Prologue
If you prefer, consider this a work of fiction, or the ravings of a madman. Perhaps I am crazy.
I know that you will not hear what I am struggling to tell you—not yet. But, perhaps as things unfold, this writing will offer some explanation of what is happening.
In my mind as I write this is the small hope that my children might one day come to understand me a little, and, perhaps, forgive me for being who I have been. It has been unavoidable for me to see and know about unpleasant things, which are now becoming manifest.
Presently, as we well know, families are divided. People are experiencing a kind of isolation, perhaps not physically, but in spirit and mind. This has been made to happen through the dark magic of false news and narrative. This alone has been a great crime against humanity. The tactical purposes are many: to confuse and divide; to cause disengagement; to demoralize; to instill fears and to introduce false focal points for these fears; to manipulate the historical narrative; to create a false sense of the present reality; and ultimately, to cause people to acquiesce to what has been planned.
Facing this onslaught how can one know anything? Direct knowledge acquired through ones own experience and the personal experiences of others may be used to pierce these false narratives. Living memory contains clues. What has been done before can be done again.
If exposure of the personal history in this Prologue grows tedious, please go to the meat of the matter in the chapters ahead. But if you will continue reading here, perhaps you might discover that I am a human being, like you. Perhaps it will be of some use to you, to know that I have worked a lifetime to understand the forces hurting us.
For me, “being known” has never been a wise or desirable objective, unless it has been to accomplish some essential purpose. And now my purpose is this: it is so that what I am trying to tell you might be heard and understood. We are in danger. And so I will risk telling you my personal story.
How have I come to know what I am trying to tell you?
I am old enough to remember the JFK assassination. I was sitting in the little basket in the front of a shopping cart at Fazio’s grocery store on Lee Road when the announcement was made over the speaker. A woman standing nearby burst into tears.
Within a few years of the assassination, we were living the industrial collapse of the U.S. For a boy in a family of engineers, in the crane and hoist business, in Cleveland, the years ahead would be very much like living through the Great Depression. In the summer of 1966, a portion of the city was burned in the Hough Riots. The National Guard was called in and placed machine gun nests on roofs. On top of the riots, little Webb Equipment was being targeted by the Teamsters Union; windshields were smashed with baseball bats. Due to the threat of Molotov cocktails, records were moved out of the office, and roofs were hosed down at night. It was like living in a war zone, and it was going to get much worse. There would never be a “recovery.” There would be complete destruction of everything we had known.
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