifted.
Near the Washington/Oregon border I spotted a billboard. It’s been there for more than 30 years and sports conservative sentiments such as these:
I was not fast enough with the camera to snap the current message on it, but it read something like, “The FBI has become an instrument of the deep state!” Fucking awesome.
The rest of the trip was uneventful, I even fell asleep behind the .50 on the Humvee for an hour. Ok, I made that part about the .50 and the Humvee up too, but I did fall asleep for a half hour.
Lessons learned: I suppose the point of this whole after action report was to show you all that yes, there are parts of the Pacific Northwest that are dominated by liberals. Unfortunately, those are the heavily populated areas and thus control the vote. The vast majority of the other areas are populated by people like myself, danahan, and the Marine at the rest stop. We are here too and we will not give up. There was no one individual here like Colonel Kurtz, to put an end to that would fix everything. That would have been too easy. There’s too many of them and not enough ammo. Instead we will keep voting for our side and never give up our guns should things escalate to that point.
Rackham out.
Originally published at Fleeting Freedom on June 19, 2018.
