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I lost my parents in the gun confiscation of 2014

The agents came in the early morning darkness while we were all sleeping. My father was a vocal dissenter of the central government. The men knew that there may be resistance, and they came prepared.

The loud crash of the door being smashed in awoke me. Within a few seconds - that seemed like an eternity - the shadow-like men were standing over me with their guns trained on my 9 year old face. I hoped that it was just a nightmare, but I couldn't wake up.

As the men stormed into my room, I heard gunfire coming from the direction of my parents room at the end of the hall. First, there were a couple of single shots and then came the rattling blasts of at least one fully automatic weapon. I helplessly screamed at the top of my lungs from the horror that overtook me.

I found out later that my father had killed the first agent that came through the bedroom door before he and my mother were mowed down in the name of "keeping the children safe".

I am now grown and the State will forever be my enemy. I vow that before I die, the State will have wished they killed me too on that fateful night. I was a scrawny kid then, but now I am a hardened guerrilla fighter. The State will continue to pay for what they did.

I lost my parents in the gun confiscation of 2014.


Are the gun grabbers ready to murder the children as well to avoid future blowback? Are the gun grabbers really "protecting the children."

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Buy that book, go straight onto FBI list.

Caveat Emptor.

Let us know...

if you find this story in Turner Diaries.

I sure would like to know of this story's source.

I wrote it off the top of my head this morning


I appreciate the sentiment,

but I was somehow irked by the thought of your writing a fictional piece like this and simply posting it without contexting its source. I admit I did chuckle a bit [while simultaneously being a bit disappointed] after realizing who posted it and that we did not actually have a DP member who exceeds one hundred years in age.

Interestingly, my main concern in wondering if this was fiction, was in my pondering the notion of fully automatic weaponry potentially used by federal agents in the year 1914. If it were true, what automatic firearm could it have been? A Maxim might have been the crude automatic firearm of the day, but would it have been chosen or practical in a house raid? If it were only a few years later I might have assumed it to be a Thompson. Was the Thompson [or other "submachine" style firearms] useable as such, as early as 1914? These are the questions that popped into my mind as I awaited information regarding the story's source.

Your writing style invokes Orson Welles. :D

Thanks for the lofty praise...

The setting is next year - 2014.

I've been meaning to write a book or three, but I haven't got around to it.


The mind is an incredible thing. I literally read it as "1914".
I am humbled [feels good actually].

go here


You can read the first few pages, click Look Inside

I don't find it there.

I get the impression that you have read the book. Do you remember this story? Do you have the book? Can you find it?

Thanks for this.

A serious and seriously important perspective to consider.

What would the Founders do?

They gonna call you a mulim sympathizer..

Because that's the same story that many brown people overseas are screaming.

Sound like the Turner Diaries

we think the price, uh,

we think the price was worth it.

"The two weakest arguments for any issue on the House floor are moral and constitutional"
Ron Paul

Excellent impersonation of Madeleine Albright rocketman

what an evil woman!

From the what its worth dept...my wireless network is named rocketman. I can't remember why I named it that. Sometimes when we have hurricanes we lose power for a day or two and I generally have to reset all the router settings. I just name it whatever pops into my mind. Elton Johns song rocketman was probably playing on the radio or someshit.


"Mars aint the kind of place to raise your kids, in fact its cold as hell and theres no one there to raise them if you did"

wow is that a true story?

The title could be, Blow Back


Denise B's picture

I think it

might more accurately be portrayed as a premonition. I pray not; however.

ytc's picture

"true" as in truly happening in essence.

. . . but can be STOPPED, if we protest NOW en masse.

Rather than protesting...

Why don't several counties arrest their Congresscritter when they show up for a town hall (using your Constitutional Sheriff) and try them for treason to the people based on their voting record? Just an idea.

Some may call you "toadman"

but you sound like Prince Charming to me.

We have kangaroo courts, but we still have LAW. Grand juries can be assembled.

Love or fear? Choose again with every breath.


Important to look in to.

Yeah don't you remember the

Yeah don't you remember the gun grab of 2014? Totally happened.



I imagine all the children in

I imagine all the children in Afghanistan, Iraq, Pakistan, Libiya, Yemen, ect, that have lived with our bombings and murders of their family and friends, will grow up feeling the exact same way.

Instead of sowing the seeds of hope and love, we are seeding hate and vengence.

TwelveOhOne's picture

This story resonates with "Printcrime"

Cory Doctorow wrote "Printcrime" a couple years back, you can read it in its entirety in a couple minutes: http://craphound.com/overclocked/Cory_Doctorow_-_Overclocked...

In fact, based on the Creative Commons license, I can copy it here as well, so I will.


(Originally published in Nature Magazine, January 2006)

The coppers smashed my father’s printer when I was eight. I remember the hot, cling-film-in-a-microwave smell of it, and Da’s look of ferocious concentration as he filled it with fresh goop, and the warm, fresh-baked feel of the objects that came out of it.

The coppers came through the door with truncheons swinging, one of them reciting the terms of the warrant through a bullhorn. One of Da’s customers had shopped him. The ipolice paid in high-grade pharmaceuticals—performance enhancers, memory supplements, metabolic boosters. The kind of thing that cost a fortune over the counter; the kind of thing you could print at home, if you didn’t mind the risk of having your kitchen filled with a sudden crush of big, beefy bodies, hard truncheons whistling through the air, smashing anyone and anything that got in the way.

They destroyed grandma’s trunk, the one she’d brought from the old country. They smashed our little refrigerator and the purifier unit over the window. My tweetybird escaped death by hiding in a corner of his cage as a big, booted foot crushed most of it into a sad tangle of printer-wire.

Da. What they did to him. When he was done, he looked like he’d been brawling with an entire rugby side. They brought him out the door and let the newsies get a good look at him as they tossed him in the car, while a spokesman told the world that my Da’s organized-crime bootlegging operation had been responsible for at least twenty million in contraband, and that my Da, the desperate villain, had resisted arrest.

I saw it all from my phone, in the remains of the sitting room, watching it on the screen and wondering how, just how anyone could look at our little flat and our terrible, manky estate and mistake it for the home of an organized crime kingpin. They took the printer away, of course, and displayed it like a trophy for the newsies. Its little shrine in the kitchenette seemed horribly empty. When I roused myself and picked up the flat and rescued my peeping poor tweetybird, I put a blender there. It was made out of printed parts, so it would only last a month before I’d need to print new bearings and other moving parts. Back then, I could take apart and reassemble anything that could be printed.

By the time I turned eighteen, they were ready to let Da out of prison. I’d visited him three times—on my tenth birthday, on his fiftieth, and when Ma died. It had been two years since I’d last seen him and he was in bad shape. A prison fight had left him with a limp, and he looked over his shoulder so often it was like he had a tic. I was embarrassed when the minicab dropped us off in front of the estate, and tried to keep my distance from this ruined, limping skeleton as we went inside and up the stairs.

“Lanie,” he said, as he sat me down. “You’re a smart girl, I know that. Trig. You wouldn’t know where your old Da could get a printer and some goop?”

I squeezed my hands into fists so tight my fingernails cut into my palms. I closed my eyes. “You’ve been in prison for ten years, Da. Ten. Years. You’re going to risk another ten years to print out more blenders and pharma, more laptops and designer hats?”

He grinned. “I’m not stupid, Lanie. I’ve learned my lesson. There’s no hat or laptop that’s worth going to jail for. I’m not going to print none of that rubbish, never again.” He had a cup of tea, and he drank it now like it was whisky, a sip and then a long, satisfied exhalation. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair.

“Come here, Lanie, let me whisper in your ear. Let me tell you the thing that I decided while I spent ten years in lockup. Come here and listen to your stupid Da.”

I felt a guilty pang about ticking him off. He was off his rocker, that much was clear. God knew what he went through in prison. “What, Da?” I said, leaning in close.

“Lanie, I’m going to print more printers. Lots more printers. One for everyone. That’s worth going to jail for. That’s worth anything.”

I love you. I'm sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you.
http://fija.org - Fully Informed Jury Association
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I was thinking the same:

Just imagine how many more teerorist they will be creating for endless war.

I love my country
I am appalled by my government