Subversify welcomes Mike who  hails from the Emerald Isle, a born and bred Irishman from the east coast of Ireland – he has been living on the outskirts of London (on the Essex border) for the past 45 years. He is lucky enough to have Epping Forest on his doorstep.

By: Mike

http://wicklowmick.multiply.com/

“’Hould yar whisht now” Granddad Gorman broke the sleepy silence as we all sat around the turf fire feeling drowsy after our evening meal and before we went to bed. He jumped up from his chair and almost ran to the little window that looked out onto the road. Although I was only seven or eight at the time I realized that he was frightened as he looked a bundle of nerves. I also saw Granny Gorman drop her knitting and take up her Rosary Beads.
We, that is, my brothers Ger and Jackie, were ‘down the country’ back home in Ireland for a short holiday late in the year 1948. I loved it but without even radio and certainly no electricity in the village, the dark early winter evenings of October left us with little to do a lot of the time. Some nights Uncle Mick and Uncle Jack would read us something from one of the many books that lay on the shelf but I much preferred to hear their stories. Although many were gruesome and horrible and regularly gave me nightmares, I still loved to hear them…………..
The reason for Granddad’s quick reaction was the sound of crunching wheels and horse hooves rattling on the roadside not far away from the front of the house. I had in fact heard them but had not taken any notice. I thought that it was probably one of the local farmers making their way home after working in the fields.
“What’s wrong Granny?” I asked. “Shush now Michael, your Granddad will tell you all in good time” she spoke softly and quietly. Granddad continued to look out the small window, then turned and said to us, in particular Granny – “Tis the damn Dullahan that will surely bring bad news upon the village”. He made the sign of the cross which made me more nervous.
Twice more in the next ten or fifteen minutes, the noise got louder then faded away. I am almost certain that I heard a scream or two from some distant house. Apart from that you could have heard a pin drop…………….
Eventually Granddad returned to his seat near the fire and all was as quiet as a tomb. “Go on Granddad” Jackie coaxed “tell us about the Dulli or whatever you called it. Is it a ghost or are you just pretending?” Jackie was a disbelieving little so-and-so and would in fact if he had been dared to do so, gone outside and shook hands with the devil himself. He began to snigger………..

“Laugh?” Granddad asked “so you think the Dullahan is a figment of me imagination do you?  Well let me tell you that one of these dark nights you will as sure as hell meet up with the blackguard himself and I can tell you that he will soon wipe that smile off your face”. I thought that Granddad was more than a little annoyed with Jackie.
“Tell me Granddad” I spoke softly from my little perch on the hob close to the fire, “I’ll believe you”. “You’re alright Mick” he spoke softly to me “but them that mock the spirits come to a sticky end in the long run. You mark my words”

I think that Jackie understood what Granddad was saying for the smile was no longer on his face. “I will believe you too” he said “please tell us about the Dullahan”.

Granddad went through the usual rigmarole that I knew only too well when he was about to tell us a story. He slowly took out his pipe, filled it with tobacco and as he lit it, he puffed away gently, blowing the smoke towards the fire.
“The Dullahan” he said “is probably the most frightening of all the fairy folk that you are ever likely to encounter. Maybe I should say that he is the one that you should pray every night that you will never encounter at all”. Granddad paused and puffed away knowing right well that we were hanging on his every word. He slowly continued.

“You see” he said “in the old Gaelic; he is called the ‘Gan Ceann’. Now tell me, who knows what that means in Irish?” Ger and Jackie made no reply but I knew what ‘ceann’ meant. I said “Something ‘head’, Granddad”. “Excellent Mick, I knew these two amadans couldn’t hold a light to you. You are quite right, it does mean ‘head’ and ‘gan’ means ‘without’”. As he finished speaking I suddenly had the vision forming in my little head of something, or worse still someone, without a head.

As I have said often before, Granddad had the ability of reading my mind like an open page. “Yes indeed Mick, a most fearsome man without a head. Now when I say without a head, that’s not quite true. He carries his ugly ould head under his arm. Two great big shining eyes and a grin on his face that would frighten the devil himself. You see it goes from ear to ear”. He paused for a moment and puffed away with his pipe as if waiting for this information to sink in. Jackie sniggered.

“Oh yes you little brat” Granddad said slightly annoyed at him “and he carries a whip made of bone. You know that bone that runs down your back from your head to your backside? Well that is what’s called your spine and his whip is made up of a human spine”. Again he paused for effect.

“He always has a big black horse that pulls a wagon and guess what?” he asked. “No” I replied afraid to guess anything at this stage. “Well now” he continued “the spokes of the wheels are made of human leg bones and dried human skin covers the wagon. Now Jackie me boy, how to you fancy meeting him on a dark night?”

This time Jackie did not snigger. Granddad continued. “As long as you can hear the wagon wheels crunching on the road you are safe for as soon as he stops he claims a body from close by. Makes not a hape-worth of difference whether it is a live or dead person, he claims him and takes him away. The only thing is that if the person is still alive, the Dullaham calls out that person’s name and good God Almighty but that same person there and then drops dead at the mention of his or her name”.

“If you say your prayers Granddad” I asked quietly “does he leave you alone?” “Not a chance Mick. When the old devil puts his mark on you, sure you are a certain gonner. All the prayers in the world won’t save you. Your only hope is that you died in the state of grace cause then he won’t be able to get you into hell and you will find yourself at the gates of Heaven”. As he said all this, he put his right index finger to his lips and nodded towards Jackie who was staring into the fire. He then, believe it or not winked at me.

Now usually at this stage of one of Granddad’s horror stories I would have a hard time not peeing in my pants but I was now immediately relieved in a more sensible meaning. I kept a straight face and winked back at him………………………

“And another thing Jackie” he continued, now speaking directly to my brother, “there is no use trying to block his way for you know what. The blackguard will only throw a bucket of blood on you marking you for his next victim. Either that or he whips your eyes out with his spine whip”. I could see that Jackie was now cowering closer and closer to Granny and I gave another crafty wink to Granddad.

“So how do you stop him Granddad?” I asked. “Only the one way Mick” he replied “and that is to always carry something made of real gold. Do you have any gold Jackie?” he asked. “No Granddad” he whispered in reply “but I will save up all my pennies until I can buy some”. “Good” said Granddad “because you never know the day or the time that you meet him be it in the dark or during broad daylight. And another thing” he said “don’t make jokes about such people or one of them might come for you much earlier than you expect”. I could see that this warning brought tears to Jackie’s eyes.
A few minutes later, Granddad opened the front door and stood outside in the dark. I joined him but neither of us spoke for a couple of minutes. I started off by saying to him “That was a good one Granddad; you frightened the daylights out of Jackie. I am glad that it was not true”.

“Not true?” Granddad said loudly “how dare you suggest that I would tell you a lie. The whole story from start to finish is as true as I am standing here beside you. What on earth makes you think it was not true?” he asked. “But you winked at me when you were telling it” I protested. “Winked?” he said “sure wasn’t it just a bit of dust from the fire that got into my eye and I never did it on purpose”. I now moved back towards the light of the doorway.

“You mark my words young Michael. The Dullahan is the real thing and I hope to God that it is many a year before you hear the grinding sound of those wheels and the noise of horse’s hooves outside your very own door. For as sure as eggs is eggs, it will bring sadness and misfortune to you and yours”……………………

So – that was my introduction to the Dullahan and you know something? I believe every word of it. Hopefully please God, I have a few more years before I hear the sound of strange wagons and horses in our road on the outskirts of London for I can assure you that it would be an awesome sight and frighten the life out of half the neighbourhood……………………..

(The Dullahan is truly a character in ancient Irish storytelling. The more horrible and frightening the storyteller makes his tale the more respected he becomes. Over the years, the story has travelled far and wide and is believed to have inspired the screenwriting of the film The Legend of Sleepy Hollow’).

By: W.D. Noble

I’m coming home.

The decision to leave, in the end, was an easy one. I’d applied the economist’s ‘marginal utility’ to the thing, and reached some conclusions. They weren’t pretty ones, but truthful.

First, I was hoping for a more diverse group. Most of the people here are 40+, and while they all mean well, I’m given to believe that there’s no passion in the thing (although some, in deference, are pretty passionate). It’s hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks that Gen Y is simply accepting what’s being handed to them – even if it’s a shitty future from a shitty bunch of political grifters who sold out their futures so a handful of people could sip champagne on a balcony.

The handful of twentysomethings I’ve met here – products, by and large, of the post-9/11 era – have told me stories of their complacent friends and fellows; people who grew up knowing that they can be patted-down, photographed, filmed, spied upon and arrested for ‘suspicion’ of terrorism. These people accept, in the main, this condition as one of the prices for ‘freedom’. The few who’ve connected the dots and who are here can’t believe that their age-related comrades are so apathetic and accepting.

Second, while I could be wrong, I’m of the belief that this entire thing has been co-opted in some fashion by the authorities. A case in point – the other day, about ten people from the Plaza marched on the House Armed Services Committee meeting (seven were arrested). Seven. I’m sorry, but that’s not a ‘protest’. That’s a minor disruption in the day’s business for these people; the Capitol Police, who are in charge of the building, actually outnumbered the protesters without adding additional staff. There are several cops in our number (I discussed this with a number of people who agreed with me that this was likely the case, including one of the organizers, who told me, “But what are we going to do about it?” Having neatly boxed us in by giving us a permit for the next four months, they’ve all but guaranteed that the organizers will behave like the goldfish who are put in a suddenly-bigger-bowl – they’ll still swim in the same small circle. Now that the park is theirs, the organizers will strive to keep the number of protesters within the limits. It’s cheaper on the D.C. police, as I mentioned earlier – they don’t have to house or feed us; we’ve done that for ourselves, and pledged to keep the thing peaceful, so they’ll not have to consider what happens every time a committee comes up with a new march or ‘occupation’. The whole thing begins to remind me of a church-camp. People wander through, reading our signs and seeing how orderly we are – one rather vacuous-looking girl (obviously dressed for one of the local offices and on her lunch break), said “How cute!”

Which brings me to my third reason – there simply aren’t enough of us. We all fit in the Plaza. We all toe the line. We all stay orderly and contained.

This needs to be messy, people. It needs to be chaotic. I’m perfectly willing to get myself arrested – but not for walking down the street and saying, “Excuse me, Mr. Chairman, may I sit here in your meeting? I know these people in blue uniforms will take me to their jail in a few minutes, because I’m going to pull out this sign under my jacket and say ‘No More War!’ – but that’s all right. I’ll be out in an hour after you take my fingerprints and photo, because I’ve got a lot of friends who’ll pull out their platinum Amex.”

Fuck that. That’s not a protest. As I said earlier, that’s a minor interruption.

The authorities are not afraid of us – not by nearly enough.

Until there are enough of us to shut down one of these buildings – until there are enough of us to completely block the streets – until there are enough of The Best of Us to force the police to not only add staff, but to call out the National Guard and the bulldozers and pull troops off the lines in Iraq and Afghanistan to contain the masses in the streets – until America begins to resemble 1968 – this won’t work.

Those I met – the handful of twentysomethings with no future and the old people who’d seen this before in the past – they’re good people. They Get It. They – and I – are willing.

There just aren’t enough of us. And that scares me.

It scares me because no one appears – at least now – to be willing to do whatever it takes to correct this mess. Most people still believe, in spite of all of the evidence to the contrary, that the electoral system in America really works. Most still believe in the ballot, when the ballot has so clearly been co-opted, as was this protest, by Those in Charge.

There were over a dozen people who sent me notes just before I left for this place a little over a week ago, who said, “I wish I was there with you,” then offered some excuse or another. I said at the time, and I still believe this – you no longer have a choice. If you sit on the fence, you’ve made a choice to stand with the apathetic. If you choose to participate, you’ve made the choice to be a rebel, and to help save your country. It’s that simple. Sadly, most have made their decision.

As much as I’d like to quote Spartacus, and say, “He’ll be back, and he’ll be millions,” something tells me that things are either going to have to get a hell of a lot worse. I’m given to remember that the 1960′s protests, as large as they were, were only marginally successful until 1968, when people proved they were willing to shut down the nation’s capitol and get their heads cracked open in Chicago; Kent State was the galvanizing moment, when protesters were finally killed by Establishment troops – and public opinion, even among the apathetic ‘Silent Majority’ – was finally swayed.

While this era needs another Neil Young and a modern version of “Ohio”, what America needs to understand is that it took Kent State to provide the inspiration.

I’m afraid it’ll come to that.

Dispatches from D.C. 5 of 5

Part I: Joining The Revolution; Chronicle of One Man’s Journey

Part II: W.D. Noble’s Dispatches From D.C.

Part III: Learning and Growing Through Protest- D.C.

Part IV: Sharing A Tent In Freedom Plaza

Part V: Dispatches From D.C.-Homeward Bound

By: Alexandra Pratt.

‘Dawn’ has never been my favourite time of day. And yet here I am, stumbling bleary-eyed down a stony track in the half light, trying – and failing – to move quietly despite assorted binoculars, cameras, tripod and camping stool. A kilometre and a half later, we find three other early risers already settled on the edge of the track, scanning the open steppe below for moving shadows as the sun strengthens and a distant line of hills sharpen against the sky. Then, the excited whisper passes around our little group

“Lobos! Uno, dos…tres!”

I swing my binoculars wildly around an open grassy area,but the last wisps of ground mist drift through the trees, making it difficult to make out anything grey or black. Then, I catch a movement, unpredictable and jerky, like a puppy playing. And that is what it is, sort of; a group of three young wolves, probably last year’s cubs, playing together in the stillness of dawn and suddenly the effort of getting there from England, of getting up in time to see them, is all worth it.

We watch the young wolves at play for perhaps twenty minutes that morning, but we aren’t in a famous North American national park, or remote corner of Canada, we are in north west Spain, just a hour’s drive from a duel carriageway and a line of electricity pylons marking out the unromantic boundaries of the Sierra de la Culebra reservefrom the 21st century. Designated a ‘hunting reserve’, wolveshere, as in most of Europe, don’t enjoy full protection and around three are killed by trophy hunters under license every year. Yet few local people, it seems, regard man’s ancient enemy with anything but pride, encouraged perhaps by the growing number of wolf watchers who hunt with cameras and not guns.

This is because the Sierra de la Culebra is one of the best places in Europe, if not the world, to see wolves in the wild. As more and more people leave a poor living on the remote corners of rural Spain for city life, up to 2,000 Iberian wolves have taken advantage of the depopulation and started to breed on their old territories. It’s a form of re-wilding that is happening unplanned right across Europe and across many parts of recession hit America.

© Alexandra Pratt

While this remote part of North West Spain may be good for wolves, that does not mean an abundance of facilities, trails, guidance or assistance for watchers, but perhaps that is part of the Sierra’s allure. Travelling south from Santander, we crossed the Picos de Europa, and then the hot yellow plain below gradually rose, as we drove west, into rocky outcrops and unpredictable hills covered in oak and coniferous woodland. In spring, the hills of the Sierra are covered in a mix of purple heathers and yellow broom, with lavender dotted along the road verges and the startled flight of wildlife around every corner.

© Alexandra Pratt

There are few tourists and even less information in the half-abandoned villages of medieval houses inside the reserve, where rusting playgrounds tell the tale of rural depopulation only too poignantly. We’re staying at possibly the best place for wolf watchers, both for location and for information; CTR Veniata in the tiny village of San Pedro delas Herrerias. The charming and helpful proprietor, Antonio, is ready with small maps of the best viewing places (although you’ll need to speak some Spanish) and a notice board in the reception is kept updated with daily sightings of wolves inside the reserve.

Dusk is also a good time for wildlife watching and as each afternoon ,heavy with heat ,cools into evening, we drive down long, empty roads that turn into tracks, unmarked and untravelled except by the wolves themselves. Outside the village of Ferreras de Arriba, we wait for an hour, sitting on the edge of a forest popular with local mushroom pickers. The scents of pine and lavender are in the air and a million insects drone under the clear tapping of a woodpecker as we scan the scrub and a grassy field below our small vantage point. Once again, beginner’s luck strikes and I catch a movement that wasn’t there a moment before; another wolf.

This time, he is alone, meandering around the field in the soft light of evening. Pale brown and grey in colour, every so often he disappears and I realise that he is lying down. Although large animals, wolves can be invisible in this landscape of bush scrub and low heather. This wolf isn’t resting, though, he is hunting.  A minute or two of utter stillness is broken by a vertical leap as he lands with muzzleand front paws on a single spot; probably some small furry creature scurrying through the grass. We watch this for perhaps ten minutes, before our lone wolf trots into a stand of trees and disappears again, but what a treat!

© Alexandra Pratt

© Alexandra Pratt

We were tipped off about this viewing place by another English couple, from Northumberland. Veteran wildlife watchers, they have seen everything from grown bears in Romania to lynx in Andalucía. They are a mine of useful information in a place where there is little guidance for the novice, such as finding the areas where rangers leave slaughtered donkeys for the wolves. A word of caution, however; the ‘rules’ for visitors to the reserve can seemingly change, as we discover when two rangers order us away from a feeding station with threats of ‘reporting’ us, despite there being no signs or any kind of indication this particular placeis not as open as the rest of the reserve. It is very likely thisis a place kept for trophy hunting – not a good mix witheco-tourists and cameras!

Although the hunting brings in little money compared to the growing (and potential) benefits of eco tourism, the presence of the rangers does mean that illegal poaching is kept to a minimum. The rights and wrongs of the situation can fade away though, in a long evening of wolf watching. For those who have not tried it, it may sound boring. It isn’t. Once tuned in to the call of a cuckoo, the surprised sprint of alizard or the wandering of a wild boar sow and her adorable stripy brood, time speeds up rather than slows down and two or three hours pass as easily as the clouds across the evening sky.

© Alexandra Pratt

There is always something to watch, even if the creature you’re waiting for never turns up! And the Sierra del Culebra isn’t just famous for wolves. It is sanctuary to a wide number of birds, some, such as the Great Bustard, are rare and attracttwitchers. We see cranes, vultures, snakes (‘culebra’ means ‘snake’) and a huge number of hawks I’m not qualified to name, but they’re no less beautiful for that. Deer, wild boar and other game are as abundant as the wildflowers and the lack of other visitors makes it all so easy to explore.

That, of course, may change thanks to articles such as this, but I think the Sierra del Culebra has room for a few more watchers yet, and if it helps spread the word what a beautiful, noble, and above all, shy creature the wolf is, perhaps it won’t be long before those rangers won’t be needed at all.

Alexandra Pratt is a British journalist and author.  You can read more of her writing and contact her at her website : www.alexandra-pratt.com

by The Late Mitchell Warren

For centuries, people have wondered about the origins of April Fools’ Day and whether or not it’s a Pagan holiday, thereby invalidating it in the eyes of this great nation full of 308 million reasonable non-hypocrites.

Unfortunately, the United States government and the American-written Wikipedia have published revisionist history for April 1. The official explanation for the origin of April Fools’ Day is that it has no clear origin; that it is perhaps remnants of an Indian, Tantric sex ritual or that it is simply a holiday of human celebration based on the musings of an egomaniacal Flemish poet (is there any other kind, really?) in the 16th century who wrote of a nobleman who sent his servants to perform foolish errands on his behalf, a “poisson d’avril” (or “April Fish”) demonstrating through parable the insanity and self-indulgence that characterize all rich people. (A common stereotype that we the poor still know to be true)

Others believe that April Fools’ Day developed because of the stupidity of Middle Ages European people who insisted upon celebrating New Year’s Day on March 25th because they couldn’t properly read their calendars. (Please note I referred to the stupidity of Middle Ages Europeans, as in medieval, and not middle aged Europeans like David Cameron and Giorgio Napolitano) Naturally, “enlightened” people of the time celebrated New Years on January 1 and looked down upon those who celebrated the week long holiday from March 25th to April 1st referring to them all as “damn conservative fools.”

Another popular theory is that Geoffrey Chaucer invented April Fools’ Day by accident. In Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales (1392) the “Nun’s Priest’s Tale” is set as “Syn March bigan thritty dayes and two.” Scholars now believe that what Chaucer meant to say was “Syn March was gon”, or “32 days after March”, which would be May 2, the anniversary of the engagement of King Richard II of England to Anne of Bohemia.

Unfortunately, people back then were just as stupid as people nowadays, and thus mistook the setting as the 32nd day of the month of March, or April 1st. In the story, Chauntecleer is a vain cock that is tricked by a fox. (But what cock can’t be described as vein? I mean vain)

However, I believe it’s only fair to set the record straight. April Fools’ Day is a Pagan holiday and by precedent, has been associated with some of the most vile and sadistic behavior in human history. My conscience simply doesn’t allow me to take part in a holiday where innocent people were bludgeoned to death all in the name of good fun.

Now I should reiterate that the term Pagan means, to Christians, any holiday or custom or government that Jesus personally disapproves of. It’s a major misconception that we believe Pagan means “a polytheistic or pre-Christian religion.” No, Pagan simply means that we measure the entity of discussion against the “What Would Jesus Do” principle.

If Jesus would not do this thing, we call it Pagan. Hence, one could reply…

“Say, do you want to go to a movie?”

“What’s the movie called?”

“Marvel Comics’ Thor.”

“Hmm, I can’t see Jesus going to see a movie about a long-haired blonde Nancy that summons power from his hammer. So I’d have to say…Pagan.”

OR

“Hey, that girl really likes you, dawg. I’ll bet you wanna tap that ass, playa.”

“Hmm…I can’t see Jesus doing a skank like that. So I’d have to say that bitch is too Pagan for me, dawg.”

So now that you fully understand the concept of Paganism, allow me to share with you three reasons why April Fools’ Day is a Pagan holiday, unworthy of my celebration. The first precedent we have of April Fools’ Day being celebrated dates back to the time of Noah. As you probably know, due to divine vengeance, which was promised because of the earth’s newly found Democratic government in which giant conglomerates (born of spirit angels) raped and pillaged the poor, the earth was flooded to the point of total destruction.

The only family who was spared was that of Noah’s family, who had survived by building an ark. Upon this ark, Noah brought two of every animal (under 100 tons, assumedly) and stayed in the ark for forty days. However, the waters rose for 150 days and Noah was stuck in the ark for a long period of time—with his angry wife. With his annoying son and daughter in laws. And with Ham and Canaan, two strong and dainty men who leered at Noah day after day and made him feel very uncomfortable.

After the fortieth day and the fortieth night, Noah was nearly delirious from cabin fever (not to mention the stench of sex and shit) and aching to be out on land again. The ark waited on the mountains of Ararat and didn’t recede until the first month. (The Hebrew month corresponding to our month of April)

His eyes lit up when an angel spoke to him at night saying, “Noah, come up! Forty days and forty nights have passed and the earth is dry. Come now, eat meat and have intercourse!”

Noah was so happy and excitedly ran to the door alerting his family to get up. Noah opened a window he had made in the ark and sent out a dove. To his disappointment, the dove came back to him.

As Noah reached the door, seeing only rain, he heard the dove (no doubt summoning the voice of a mischievous angel) say, “You old drunken fool!”

Noah was devastated. This was not a time for merriment or laughter. Noah had to go back into the feces-infested ark with a long face and bruised pride. His own family laughed at him. Even the dove crapped on his hand out of spite. Apparently the sons of heaven who followed Satan enjoyed humiliating the prophets.

Another bad precedent for April Fools’ Day was in the time of Jesus. After his death in the month of Nisan (corresponding to April), Jesus was buried, a mocked and humiliated son of God, who suffered the indignities of man in order to save the righteous; the true bulwark of Christianity. His disciples, confused and grief-stricken, decide to go his tomb so that they could anoint his body with spices. Some of them pondered whether his heaven-bound body would be missing or if the earthly corpse would still be rotting.

To their surprise, upon opening the tomb they found a note. Signed Jesus, it read “Sorry, my brothers. I am not really the Messiah. I just wanted to see how far you would take this. Ha Ha Ha. (The ancient Jewish version of “LOL”) We sure had some laughs, did we not? I hope I have taught you the importance of laughter.”

The disciples were shocked and appalled. They wailed and cried for hours. Some talked about committing suicide. Others became disillusioned and questioned God himself. All belief in Christianity, all hope in justice and truth, the voice of the lowly one being saved in a world full of greed and evil, had been nothing but a lie.

Just as they were at their lowest ebb, Judas Iscariot emerged from the shadows with a big Nisan Fools’ grin on his face.

“Judas!” Peter yelled in frustration.

“Ha ha ha. You should have seen the look on your face! Who is the fool now?!”

“Arggghh!” Thomas shrieked.

Of course the Lord has really disappeared and went to heaven. But that rascally old troll Judas just had to cause trouble one more time. It wasn’t funny. It was just MEAN.

Don't believe his straight face! Judas is CRAZY! LOL

 

One last story to demonstrate the villainy and tyranny of April Fools’ Day.

Oliver Cromwell has already secured a place in Parliament thanks to the corruptly created “Council of State.” One of Cromwell’s most brutal acts was leading an invasion of Ireland to track down the remaining royalist forces who had escaped and sought refuge with the Irish Confederate Catholics.

During this campaign, Cromwell ordered the massacre of the entire town of
Drogheda, along with the troops Over 3,500 people including women and children were slained. Cromwell also went out of his way to send a second army to invade Scotland. At the Destruction of Dundee, he was responsible for the murder of over half the population of Dundee, killing innocents along the way, leaving only a few survivors to become slaves and prostitutes. By the end of his bloody campaign, about one third of the Irish population (an estimated 500,000 people) had died on orders of Cromwell.

What most people don’t know is that Cromwell elected to start this genocidal campaign on April 1, 1648. Cromwell indeed played a “prank” on the people of Ireland and Scotland and charmed his way into the territory pretending to be a man of the people against Charles I’s injustice. However, this ghastly lie ended not only with disappointment, but with grave sin. One would think, despite the holiday’s purity of intentions, this shocking example of an April Fools’ Day gone wrong, would be enough to retire the lie once and for all.

Oliver Cromwell Burning in Hell

But no. That’s because we in the United States love to lie. We love to trick, to fool, to promise something and then screw someone royally ruining their life forever all in the name of a gag. Lying is an American tradition and an important part of our heritage. Never has a country detested truth so much and fought so hard for the proliferation of lies, exaggerations and empty promises. In fact, it seems to be the only way one can get elected.

April 1st also has the highest occurrence of theft, vandalism and property damage in the United States. It is a day one can be fully American and go rob from the poor and contribute to the rich and corrupt.

And in case you’re wondering, I have indeed suffered my own April Fools’ Day pranks, and I was not amused with any of them. The idea of April Fools’ Day might be a light and enjoyable farce but MY experience with it has tarnished it forever and I can’t imagine hurting anyone the way I have been hurt. I remember my past April Fools’ Day attacks very well…

2005

Ex Girlfriend: I really love you. I think I want to marry you.

Mitchell: Really???

Ex Girlfriend: Not really, I’m dumping you because I had sex with your best friend last night. I just couldn’t think of another way of telling you. April Fools!

Mitchell: Wow…

2000

Ex Girlfriend: Mitchell, I was pregnant with your child but I decided to have an abortion. I don’t necessarily mind having children but the thought of your baby makes me physically ill. This nation is pro-choice so I have the backing of the state. Don’t fight me on this.

Mitchell: Wow…uh…

Ex Girlfriend: Getting an abortion was really a bizarre experience. The dead fetus did sort of look like you. It was just weird seeing all those body baby parts all over our bed. Oh and sorry I ruined your hangar. (Hands Mitchell a blood soaked hangar)

Mitchell: Oh…uh…

Ex Girlfriend: Hey! My body, my choice you fucking Republican douche bag!

Mitchell: I…I…

Ex Girlfriend: Hahahah! April Fools!

Mitchell: Ohhh, I get it.

Ex Girlfriend: I just took the morning after pill.

Mitchell: Ah. Heh.

1995

Mugger: (Pointing a gun) Get on the ground! Gimme all your money!!!!

Mitchell: (Panicked, lowering himself to the ground) OK, OK! Please don’t shoot me!

Mugger: You’ve seen my face. I’m going to have to kill you, sucka.

Mitchell: Noo! Please don’t kill me!!

Mugger: Give me your money!

Mitchell: It’s in my wallet! Take it!

(The mugger grabs Mitchell’s wallet and takes the money)

Mugger: This ain’t enough money. I’m going to have to take something else too.

Mitchell: (Crying) Oh no. Why am I cursed with good looks and sex appeal?

Mugger: HEY! What’s that noise?

(The mugger looks around and then runs away)

(Mitchell’s friend emerges from the shadows)

Friend: Hahahahah! Boy we had you going! April Fools!

Mitchell: (Holding his heart) Oh…I see. Hahah, I guess that was funny.

Friend: You should have seen the look on your face! That was hilarious!

Mitchell: …Yeah. Friend of yours?

Friend: Yeah. A friend of a friend. I don’t really know him that well.

Mitchell: Is he coming back? You know…to give me the money he took?

Friend: Um……………………….…huh. I guess so. I mean…we never really talked about it.

Mitchell: Ah. I see. Well…do you know where he lives or how to get in contact with him?

Friend: No. In fact, I think he’s leaving town this weekend. I think that’s what someone was saying.

Mitchell: Oh. Okay.

Friend: (Breaks into tears) I’m sorry, Mitchell!

Mitchell: Yeah…wasn’t a very good April Fools’ prank, was it?

Friend: I’m sorry! I’m just so desperate and pathetic. I hate my life, Mitchell.

Mitchell: I know. Look, it’s okay. Let’s just go home.

Friend: (Pulls out a gun) I’m sorry, Mitchell. I need more money for crack. I’m going to have to take your car.

Mitchell: Ah, dammit!

AND THE LIST OF GRIEVANCES GOES ON AND ON.

I hope all you April Fools pranksters are happy with the carnage you have created! Do us all a favor and stop bringing pain and misunderstanding to our dying world!

“On the last episode of Raining Cats & Dogs, an old Fido met a runaway munchkin cat that reminded him of his younger self.  At first they were enemies, but eventually Fido felt sorry for the munchkin and let him eat his leftover supper of raw rabbit stew.

The young munchkin cat was brash and fearless to be sure, but he hardly had a leg to stand on. In fact, his legs were far too short for his body.

Tashi wanted a leg up on the competition but tripped over his own tail. He discovered that his brilliant plan to murder the rebellious munchkin cat for daring to leave Caninae Familiare backfired.

Instead of Fido tearing the cat to pieces, like Tashi predicted, Fido befriended the cat and made sure the little puffball didn’t starve to death. Fido capable of a good deed?  Tashi was appalled.

Forget the ramifications of dog finally befriending cat. The munchkin Puffball and Fido were both guilty of disobedience, and to Tashi that was a deed punishable by death.

But how could Tashi possibly kill Fido, a dog much better and stronger than him?

Tashi the Betrayer and the illegitimate son would have to find another way to crucify Fido. Namely, using his doggin’ noggin.

Confused? You might be after this episode of Raining Cats & Dogs.”

Raining Cats & Dogs Episode 1
Raining Cats & Dogs Episode 2
Raining Cats & Dogs Episode 3
Raining Cats & Dogs Episode 4
Raining Cats & Dogs Episode 5
Raining Cats & Dogs Episode 6
Raining Cats & Dogs Episode 7
Raining Cats & Dogs Episode 8
Raining Cats & Dogs Episode 9
Raining Cats & Dogs Episode 10
Raining Cats & Dogs Episode 11

Tashi knew he would be the one to kill Fido, he knew it from the first day that Fido betrayed his confidence, back in the savage lands.  But how to kill a superior opponent…he thought on that predicament for years on end.  He concocted complicated schemes in which to have Fido murdered for his betrayal, but he could never quite figure the logistics of the deathblow.  He studied the concept of “car-ma” from some of the wiser cats of his community—the cat teaching that suggests that all ferocious dogs eventually get run over by flying rocks out on the highway, those man-made steel rocks with rubber wheels.

In order to murder Fido, a superior creature in strength but one lagging in vitality, Tashi would have to think like something greater than he—a human being.  He would have to eat like a human, think like a human, sleep like a human and talk like a human.  Tashi would sneak away from elder meetings at Caninae Familiare to study the forbidden mystical book: “Discover Readings With Phonics.”  Allegedly, a conjuring cat once said of the book that it could cast a magic spell and allow dogs to speak as humans.  Tashi repeated the chants to himself for weeks on end, carefully discerning the markings and “letters.”

“To think like a human, to act like a human, to talk like a human,” the dog muttered to himself, arriving home after eavesdropping on Fido and Puffball who were tolerating each other to a disgusting degree.  Tashi entered the premises of a distant relative of the late Sir Henry Walker III, one who was favorably disposed to dogs entering his home.  Upon seeing the empty home, Tashi ran to the living quarters and eyed what he remembered as a “phone”, a paranormal device that allowed communication from human to human.  He jumped up onto the table and grabbed the receiver with his jaws.  With careful precision he pressed his paws to the symbols for “G” (what he assumed was human abbreviation for their “God”), “1” and “1” which represented man and womankind.

He listened intently to the rings.

“911, what’s the emergency?” the feminine voice replied.

He hesitated, still uncertain of his magical abilities.  “I…I…want help,” he growled in a barely comprehensible voice.

“You need help?  Where are you located, sir?”

Tashi grumbled and struggled to form a new sentence.  “Need help…dog hurt.  Boy.”

“A dog attack?  Sir, you need the Department of Animal Care and Control. The phone number there is one eight—”

“No!” he whimpered.  “Hurt dog!”

“The operator sighed.  Would you like me to connect you to animal control?”

“Yes,” he growled.

“Are you hurt?  Can you move around?”

“Hurt.  Dog.  Big dog.”

“I’m picking up a physical address of Henry Walker Jr. on Redonda Street.  Is this correct?”

“Yes!” Tashi replied excitedly, almost giving away his bark.

“We’ll send police out there to help you.  Is there a loose dog running around?”

“Yes!” Tashi muttered with all his might.  Upon realizing the coup he successfully pulled off, this alpha dog happily skipped out of the house, leaving the phone off the dial tone.

*

“Wake up, you mutt,” Puffball yelled at a sleeping Fido.  The short-legged cat barely nudged the sleeping giant with his little paw.  Wake up!”

“What is it?”

As Fido turned his head to the sun he saw an alarming site: three giant rocks of the highway settled in front of him, one of them emitting a sound and flashing lights, the other bulging in the middle with flashing lights.  Beyond the synchronized sound of screaming and pulsating machines he heard another disturbing noise: the sound of desperate barks and whimpering sighs of his own kind.  Whatever these monsters were, they were there to consume the flesh of dogs.

A stone-faced human being emerged from the machine carrying a pole, the object used to tame and control wild animals.  His face spoke volumes; equable, detached and desensitized by years of feasting on dog blood.  In his voice were heard cadences of cruelty.  His hair and red neck were raggedy and affected by the scorching sun.

His eyes sank to meet Fido and a cowering ferret cat.

“Looks like this is the dog.  Hey fella,” he said with a deceptively friendly gaze.  You causing problems today?”

Fido growled at the man showing teeth.

“What the shit is this,” the man said incredulously.  I’ll be damned.  There’s some kind of midget cat right next to him.  Arnie, take a look at this.”

“Well I’ll be damned,” the other man said with a laugh.

“Looks like a little gay loving going on here,” the net-man said, cautiously approaching Fido.  “Come on, boy.”

Fido screeched and barked with all his might, daring the capture to take a step closer.

“Whoah!” the man said coolly, laughing off what was presumably one of a thousand dogs putting up a fight.  “Settle down, boy.”  He cautiously side stepped Fido hovering the pole over his fast-turning face.  Fido took an aggressive stance and followed his actions every step of the way.

“Sorry, boy.  The jig is up.  You’re going away for good.”  He peered over to puffball and back to Fido.  “And we’re taking your little cat friend too.”

Fido lunged at the captor and almost knocked him to the ground.  The man stabilized his position and quickly grabbed the pole from the floor.  He waited for Fido to lunge for his head and then wrapped the lanyard onto his neck, jerking the pole around in an effort to slow the little behemoth.

Puffball’s instinctive fear fizzled away upon seeing the man’s cowardice.  After all, what powerful man would need a gadget to subdue his weaker canine opponent?  Like a bolt of furry lightning, Puffball ran up and struck at the man’s face with rabid claws.  The cat attacked so furiously the man fell to his back and struggled to keep the hissing slicer above his face.  Using all his might the man grabbed Puffball and shoved him against Fido, holding their flesh together for a few long moments while he regained his step.

The captor grabbed Puffball by the scruff of his neck while holding the dog pole.  He dropped the feline when Fido bit his ankle, but kept a strong hold of the pole.  Seeing that he was out-powered, the brute did the unthinkable with his last breath of fight.  He sidestepped the pole and avoided the man’s vulnerable leg, choosing instead to grab Puffball in his jaw.  He tried to run away but the captor held the pole tightly.  After wrestling back and forth and gagging himself, Fido relinquished the fight and spit the cat from his mouth.

He muttered in a soft almost embarrassed voice, “Sorry kid.  I couldn’t do it.”

The amazed man chucked as he grabbed a dazed Puffball by the scruff of the neck and tossed him inside the cage.  “You sure put a good fight.  Both of you.”  By the time he shoved Fido into the cage, the brute had had enough and waited for his judgment in tranquility.  He wasn’t drugged or all that tired.  He was simply defeated.

*

“Is this what death feels like?” the shivering cat asked, trying to forge bravery in the darkness just in case Fido caught a glimpse of his shifting eyes.  “Bumpy, fast and aphotic.”

“No.  Death is generous, youngling.”

“This whole scenario feels manufactured.  A charade, a concoction of some greater mind.  If you were not as severely beaten as I was, I would suspect you betrayed me.”

“Fool,” Fido snorted.  “There has only ever been one common enemy against us.  I knew from the moment you told me of the ‘land’ in which you came from.  You were betrayed by Tashi, that bitch from another mother.”

“Tashi?” the midget cat’s eyes raged.  “That bitch!  That fiend!”  The cat hissed and ran around the dark quarters in fury.  “I’ll kill him!  That arrogant bastard.  He can never take criticism.  He can never stomach and independent thought, something that goes against his almighty word.  How weak a value system that bastard has.  He is a coward.  A scared little rodent that has built around himself a neighborhood of empty-minded strays addicted to his wisdom.  This is the reason I left his mind-warped community.  I discovered the truth.”

Fido nodded slowly.  “Let that be your motivation then.   The will for revenge.  It may be enough to get us out of here.  And go back…for his throat.”

“If we are still alive then we must fight.  Perhaps the two of us could break open this box and escape to safety.  Our strength combined would be decimating, unable to be controlled.”

Fido snickered to himself.  “As much as your ferocious body would contribute, these doors are unbreakable.  They are locked and reinforced with a man’s strength.”

“Just one man’s strength.  Are you that fearful of the strength of a man, Fido?”

Fido’s eyes stormed.  “I am not afraid of anything, cat.”

“One man has no authority except what other men give him.  We are not powerless just because we are canine and feline life respectively.”

“What is your idea then?  Even if the two of us could battle ourselves out…”

“We summon a greater power than man.  For countless generations, cats and dogs have worshiped at the feet of man.  But I tell you today, Fido, I have learned of a sacred secret.  There is a power even greater than man.  There is something greater than man that He worships, just as our kind worships.”

“And what is that?”

“Not one man.  Not two or three men.  But I speak of an entire ‘organization’ of human beings.  Like Tashi’s own community.  An enormous herd of human beings that communicate with animals.”

“Upon my association with other worldly animals the likes of which Tashi forbade, I discovered the existence of a religion called People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, a Powerful Human Liberation organization that holds an a multitude of followers.  They protect our kind.”

The damndest thing, Fido thought.  An organization of humans dedicated to the preservation of animals?  Would not such a provision prove man to be the superior species, one capable of compassion?

“Naïve,” Fido snorted.  Do you honestly think that any man-made organization aspires to save us?  We are man’s best friend only because they want to control us.  Or are you one of those, youngling, the type that stubbornly believes there is still good in man?  That somewhere, a single righteous man exists?  That a good man can be found in a city of worthless rabble?”

The cat paused and looked uncertain.

“By all means, share your faith.  Tell me that there is some ‘organization’ out there that is pure.  Revel in your so called hope.”  Fido said with a sneer.  “Run to it like vomit.”

“I don’t believe there is righteousness in man,” the cat said evenly.  “I believe that we can use this organization to our tentative advantage and then tend to ourselves.  It is nothing but a hope in circumstances to our favor.”

“What faith favorable circumstances requires.”

*

“Aaahhh!”

The man screamed as a wild dog emerged from the truck striking with all of his aging might, almost knocking his body to the floor.  The man struggled with the shaky beast, attempting to keep afoot.  The midget cat jumped with all of his rage and aimed for the human’s pretty face.  His diminutive paw with extended nails barely grazed the man’s skin but was enough to startle the human gang into a defensive position.

It was a valiant effort by an over-the-hill dog and an under-developed cat, and as passionate a fight for freedom as had ever transpired.  When Fido and Puffball were overpowered they held their heads high with honor; quiver though they might, they welcomed the imminent dread that others found crippling.  Despite the best efforts of their captors to assimilate them into human culture, the dog and pup resisted.

Some of the other dogs and cats in prison, the mutts, strays and moggies, tried to tell Fido and Puffball how to act.  “When amongst humans,” they warned, “Do as the humans do.”  Puffball would observe the cowardice of his race, and Fido’s race, whenever it came time for a baptismal ceremony.  Indeed, the promise of a new spiritual beginning, adopting a wild animal into a domestic and civilized home, was too promising to even the most hardened of domestic shorthairs.  Fido and Puffball would watch as their angry cellmates suddenly transformed into peaceable beings.  Their pupils would dilate and their mannerisms would take on a subservient bearing.  Cats would slither on and around the walls while dogs would hop up and down in worship as their potential human masters looked on in judgment.

Some strays speculated that the human masters would only anoint the dogs and cats that were purest of heart and most trusting in soul.  This meant that in order to be chosen for baptism, a stray had to be assertive without being aggressive.  Dogs and cats that hissed or stayed far back in the cell were never chosen because their hearts were deemed too black to replenish.  However dogs and cats that aggressively stood their ground and came towards the human masters with contempt were also not chosen, because their ambition was too great.  Only the special ones were chosen, the ones who maintained a calm energy and an eager spirit.

Fido and Puffball understood the desperation that filled the prisons on those baptismal dates.  After all, who would prefer to die in prison rather than die in a luxurious home with pedigree food and the choicest of desserts?  All this would cost a dog would be his dignity, as he would have to take on a new human name and be acculturated with their beliefs and doctrines.  He would extend his hand when he wanted to gnaw on a bone.  He would sit when ordered to sit.  He would stay when the master commanded him to stay.  He would not defecate in places that human beings saw as “holy ground.”  Such subservience might be seen as insulting when done human to human; humans were the ones who consider the “soul” to be an irreplaceable entity much more valuable than a life of comfort.  Dogs knew not the meaning of a “soul.”  Love and affection were the most important things in life.  The name of a good dog, remembered for all times in the heart and mind of a human master, was the eternal reward.

However, such a peripheral vision of paradise was foreign to Fido and Puffball, who resented the dominance of man, especially as a greater, more “compassionate” creature.  Fido and Puffball determined that when their opportunity for baptism emerged, they would do neither the predictable nor the unpredictable.  Fido would neither become aggressive nor submissive, nor even assertive.  For he desired that humans simply not label him as a dog or discern any doglike behavior.  He wanted the human beings to remain uncomfortable, and uncertain of how to behave in his presence.  Upon seeing a human being enter the prison corridors with an expectant face, Fido met the creature’s eyes just long enough to grab his attention.

“He looks kind of old…” the young man muttered.

Fido decided to roll over and play dead but to do so in a very odd way.  He rolled on his back and stuck all four legs up into the air, stiff as a dead dog.  However, he maintained steady eye contact with the human being from his upside down position.  The ramifications of this stance unsettled the human being.  Was it in revolt?  Was it assuring the human master that the fight to train it into subservience was futile because he was already dead in “soul”, that fictitious teaching which he rejected?  Needless to say the human being did not choose this strange dog.

When the human met the eyes of Puffball there was a gleam in his eye.  Probably materialistically motivated; after all, munchkin cats were an expensive slave breed in the human world.  Somehow, the less powerful and less energetic the cat, the more useless in value it is, the more valuable it became to humans.  Perhaps humans enjoyed the “challenge” of taming a difficult animal; this was the opinion of the cynical school of thought.

Puffball decided that if he were being judged on his ability to simulate compliance to human values, he would demonstrate and remonstrate just how human he could be.  The ballsy cat stood upon his hind legs and lifted his face and his front legs in a distinctly human pose.  When the astonished human folded his arms, Puffball folded his arms.  When the human put his hand to his face, the cat also put a paw to his face.  He mirrored the movements of the human until the shopper concluded that such an anomaly could not exist, and was not, in fact, actually happening.

Denial…the human being’s defense against all grave threats, the more cynical dogs and cats concluded.

Fido and Puffball remained together, separated only by a single cell.  They could still hear each other’s voices and would speak to one another during those late, lonely nights.  Sometimes, in the bleakest of days and after hearing sobering news of another cellmate’s execution, Fido would still ask Puffball if his “organization” was coming to save him.  It was not so much a taunt, but a genuine curiosity—a desire to know just how strong a dying cat’s faith could be in the midst of persecution.

When the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals finally appeared, it was to be a day of celebration.  It was as if a miracle had been handed down from a greater power other than man.  Dogs on the outside informed dogs on the inside that a large mobile unit with the words “PETA” inscribed on it had parked itself in front of the prison.

Puffball, starving, malnourished, and crippled with fear, was nearly delusional by this time but still sung the praises of his savior.  How ironic, Fido thought, as he heard the young cat jump up and down and meow in euphoria, that all his life—thanks to the brainwashing of Tashi—that he had looked to these “organizations” of things, whether people or quadrupeds, for his own salvation.

“I guarantee you, Fido, this is not just a manmade organization.  This is an organization devoted to the alleviation of animal suffering.  Animals, that is the species that mankind sees as inferior.”

“But if it’s a manmade organization, youngling,” Fido replied, “Then how can we honestly believe they put a mutt’s interest above their own?”

“I’m not a mutt, Fido!  Neither are you.  We are pure-breds, and should be tried by a court of our peers.  We deserve a higher law of justice!  I remind you, I do not truly believe that this organization will ultimately save us.  However, I do believe they treat us respectfully and allow for our release from these bars.”

It was hard to scoff at Puffball’s optimistic attitude.  All of Fido’s comrades, his enemies and acquaintances, had believed in something, however faint the notion of hope was.  Puffball was no different and had his own higher power to search for.  For the temporary victory, he would rationalize—a temporary victory that would allow the two of them to escape from the clutches of man and figure out a way to live independently of human beings.  This series of philosophical and strategic plans amounted to a form of “science”, another type of faith that Fido found perplexing and ultimately disappointing.

Much to Fido’s surprise, he did see this organization of helpful humans with his own sore eyes.  PETA-representatives stormed the prison and began making demands of the jail keepers.  The munchkin was so excited he was literally hanging on the front bars his bulging eyes pushed through the narrow space hoping to see something miraculous.  There were humans, all right.  These representatives came in and took dozens of cats and dogs away from the prison and held them in their mobile unit.

At the urging of Puffball, Fido did not resist these would-be saviors.  Their intentions were noble said the young one…at least for the moment.  By the time their untrustworthy attitudes would prevail, as all humans eventually did prove to be deceitful, they would break away from the group and find a quiet living spot, somewhere in East Texas, where wild animals roam free and unfettered.  A paradisiacal field, an organization of only morally independent quadrupeds.

The saving organization did take these animals away from the prison, but to the confusion of many, they only transported them to another prison, with slightly less grimy conditions.  The dogs who believed this munchkin’s story grew restless.  “Where are they taking us?”  They would ask Puffball in fury.

“You said they were here to help us.”

“They are.  Just give them time.  No one knows exactly when we are going to be released to the fields.  I presume that if we were released now we would scatter and not travel too far from human domestication.  We will be right back where we started in just a matter of time.”

“Listen to him,” Fido commanded.  “If we are not willing to fight, then our hopes rest on the actions of others.”

“Or inactions!” roared an angry wiener.

Next week, the serialization of Raining Cats and Dogs will continue. In case you’re wondering, the official theme song of Raining Cats and Dogs is Paparazzi by Lady Gaga. Raining Cats and Dogs is a registered copyright (R) 2011 of The Late Mitchell Warren. A downloadable eBook of this dog fiction will be available following the conclusion. Raining Cats and Dogs is a dog murder mystery very loosely based on The Brothers Karamazov and in the style of Animal Farm. But it’s done with an all dog-cast. No animals were harmed in the making of this dog soap opera. This story is not PETA-approved.

Raining Cats & Dogs Episode 1
Raining Cats & Dogs Episode 2
Raining Cats & Dogs Episode 3
Raining Cats & Dogs Episode 4
Raining Cats & Dogs Episode 5
Raining Cats & Dogs Episode 6
Raining Cats & Dogs Episode 7
Raining Cats & Dogs Episode 8
Raining Cats & Dogs Episode 9
Raining Cats & Dogs Episode 10
Raining Cats & Dogs Episode 11

Raining Cats & Dogs Episode 6

Raining Cats & Dogs Episode 7