There was this dream called America once.

The young boy, barely a teenager, peered between the boards nailed both on the inside and the outside, of the filthy, cracked window glass for security, from criminal gangs of homeless who roamed the streets.

The Storm Troopers finished kicking in the door on the shack across the litter strewn pot holed street.

A semi circle of “Benedict Arnold’s”, as the collaborating trash who served the Bankers against their own people were called, stood with sub machine guns, pointing outward to any who dared interfere.

Nobody did.
Nobody ever did.

One heard rumors of some groups down South and the mid West, who fought back, but here in the urban areas of the North-East, no one fought back.
To do so was to condemn oneself to the horrors of the slave labor camps one heard about.

Very few, ever came back, but here and there, one escaped, and told of the pure evil, people horribly, worked to death while slowly starving, the beatings, just to amuse the guards, the rapes, the murders for no reason.

So one hid, and hoped no one came for them, and they would not cut off the small bit of food passed out once a week.

Two huge steroid fueled Benedict’s, dragged the poor screaming creature out his front door.

It was plain to see he had soiled himself in fear, the stain spreading.

Two more goons walked behind with assault rifles.

The two dragging him stopped at the back of the pattywaggon, and threw him to the street.

One goon aimed a booted foot to his face, knocking out several teeth, braking his nose.

This is what happens, when you try to work a job, and do not pay your patriotic share of the National debt, screamed one goon!

The two goons grabbed him and threw the now moaning man, onto the floor of the van, slammed and locked the door.

All the goons climbed into their armored vehicles, and drove away, leaving a silence of fear on the street.

The young boy, looked at the old man, sitting in a ragged, filthy reclining chair, which had been rescued from the street somewhere.
He said, Grandpa, why is life so horrible?
Whats the use of living, if all there is is starvation, dirt, filth, evil, brutality and fear?
Why is the earth such a shit hole?

The old man slowly looked up, but he was not seeing the boy, this shabby room, his own decayed state and old age.
His eyes were seeing a different world, a world he had known, a world of plenty, of relative ease, a time when there was a least a semblance of the goons adhering to the rules which were said to govern the land.

He saw the America of his youth, before the Bankers took the gloves off, stopped pretending to have souls and be human.

His eyes slowly focused back on the present, at all of his blood in the whole world left, and felt the shame he had, along with most Americans, sold their children and grandchildren birthright, for “free” food, and circus side shows.

Reality TV.
Scantily clad good looking hussies with no morals and filthy mouths, called each other vulgar names, while talking about all the problems everyone had with their mates, and who was doing who’s wives and husbands.

Reality politics, with fake newscast, fake wars, false flags, in which the Bankers had Americans slaughtered, and blamed it on “Islamic Terrorist”, or home grown “White Terrorist”.

How Americans, had pretended not to see the problems, so they would not have to stand up, speak up, search for solutions, perhaps, pay with their lives, for the well being of their prodigy.

He shook his head in disgust at the thought of how easy it had been, for the Bankers, to make slaves of them all, steal the birthright of the American young, bought with the spilled blood and hardships of their ancestors.

BECAUSE HIS GENERATION, HAD BEEN COWARDS!

He slowly looked up at the boy!

With tears coming from his old eyes, making tracks through the dust on his face, he looked at the boy, knew he had to make a stand, for his bloods sake.

The boy had to know, something else was possible!
A beautiful world without fear!
If he died reaching for it, it was better than cowering in the dark, existing with fear like an animal, just to stay alive!
For what!

He slowly walked over to the boy and hugged him like he had not in a long time.

He looked his grandson in the eyes.

He stood straighter than he had in many years, seeming to gain hight.

He said son, you are an American!

The boy said, whats that grandpa?

The old mans resolution gathering strength and purpose, he said, son:
There was this dream called America once————————-

John C Carleton