“Suspect Arrested in White House Shooting Case”

The headline above is real it comes from a November 11, newspaper article about Oscar Ramiro Ortega-Hernande  who allegedly fired nine rounds from a high-powered AK-47 assault rifle at the White House.

Oscar Ramiro Ortega-Hernande, Alleged White House Shooter

On a clear sunny April morning, a lone gunman was perched in a makeshift snipers’ nest on top of the Colonial Coffee building on NW 15th st. One block from McPherson Square, two blocks from the seat of American government. The White House.

He had been camped out for three days.

Patient.

Waiting .

To recreate American history.

At a quarter past ten/he got his opportunity.

“Pst”, was the only sound. The AR-15 sniper rifle fitted with a titanium silencer, laser guided scope and custom barrel barely buckled as it delivered its deadly payload with lethal precision.

Fraction of a second later, the .223 mercury dipped lead missile found its fleshly target. The bullet entered the man’s right anterior lobe, opening up a dime sized hole in its wake. Traveled downward through his medulla oblongata and exited out the base of his neck. Killing him instantly.

Like that.

Before anyone could blink, or think to respond.

The man who made nations tremble.

The leader of the free world.

Commander and Chief of a two trillion dollar war machine.

The President of The United States was dead. With blood splattering out of the hole in his forehead like a misaligned water fountain.

His body slumped. Felled by a sniper’s bullet. Murdered by an invisible, faceless, nameless enemy.

A defiant act of human will.

The unfortunates close to him, the ones who ended up with fragments of his three pounds of knowledge on them would later describe the day as surreal. Like a bad dream.

But it was no dream. It was an American nightmare.

Conceived and birthed inside of an American torture Chamber.

Nurtured inside one of the nation’s peculiar institutions.

A day that would live on in infamy.

A day no American would ever forget.

Exactly as the gunman wanted it.

The excerpt following the news headline is a passage from my new assassination, black nationalist novel (The Lion of Judah, Createspace/Movastone, 240 pp (December 2011) $14.99 paperback).

It tells the story of 23 year old Immanuel Johnson who was born and raised in the ghettos of West Baltimore. Long before he entered the harsh reality of the Maryland Department of Corrections as a young impressionable 18 year old with a 5 year bid to serve, he was a young man with an overriding sense of destiny. A nagging feeling  that he was born for a purpose.

But like a lot of young black men, it was in the crucible of prison that he first encountered the plethora of subversive philosophies that grow unchecked like desert weeds in the fertile cesspool of human misery that is the American prison system.

It was here that this young, intellectually gifted black man would be reborn as Black Jesus, a member of the 5 Percenter Nation of Gods and Earths and discover his true purpose as well as his mission in life.

A mission so profound that it would forever alter the course of American History.

After his five year baptism in hell on earth he emerged from the womb of darkness a new being. A man and God. A self-appointed prophet to the black race in Americana man so dedicated to his fanatical vision of what he believed had to be done to right the wrongs in the land of his birth that he was willing to sacrifice his life to see his vision come to pass. But not before writing a scorching diatribe to explain his actions to the world.

 

 

 

 

 

“A deep, dark novel that devolves into the madness that lurks in the human soul, madness often brought to the surface by political ideology.”

Jeremy Busby

 

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