Speer-Williams – [email protected]
On a cold morning, on the 15th of January, 2009, US Airways Captain Chesley “Sully” Sullenberger stated a dreaded three-word sentence over his plane’s intercom system: Brace for Impact.
Captain Sullenberger had correctly chosen the words Brace for Impact instead of Prepare for Impact because there was no time for preparation.
Sully’s plane would soon be going down on the Hudson River, outside of New York City, no matter what.
Captain Sully had no other viable choice but to put his plane down on the river. The move saved all 155 lives aboard the plane.
Since the above heroic day for Captain Sully, the leaders of the Russian Federation have been forced into preparing for a nuclear conflagration with America due to the reckless provocations of the ever-warmongering US Neocons, who have controlled American foreign policies since the Ronald Reagan administration.
Our breather from the cold war with Russia did not last long, as the Rothschilds will not abide peace in our world – partly due to the fact they own the military/industrial complex of the Western world and all the obscene profits that brings.
Rothschild’s soulless Neocons have been responsible for the millions of dead, dying, and homeless in the Middle East, while claiming those poor souls were being freed from brutal tyrannies.
Such are the mental processes and actions of those who have no, or very little, empathy for others.
The constant Rothschild/Neocon weaponized propaganda and false demonization of Vladimir Putin and Russia has gotten so fierce that the Russian Federation leadership has certainly upped their preparation for war to bracing for war, just as the loose lunatics of the Rothschild banking cartel have long planned.
How much longer can the obvious purloiners of the American press and government continue with their vilification of Russia before Mr. Putin presses the first-strike button?
And thus far into his presidency, Donald Trump has merely been just another globalist stooge.
There is the strong possibility that Donald Trump is losing his senses to mind control (psychotronics) from the Shadow Government. Such technology has actually existed for some time.
The absurd possible appointment of former Democratic Senator Joseph Lieberman as Director of the FBI, or the massive arms deal* with Saudi Arabia, would assure us of the fact that President Trump is under the control of the Satanic Deep State.
*President Trump has completed the Saudi arms agreement, the largest in American history. To arm the Saudi mad men is to arm the terrorists, as confirmed by WiliLeaks and US Rep. Tulsi Gabbard.
Saudi Arabia is the world’s largest sponsor and propagator of the wildly extremist Wahhabi-jihadist Salafism that fuels the major terrorist groups, such as ISIS and al-Qaeda.
Does Mr. Trump not know this?
So America’s surreptitious attacks on Iran, Syria, and Russia (who oppose terrorism) will not just continue, but increase, as Trump maintains the lie that Iran arms the terrorists.
And if psychotronics does not work, assassination will, with the Deep States’ Mike Pence standing in the wings.
What I have just written will seem unreal to the average decent human being; this is because they do not understand how psychopaths think.
First of all, soulless psychopaths are reality blind and utterly insane. And those who are sane have difficulty tracking with insanity and aberrant takes on reality.
But then again, it is all these supposedly sane people who have allowed our federal government to be controlled by psychopaths. And as a person who is dear to me often states … It is what it is.
One of the common failings among honorable people is the failure to appreciate how thoroughly dishonorable some other people can be, and how dangerous it is to trust them. Thomas Sowell
How many times must the cannon ball fly before it is forever banned?
The answer my friends is blowing in the wind … the answer is blowing in the wind.
How many times can we turn our heads and pretend we just don’t see?
The answer my friends is blowing in the wind … the answer is blowing in the wind.
Warm Regards, Jack*
*While in college, I had a two-year experience that was similar to what the Russian Federation has been facing since the early turn of the 21st century. But instead of wisely preparing for impact by learning a martial art or how to box, I denied all the provocations addressed to me and was eventually forced into bracing for impact – a very painful impact.
The whole story follows, and I look forward to learning of your reaction to it.
Warm Regards, Jack
A Collegiate Lesson!
This Account is Not Based on a True Story. It is the True Story.
Names have been changed to protect the anonymity of the main players.
Sheriff John Dread was a bad dude.
He was also a really good-looking guy, with totally ripped, chiseled, and rangy muscles. The guy had a lantern-square jaw, with piercing blue eyes. And while not the largest, he was perhaps the meanest a-hole on the whole Florida Gator football team.
Was “Sheriff” his real first name? I never found out.
Anyway, Sheriff John had been a Golden Gloves boxer and he always had a bad attitude. Never once during the three years of me trying to play college football did I ever see Sheriff John Dread smile. Never. Not once.
I never once spoke to Sheriff John Dread– I merely tried to stay away from him.
Sheriff Dread, however, always spotted me, if I was anywhere near him on the football field. And he would invariably glare at me with fixed and angry hate vibes.
In return, at first, I’d simply smile nervously at John Dread, but that was a mistake, as that incited him into glowering at me with curled and snarling lips. So I began the prudent practice of always looking away from his threatening stares, pretending I had not noticed.
Walking to and from classes, I’d usually be on cautious alert for Sheriff John Dread. Fortunately, with over 13,000 students enrolled at the university, I never saw him on campus.
But with only about 125 football players on the practice field, Dread saw way too much of me even though he worked out with the linemen, while I was with the running backs.
It was in the dressing room, where I most feared Dread. There, I usually set speed records taking off my uniform and pads, and cutting the tape off my ankles. Then I’d quickly shower, dress, and make my exit.
I did not have a football scholarship, so I couldn’t live or eat with the players. That was both good and bad. It was bad because I had very little money and was never able to buy all the food I needed to after practice. But without a scholarship, I didn’t have to live and eat in close proximity to Sheriff John Dread.
Anyway, once I was away from Dread for any length of time, I would usually convince myself “it” was all in my mind. Sheriff John had absolutely no reason to hate me. I wasn’t competing for his position on the football team. I didn’t owe him any money. I had never even talked with the guy.
I certainly was not trying to steal his girl, as I didn’t even know if he had a girlfriend. So, maybe it was just my delirium to think the Sheriff hated me.
Or was it?
In addition to always being broke and fearing Sheriff John, I had lots of other problems in college.
First of all, I was a barely functional illiterate who could not understand the poorly written textbooks upon which I was periodically tested.
Then there was Jan.
I was hopelessly and stupidly head-over-heels crazy about Jan. And how did Jan feel about me? Well, like Dread, I never really knew how Jan felt about me. Like Dread, Jan was a mystery. Did she love me or not?
I had two great walls closing in on me. On one side was the strong possibility of hate, and on the other side, the slim possibility of love. I was bound by two mighty MAYBES, enough to drive anyone as mad as a hatter.
Now with the benefit of many years behind me, and much retrospection, I believe Jan used me as a second-rate substitute, until someone far better-looking, someone smarter, someone richer, or someone who was a football star took an interest in her. It was something that never occurred; truth be known, Jan was not in that league.
And the more I think about it, it must have been my ever-present hunger for food that drove me into the illusions I had of Jan’s allure.
Hmmm … now after many years, I wonder if Sheriff John was keen on Jan. No, it couldn’t be. I don’t think he even knew of her existence.
Anyway, this discourse is about Sheriff John, not Jan. And it was Dread beating me to a pulp that I feared more than Jan not loving me.
There were moments, however, when I was free from both Sheriff John and Jan. Glorious moments they were. They were like days at the beach, with a peaceful setting sun.
Have you ever had it happen that when you’re feeling happy-go-lucky, fate will rear its head and quickly let you know that a carefree attitude might not have been wise or even warranted?
Something like that happened to me one late afternoon, after football practice. It was on a day when I was feeling pretty positive about my performance on the field.
On my way to the showers, I saw Sheriff John Dread facing off with husky right-guard Bob Smithfield, while both were in the nude.
Then, like the lightning quick strike of an angry rattlesnake, Dread hit Bob squarely in the face.
SPLAT! went half a pint of Bob’s nose blood up against a white tiled wall.
Bob sank to the floor. But before hitting the tile, Dread must have hit poor Bob three or four more times – all in the face and head.
I was mesmerized looking at Bob twitch, lying on his back, his face and chest covered with blood. I couldn’t move. I began to tremble. Finally, I shot into the showers. I took the fastest shower of my young, immature, and very scared life.
Fortunately for me, I had no more encounters with Dread for the rest of the season. I spent most of the off-season concentrating on my lack of money by getting odd jobs, trying to study a lot more effectively, and wondering what I could do to get Jan to show a little more interest in me.
Then came spring football practice. My weight was down to an all-time college low, but oddly enough it did not seem to increase my rather slow speed.
Maybe I was just too weak from the lack of food.
I was, however, beginning to make some progress on my romantic fronts. I had finally given up on Jan.
I got a date with a new hottie named Ann, a transfer from Vassar College in Poughkeepsie, NY. Her father, Dr. Jeffery Finestein, was the head of the Department of Religion at the University of Florida. So, I used one of my electives to take a course called Comparative Religions. I didn’t understand a word, but Judaism seemed to have the best PR, with Islam having the worst. And my religion, Christianity? It was hardly talked about.
I thought Ann held the potential of driving me as crazy as Jan did. And it was with Ann and my teammate, the ever-pugnacious Tony (who was always without a date), that I found myself partying in the ATO’s infamous basement one Saturday night.
The 3.2 beer was flowing freely from kegs at the ole ATO House that night. The Shirelles were screaming their hit song, Mama Said, while Tony was yelling across Ann to me about some stuff of no interest to me or Ann.
Ann wanted to dance, but I wanted to drink, yell, drink some more, laugh, and have male fun. I still had not learned how to woo a woman by simply showing an interest in her.
But life was good, anyway. I was carefree once again. Happy-go-lucky, you might say. Then it happened.
The unbelievable happened.
The SAE fraternity was our chief rival on campus, and one of their prized athletes was none other than the terrible Sheriff John Dread.
And it was the Dread who had the amazing nerve to show up in our ATO basement – uninvited – the very night I had my date with Ann.
Dread was flanked by two of his rather large fraternity brothers while the three of them rudely walked through all the dancers, everyone giving way to them.
It was a grand entrance that was completely, wholly, and utterly unprecedented.
Sheriff John Dread and his cohorts positioned themselves on chairs in the back of the basement, each one of them leaning back against the wall, all of them looking straight at me.
My happy little world fell apart. Sheriff John’s boldness was unheard of. If any ATOs had ever tried the same stunt at the SAE House, they’d have been beaten to pulps and had all their hair shaved off.
Maybe the Dread was actually crazy, which made him all the more fearsome. I began to tremble, like I did when Sheriff John so savagely beat poor Bob Smithfield into a bloody pulp.
I flashed sly looks toward the dreadful trio, trying to figure out what to do. My best thought was to pretend I had to go to the upstairs bathroom; then I could bolt out the front door and escape into the night.
Was it my imagination that Sheriff John wanted some of my hide?
What had I ever done to him? I had never even spoken to him. It made no sense. A familiar feeling of unreality was overtaking me. Was I in a nightmare or in the Twilight Zone?
Dread … what a name! His name told the world who he was. He was to be dreaded, someone who had no regard for polite conventions or consequences.
What if he killed me, or worse yet, disfigured me for life?
Aww … there I go again, imagining things. Maybe Sheriff John is just having some sport. Maybe we’ll all laugh about it later.
“Who’s that?” asked Ann.
“I dunno,” I mumbled.
“Is he a football player?” Ann persisted.
“Ah … I think so,” I said, totally distracted.
“Don’t you football players all know each other? Aren’t you a football player?” Ann asked.
“Ah … kinda,” I responded, still distracted.
“Well, are you a football player or not? My girlfriends said you were a player,” Ann said, raising her voice.
“Well, not really … you see … I kinda give the impression I’m a …” I uttered, my voice low and rather indistinct.
Now, I had two problems: Dread, and losing points with Ann.
“Hey, that’s my song. Let’s dance,” said Ann.
“Ah … ah … what?” said I, stumbling with my words, as I stumbled toward the dance floor.
The song was the great Patsy Cline’s “I Fall to Pieces,” … each time I see you again … you walk by and I fall to pieces … I fall to pieces each time someone speaks your name … I fall to pieces, time only adds to the pain …
“WILLIAMS, I WANT SOME OF YOUR ASS!”
Then the music stopped. There was a stunned silence. Am I dreaming, or did Sheriff John just speak – or rather scream – his first words to me?
During the hush, I was transported to another world, one of utter confusion.
In this alien world, as my face turned a whiter shade of pale, I’m rising on an up-escalator, with people rushing past me. “Where’s everybody going,” I wondered.
Then the faces of all those who rushed past me turned and glared at me. The faces zoomed toward and past me, all shouting …
“Dread DreadAheadAheadDread DreadAheadAheadDreadAhead.”
“Dread!” said Tony, close to my face, as we stood outside on the ATO front lawn, with at least a couple of hundred electrified people.
“Dread,” Tony repeated. “You’re no match for him. Better let me take him on.”
It was then, at that very moment, that the full two years of Dread’s terror hit me in the face, and I knew it was all real … and I had never Prepared for Impact.
The decision I was about to make would go a long way in determining how I’d lead and live the rest of my life: fight Dread or run away?
Few of the Gators football players recognized me to be an asset. But, my frat brothers considered me to be one of their “house jocks.” How in the world could I disappoint all of them by “chickening out” in fighting Sheriff John? But do I have to prove my manhood with someone as formidable as John Dread? Oh, why does my life have to be so damn complicated?
Life is a dangerous affair, which eventually is fatal. And usually, the lessons of life are best to be learnt incrementally. Certainly boyhood fights should be on that incremental scale, as young boys are not yet strong or quick enough to really hurt each other when fighting on a clean one-on-one basis.
Fighting amongst boys and young men has long been part of the rites of passage for males in various cultures, and such fights should be allowed if we are to have future leaders strong enough to lead and serve us honorably, courageously, and set examples for the rest of us.
In their grand pretense to eliminate violence by criminalizing boys and young men engaged in schoolyard fights, our leaders have launched avalanches of violence from bombs on innocent civilians in the Middle East. The US military cooperates with moviemakers to glorify war. Street cops shoot unarmed citizens. All the while computer video games condition our youth to “kill” human beings from safe and remote distances.
Some of these subtly trained boys have become American soldiers who, while stationed in the US, aim their guided gunfire and missiles from drone aircraft on foreign non-combatants, killing many innocent civilians. How many of these kinds of young cowards ever faced up to a bully on some schoolyard?
To ban fair fighting in schools and to criminalize boys who fight on playgrounds is to afflict us with the likes of the chicken-necked leaders we have today, who start wars but never actually engage in any sort of combat.
The John Dreads of our world serve a valuable purpose, one that should not be minimized. They can make men out of boys. We don’t have to beat them; we merely have to fight them – cleanly.
When a young man learns of the fear and pain of a mere tussle, scuffle, wrestling match, or more seriously, of a fistfight on a playground, I believe he is more likely to think twice about engaging in warfare or the brutalizing of others.
It’s the little weasels who covertly instigate fights but never actually engage in them who have for so long directed our world into all its wars, with its attendant torture, death, and widespread destruction.
Today’s brutes and bullies of the intelligence/military/police/federal establishment, who do the torturing and killing for the weasels, were once playground bullies without an ounce of real courage.
Courageous men try to avoid fights, and certainly try to avoid killing anyone; they are the ones who are big enough to have compassion and mercy for others.
Such courage often begins with fights on school grounds, the very fights the Controllers want to criminalize so as to eliminate the lessons to be gained from those playgrounds.
And in this regard, many people in America have become the unknown accomplices of the cowardly Controllers.
The so-called Teaching Tolerance program sponsored by the alien Southern Poverty Law Center (SPLC) is the driving force to criminalize schoolyard fights.
It is also the SPLC that has long pushed the “hate crimes” legislation in Congress that would make it a felony to publicly report on crime and corruption in government.
The SPLC is a tax-free, 501(c)3 hate group that are largely funded by the controlling oligarchs of Earth, who abhor life – all forms of life – from plant to animal.
Exposing these oligarchs and their front-men is called extremism by the SPLC.
Beware of anything sponsored by the SPLC as they are not what they appear to be.
Certainly better rites of passage could be created and perhaps enforced. Supervised wrestling, or boxing matches (with gloves) is one thought. Arm wrestling is another, as is football.
But whatever the rite, it must be physical and require courage, strength, and exertion, with some pain in the mix, for a man will likely be challenged during his adulthood with some formidable and scary confrontations that will require his nobility in the protection of himself and family.
Children should be sheltered and protected. Boys, however, should be supervised and allowed to fight, and to do so cleanly, without weapons.
“No, it’s my fight,” I finally told Tony.
The die was cast. I’d face the mighty Dread in a dual that could be a fight for my life.
In a microsecond, I was transported to the middle of the massive ATO lawn, surrounded by what looked to be a hundred to two hundred noisy and drunk college students. Where was Ann?
Where was my mama?
Cars on 13th Street and University Avenue were blowing their horns; some were stopping, with people jumping out and running toward the ATO lawn.
I thought, “No one wants to miss the slaughter,” which had just begun. Dread had blasted me squarely in the nose and I felt warm stuff pouring out of it and covering my face.
“Oh no, not my nose,” I fretted. It was a big and ugly enough nose as it was.
I was staggered, but felt the hot rage of, “The nerve of that son-of-a-bitch.”
I swung on Dread with everything I had, almost falling down with the effort. Being a skilled boxer, Dread easily sidestepped my attempt. I must have missed his head by a good foot.
All I got for my feeble effort was two left jabs in my face. Dread was fast. He had hit me twice, then backed away.
I charged John Dread, swinging with my right, and missed again; but, I absorbed two more jabs in my face. Now, I was having trouble seeing Dread, as my eyes must have been swelling shut.
Sheriff John Dread was a skilled boxer. I was an occasional barroom brawler, who didn’t know how to box, which did not portend well for me.
Dread was a superbly conditioned athlete. I smoked a lot and drank anything I could get my hands on, at any time. I considered beer to be more than merely an excellent breakfast drink.
But what pissed me off more than anything else was how Sheriff John was rearranging my face. I was never blessed with a perfectly symmetrical face anyway; and after Dread’s beatings, I’d be lucky to get off with a lopsided face that was made up of mismatching parts, the design of which might look like an old, lumpy, patchwork quilt, with cigarette hole burns in it.
So, I did all I could do, which was to absorb John Dread’s punches, but keep him from throwing a haymaker – with his right – by continually advancing on him.
I felt like Sheriff John had hit me a hundred times, while I was yet to land a single punch. I’m sure my face had become a bloody mess.
“How much longer can I hold out?” was my constant question to myself.
The screaming crowd of students kept re-forming itself as I backed up the ever punch-throwing John Dread.
Then to my surprise, Sheriff John pulled back about three yards and yelled, “Break!”
He was bent over, his hands on his knees, heaving in long breaths. He must have exhausted himself by hitting me so often in the face.
“No break!” I screamed, as I tore toward Sheriff John.
Now I knew the supremely conditioned Sheriff Dread was not invincible, while I suddenly became revitalized.
But again, I swung wildly. Missed. Swung again. Missed again.
Swung a third time. THUD! I had hit flesh and bone, Sheriff John Dread’s head bone. I had landed my haymaker.
There would be no counterpunch. Dread went out like a light. He went down like a stone.
Sometimes only trite clichés will do. They can be so satisfying when appropriate … The great Sheriff John Dread lay unconscious at my feet.
I knelt beside his head, as his two lieutenants rushed to him.
“I’ve never been hit … so hard …” murmured the fallen ex-boxer and current football player.
Good, he’s alive! I thought, as I stood up, feeling very victorious.
I turned toward the cheering crowd, which no longer formed a boxing ring. It was now merely a milling collection of young men and coeds, who all seemed to want to touch me, but respectfully gave way, letting me pass through them.
Everything now would be anti-climactic.
I neither needed nor wanted congratulations, so I kept walking until I crossed 13th Street. There, I looked back at the still-milling crowd on the front yard of the ATO house.
‘Fungoo’ to Dread and his intimidations. His bark had been worse than his bite (another satisfying cliché).
And even though it hurt to smile, there was a big grin on my face.
Then I turned and walked toward the University’s Administration Building and the campus and my dorm room, still smiling. It hurt so good.
Dread had physically defeated me as the mirror in my dorm room later proved. But, as I continued to look into my mirror, I began to painfully laugh: I had defeated Dread spiritually because I was in the right.
For years after the Sheriff John Dread fight, I have wondered what else had I learned from it.
Immediately, however, it had become obvious to me that I could have saved myself much misery by confronting Dread as soon as he began his intimidation tactics.
I also learned that I never again saw Dread even glance in my direction on the practice field or in the dressing room.
At last, I had been free to endure bruising tackles as a running back on the Gator scout team, all without my great worry, but not without the pain.
And, I found out why Dread so hated me. Sheriff John smelt my fright of him, and being a bully, he detested those who feared him, which is part of the motivation of all torturers.
And as fear stalks a man, that which he so fears will eventually catch up with him, if he compulsively and constantly worries about it.
More importantly, in time, I learnt that the fears in my mind have always been greater and more fierce than experiencing that which caused my fears.
But most importantly, the words of famed boxer Rocky Balboa rang true to me: “It ain’t about how hard ya hit. It’s about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward.”
Any fight judges who might have attended my fight with Dread would have awarded Sheriff John every point, thus giving him the victory. But knockouts trump points.
True, John had hit me about fifty times and I only hit him once (and a lucky punch it was). Still a knockout is a knockout.
When a dark cabal of conspiratorial oligarchs holds the reins of military and police power in their hands, that very government becomes the enemy of the people.
When that government uses its powers against its own citizens, under pretenses of public service, those citizens can either turn their heads avowing they see nothing, know nothing, or they can and will educate themselves and others as to the true state of affairs.
Every being that wakes up and helps to educate another is a punch thrown at an enemy that will never give us any quarter, whether we fight back or not. Throw enough punches, and sooner or later, they’ll add up to our haymaker, our knock-out punch.
The decisions and actions we make and take today regarding our US government will determine how we will lead and live the rest of our lives.
Remember, we are in the right; the basic laws of our land, the American Constitution and our Bill of Rights, say so.
But whatever transpires in the future, we’d be wise to Prepare for Impact.
I eventually made the motto of the Texas Rangers my own, and invite you to do the same:
No man in the wrong can stand up against a fellow that’s in the right and keeps on a-comin’.
Years ago, I placed the above story and commentary on an Internet website, wanting to obtain some feedback.
The comments that follow are part of that response.
This is one of the finest stories on what it means to be a man and then you extend that concept to our US government standards with a knockout punch.
You wrote on just one page that which takes volumes to express philosophically.
You hit the nail directly on the head and sunk it flush with the board by this statement concerning ‘rites of passage’ something which is sorely lacking in our culture if not of the world as well.
You wrote … “But whatever the rite of passage it must be physical and require courage, strength, and exertion, with some pain in the mix, for a man will likely be challenged during his adulthood with some formidable confrontations that will require his nobility in the protection of his family.”
Thank you for those thoughts, Mr. Speer-Williams.
Ole! Thanks for telling your story and the lessons it taught you.
Excellent moral to the story!! And the story works both ways – for man or woman …
This is a great story and a great lesson, or rather a number of lessons, including philosophical, political, and moral lessons.
Five stars, Mr. Williams. I loved your story.
Williams, you should stick to fiction. You’re good at it. Jared H.
Awesome, awesome, awesome story.
Following is one of your many great paragraphs – “I had two great walls closing in on me. On one side was the strong possibility of hate and on the other side the slim possibility of love. I was bound by two mighty MAYBES, enough to drive anyone as mad as a hatter.”
The shift from the story to how it relates to the real-world politics and war was seamless and brilliant. One paragraph stood out … “It’s the little weasels who covertly instigate fights but never engage in them who have for so long diverted our world into all of its wars, with all its attendant torture, death, and widespread destruction.
Did I mention this is a great story?
I can’t quite believe that more people have not quickly responded to this magnificent, inspiring, enchanting, and allegorical/metaphorical story. But then again, maybe I can, as most of the people in our complacent and smug world do not want to be disturbed by the very real problems and sufferings of others, especially the homeless and the hungry and the otherwise disposed.
Thank you for sharing your True Story, JSW.