What can love of country, compare to love for a woman?
The Rabbinicals call it “license to kill”, the reason for revenge given at expense of any blood.
Why would you betray your country, particularly with a doting mother, the Queen of Britain, Her Majesty Herself?
George W. Bush could tell you why. For revenge. To kill heroin dealers.
Bush wasn’t always a young man, and the Presidency took him to childhood, where war was a toy, watching those oil wells alight upon his father’s face, and seeing the end of the world come below the horizon as his mother, a York in service of MI-6, watching the depravity of an Injun husband and child, of the rarest of tribes, Chippawa, thought wiped out after Adolf Hitler’s confirmation of bloodline and downfall.
Bush was born to be old. George, Junior, W, they never existed. He stole every legacy related to that word, even the Mount Sinai peaks itself. George W. Bush was a God, the type that Jewish gangsters talk about, smiling in hushed words, displaying their “K” tattoo for their first Marlboro Red they shared to stop an aneurysm.
So how did George W. Bush, betray the United States, in such hushed caliber, that even the Corsicans, the Dulchez line, the markers of the fingers, could not see him? If Dracula could not sense him, be he a Werewolf, an enemy of the Camarilla Duchy, the highest of Roman orders in the silence and secrets of the Vatican itself, beyond the Black Registrar’s final walls and inside the wombed spider chambers, with the Grey, the first and last captive we’ve ever taken from another world, in the ancient centuries where silk first kissed us to the curse of Kilrath, the Cat People? The Immortals?
George W. Bush, was dating a young woman, on campus, his freshman year, that his Peers in the society of Equals did not approve of. She was a pot dealer, and a French-Laten, a type of Arab from Latin-Sicilian blood of Legionnaires returned from the Holy Wars of Judea, the First Contact with the Demons, those that Christ served, the winged monsters upon the Owle. The Druzes.
The Corsican Union was called in, an MI-6 medical union charged with morphine distribution to hospitals, and to train themselves, heroin merchants and FBI undercovers, even rapists on primary votes for sports out of Californian barrister houses serving Isarel.
What would you do for love?
George W. Bush, acquired a line, a long line, of pure cocaine, one hundred percent pure, and took a long rail of it, in the private of his Housemasters, the Snakes Phi Beta Kappa Lodge, for Tory Democrats, joining Sinn Fein and the Republicans forever. His mind blasted straight through, as if a gunshot splattering his brains out the back of his skull.
Since then, he’s been stealth, a Nightranger. Someone who can’t be seen or sensed, unless you’re also a Werewolf, a rapist. A gay royal, like Hitler.
All it took next, was a job at the mail post, and then, the Corsican spy’s own wife, died of a heroin overdose, a “VC sap” from that moment onwards among all the Vampires and Gypsies and Wolves, the Nobles and Grecians and Jews. His wife, meanwhile, after conjugal love and bearing a child, went back to her home, in Afghanistan, to work for Mullah Omar.
Beyond that, little else is reputed of George W. Bush, except for that one act of rebellion against the Queen.
What is a War Criminal, but a man who is capable of prosecuting a foreign war. A crime, after all, is an act out of hatred, an irrational instinct, from which all dousers in our chest function.
That’s right. George W. Bush, is a Buddhist.