The Manchurian Oswald’s Right Buttock

#2 in a Series -- Winding Up Little Timmy Tuttle



Let me introduce myself. I am Deep Threat. I am the one providing Mr. Lindstedt with the information he is telling you. Like the word of YHWH, whether you choose to believe it or not is up to you.

I am of the Phineas Priesthood, the warrior priesthood of the Christian Identity religion. Since I am of pure Levite lineage, (not a Khazaria imposter) then I might qualify someday to rise to the top and to become The Melchizadek. However, not having reached sufficient age and gravity, now I am a roving missionary, a ministering prophet trying to bring back Christian Israel to YHWH.

One week in the spring of ‘94 I was making the rounds to feed my flock at Elohim City. It had been arranged that I would meet with the political arm of our organization, Ambassador Louis Beam, to assist Doctor Robert Millar with the casting out of demons and ZOG infiltrators. YHWH wishes us to develop strong mental muscles to root out the imps of Satan and the hogs of ZOG.

Brother Louis is well-known as the keenest sword of YHWH. When he puts his mind to something, it gets done. He can tell, from 200 paces away, if a hooked nose is due to a hare lip or Khazar ancestry. I always utter a prayer of thanks that YHWH has raised unto us Brother Louis.

When I arrived at the gates to Elohim City, I parked my nondescript Chevrolet Caprice next to the trailer I usually share with Brother Thatcher. Brother Thatcher, a tall sturdy man in his late thirties, early forties, saw me pull up, and then he helped me smear some more mud on the license plates. Don’t want the eye in the sky belonging to the Prince of the Power of the Air to detect me. This is why I pretend to be a cowboy and wear a large black felt hat or baseball cap when I am outside.

“How’s the campaigning coming, Mr. President?” I asked him as I drew out an old suitcase from the backseat. Brother Thatcher intends to run as a candidate for what he calls the Deliverance Party. While I would say that he has the Elohim City vote tied up, nobody has bothered to register. Plus the party name is dreadful. The Amerikan sheeple associate a Deliverance Party with the movie by that name and suppose it has something to do with drunken mean hillbillies sodomizing each other and their female kinfolks. A bad move politically, especially what with the bunch who live at Elohim City.

“I’ll be the only one with an anti-Gog-&-Magog platform,” Brother Thatcher said earnestly. “That and how there are two beast powers described in Revelations ought to put me over the top.”

Brother Thatcher is the most exhaustive expert known on the subject of Gog and Magog. I suppose I ought to be grateful that he listened to me when I suggested that he put some extra time in and concentrate instead on ZOG and Gay-ZOG. Thanks to me there are now two beast powers in Brother Thatcher’s platform. Jews and the Commie Jews. The Khazarian menace.

“That it ought to,” I said. Changing the subject, I asked, “Who’s up in the City?”

“Ambassador Louis is talking to Doctor Bob at the church. Doctor Bob is mad because the fields are too wet to use the plow Cadillac. Plus there are some new young men around and one of them is fixin’ to marry a grand-daughter. They own their own guns with plenty of ammo and most of them used to be in the Army or ’Gyrenes or something.”

“Hmm,” I said. “Perhaps it is time for me to look at the new talent myself. I’ll be back for lunch or supper.” I threw the suitcase onto the bed in the smallest bedroom and headed towards the church.

The land was wet, and I walked to the side of the dirt rut that serves as a road to the hall. Old trailer houses and cheap shacks were scattered haphazardly like old rusted-out cars on wood blocks, seemingly abandoned without any more pattern than where they had broken down. There would be scads of healthy Israelite children playing outside the houses normally, but they would be bustled inside the beehive Church across from Dr. Bob’s manor, learning the ways of YHWH. It was too wet for them to be out in the fields.

As I was about to get to the church, I heard the sound of gunfire. Mostly the mechanical crack of SK fire, but with some pistol mixed in, and the steady measured boom, boom, boom of a Garand. I gave a glance towards the chapel, a poly-foam beehive-shaped dome and the solid, but decaying manorhouse of Dr. Bob. Then I walked towards the clearing where the shooters were firing into the eroded dirt walls of the pond berm.

Louis Beam and the Reverend Doctor Robert Millar were looking on at the shooters. Andreas Strassmeyer was popping away with his Colt .45 at a tin can about 50 yards away, hitting it once in a great while. Zara Patterson, former head of security before Andy the German took over, was consistently hitting tin cans at 100 yards away with his M1 Garand.

What was new was a group of people I hadn’t seen before. There was tall, blond, rawboned young man with a Chinese SKS rifle hitting a tin can a hundred yards away on the fly nine times with using the ten shot clip he had in the rifle. The brass ejected looked like Norinco steel case, so he was firing Chink military rounds instead of reloads. The tall Nordic blond fired steadily, bang, bang, bang, bang, acquiring target like a professional marksman. The can jerked and flew as it was hit repeatedly.

The others, a stocky young man with dark hair, and a middling sized brunette man behind the blond were pointing at the target, but didn’t act surprized. Zara and Andy the German stopped shooting to look at the blond. Louis and Dr. Bob were looking on in approval.

“Didn’t I tell you that Timmy could shoot!” said the non-descript brunette man. “Wait’ll I tell you about how good he shot in the Gulf.”

Louis turned around and looked at me. “Brother Elijah, what do you think of our new talent?”

“Looks like he’ll do, Brother Louis. But is it not written that man shall not live by lead alone?” I said. “Doctor Bob, it looks like you have quite the beginning of a professional army.”

“Don’t say such things, Brother Elijah. Not aloud. Don’t you know we are peaceful?” Dr. Bob said nervously, fingering the edges of his moustacheless beard.

I grinned. “So you say, Dr. Bob. Introduce me to your new myrmydons.”

The blond slung the SKS by its sling to his right shoulder, stepped forward, and stretched out his hand. “Timothy Tuttle.” His piercing eyes lost some of their residual anger and became nearly empty of emotion.

“Call me Brother Elijah. The last name you need not know.”

The stocky young man stuck out his hand. “Mike Brescia. I bunk with Andreas over there.”

“Hello Mike.” I shook his hand.

“Mike Fontaine,” said the middle-sized brunette man. “I’m a friend of Timmy’s from Army days.”

Shaking that hand, I said, “Well gentlemen, I did not intend to disrupt your target shooting. I just came down to watch.”

Zara Patterson had stopped shooting his Garand. He nodded to me. I nodded back.

Andy the German looked at me coolly, so I ignored him. He loaded another magazine into his .45 and started shooting again.

There is something about each other that leaves us cold to each other. I think it is because he is a Dark Bloody Assyrian of the archetype that took our people captive over 2500 years ago. While Assyria is the rod of YHWH’s anger, and HIS scourge, still, it is unsettling to see how blood determines everything as it has since the Children of Heber and the Sons of Asshur have roamed the post-deluge earth.

Andy the German took over the job of security and of military training from Brother Zara. While he does this job competently and with a zeal which evaded Zara, I sense something wrong about Andreas Strassemeyer. His daddy is a friend of Helmet Kohl, Chancellor of Germany. His whole family is one of power and prestige. And yet here he is in the midst of Elohim City, teaching angry young men to kill and destroy. Don’t get me wrong. The ZOG gotta go. But yet I oft wonder what whirlwinds we shall reap from the winds we have sown today.

The young man, Tuttle, turned away, inserted a stripper clip into the SKS, and Mike Fontaine took his chance, then Mike Brescia. They weren’t as good shots as Timmy Tuttle.

“So it’s too wet to plow the back 40 is it?” I asked Dr. Bob.

“It is using machinery. Machinery isn’t everything,” Dr. Bob said, rubbing his beard around his mouth. The absence of a mustache indicated his Mennonite origins, as did his sentiments about machinery. “I always preferred a good mule or horse. Either that, or have the wimmin pull the plow. A man ain’t lived who hasn’t furrowed the plow behind a brace of nekkid wimmen!”

Louis laughed. “Oh, for the good old days, Dr. Bob.”

Dr. Bob caught on that we were funning him, and he joined into the laughter. “What brings you out our way, Brother Elijah?”

“Checking out the health of the flock. How is your flock, Dr. Bob?”

“Maybe it is a good idea to discuss their health out of earshot,” suggested Louis. “Sometimes decisions have to be made.”

So we walked away, the three of us, but stopped on a rise about 50 yards away where we could see the shooters.

“What do you make of them?” I asked.

“Nice young godly men,” Dr. Bob said. “Mike Brescia is engaged to Esther.”

I nodded. Dr. Bob is always seeking to marry off his numerous female descendants to strong young outsiders. Esther is pretty cute. But every one of them young men is marrying Dr. Bob first. Make no mistake about that!

“Mike Brescia is the smartest of the three,” Louis Beam said. “But Timothy Tuttle is the most dedicated. He used to be in the Army. They enhanced his natural abilities to kill.
“But there is no subtility in the man. He is like a wind-up tin soldier with a suicide bomb attached to his chest. Someone could wind him up and then -- BOOM! No more target. No more Timmy Tuttle to turn states’ evidence.”

“Yes, I have seen his like before. They are the pawns that set up a knight’s fork. What else do you know about him?”

“In addition to being a zealot, he is highly paranoid. He says that the CIA and Army Intelligence inserted a microchip to track him in his left buttock. He believes the ZOG got mind control over him because of that microchip,” Brother Louis reported. “Why, what’s the matter.”

I had flinched when I heard about the microchip. You see, Timmy Tuttle’s notion was not altogether a shot in the dark. But I recovered as my mind began to race with the possibilities of use for this leaderless pawn I had just discovered.

“A Manchurian Oswald?” I asked.

Louis Beam’s eyes widened a bit, and then he nodded.

“Yes, a Manchurian Oswald, for anyone who can program him anew.”

“What’s going on? What are you guys talking about?” Dr. Bob asked. “That boy’s as white as you or me. He ain’t no Chink.”

“Nothing that ought to concern you, Dr. Bob. You don’t really want to know,” Brother Louis said smoothly.

All three of us looked down into the clearing. Dr. Bob shivered a bit, like a dog who has found himself in the company of wolves, as we watched the three newcomers fire the SKS rifle into the berm.


There are some that assume that Godly people are not too smart. After all, they rely on the good will of YHWH. But among the Phineas Priesthood, the vigil never ceases, and I would match our select priesthood against any other acolytes in other secret societies.

We live in this world of Satan, but yet we are not part of it. So therefore we have members of our flock scattered everywhere. Everywhere, scattered in all circumstances, scattered in all professions. I myself had served out a term in the ZOG armed forces. Like Caleb, the honorable observant scout, I too am sent out to observe the Canaanites. There are others, who didn’t make the grade, who were released into the general society to grow roots in this vale of tears, trusted to do good and instructed to do well, both for themselves, and for our select society. When the call goes out, when the Priesthood decides to cross the line from passive observation to divertive action, we can call upon these scattered Sons of God for financial and physical help.

All our children are taught from infancy to show unto Satan and his minions only enough talent to get modestly ahead. Satan has has modern-day Jannes’ and Jimbres’, seeking out to pervert if possible, destroy if necessary, the gifted of YHWH. But scattered out, in all occupations and professions, we have people waiting to hear the call, and then to act. I needed a medic and an engineer for my plans. But I had to get permission first.

That night, I wrote my report on an old notebook computer. I gave my recommendations, then encrypted the entire message. The next morning, I went over to see Bruce Millar, Dr. Bob’s son who runs the trucking concern. The trucks, leased to a major fleet, all have satellites, but the drivers are supposed to make a check-in call daily. Therefore another phone call, slipped within the avalanch of business calls would likely not show up within the phone billings. I slipped in the message during the lunch hour and waited.

Our Priesthood is a highly conservative organization. With its faith that every action by any party redounds to the will of YHWH, it is almost impossible to bestir The Melchizadek and the Council of Elders to agree to a course of action. Watchful waiting is the primary directive. Let Satan’s followers deliver themselves unto the consequences of their actions. This is why I was surprized when, two days later, I received a message, encrypted within a prearranged code, to proceed with my intelligence observations and to meet The Melchizadek in one week. I would have a chance to plead my case, a chance to insert the microchip, an opportunity to wind up little Timmy Tuttle.

Onward Christian Soldier towards:

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