The Altar "Miracle". Organized Perverts in our community?

Hell of a lot more of a miracle *not* getting shot by gunfire.

Pagans.










JOURNAL ARCHIVE: - posted by H.V.O.M - Kerry Wayne Burgess 7:58 PM Pacific Time Spokane Valley Washington USA Friday 04 March 2016 - http://hvom.blogspot.com/2016/03/its-nicer-than-when-he-called-them-coons.html


"It's nicer than when he called them coons."



http://www.stargate-sg1-solutions.com/wiki/10.01_%22Flesh_And_Blood_Part_3%22_Transcript

STARGATE WIKI


10.01 "Flesh And Blood Part 3"


EXT—SPACE NEAR SUPERGATE

[Odyssey sits in space, some lights working.]

INT—CORRIDOR OF THE ODYSSEY

[Emerson and Mitchell are walking side by side. Mitchell's face is no longer bloody.]

EMERSON
Why would the first wave just leave us behind? They had to know there were survivors.

MITCHELL
They need witnesses. Their goal is not to kill us all, it's to convert us.


[JOURNAL ARCHIVE 04 March 2016 excerpt ends]










JOURNAL ARCHIVE: - posted by H.V.O.M - Kerry Wayne Burgess 06:08 AM Pacific Time somewhere near Seattle Washington USA Saturday 12 April 2014 - http://hvom.blogspot.com/2014/04/goddamn-what-brilliant-united-states.html


JOURNAL ARCHIVE: 9/15/2006 4:23 PM
It takes a great deal of skill to miss with precision.


[JOURNAL ARCHIVE 15 September 2006 excerpt ends]
[JOURNAL ARCHIVE 12 April 2014 excerpt ends]










http://www.e-reading.org.ua/bookreader.php/80261/King_-_The_Stand.html


Stephen King

The Stand - The Complete & Uncut Edition


Chapter 17


Going southeast out of Sipe Springs, if you get on US 36, you are headed in the general direction of Houston, a day’s drive away. The car burning up the road was a three-year-old Pontiac Bonneville, doing eighty, and when it came over the rise and saw the nondescript Ford blocking the road, there was nearly an accident.

The driver, a thirty-six-year-old stringer for a large Houston daily, tromped on the power brake and the tires began to screech, the Pontiac’s nose first dipping down toward the road and then beginning to break to the left.

“Holy Gawd!” the photographer in the shotgun seat cried. He dropped his camera to the floor and began to scramble his seat belt across his middle.

The driver let up on the brake, skirted the Ford on the shoulder, and then felt his left wheels start to drag in the soft dirt. He matted the gas pedal and the Bonneville responded with more traction, dragging back onto the blacktop. Blue smoke squirted from beneath the tires. The radio blared on and on:

Baby, can you dig your man,

He’s a righteous man,

Baby, can you dig your man?

He tromped the brake again, and the Bonneville slued to a stop in the middle of the hot and deserted afternoon. He drew in a ragged, terrified breath and then coughed it out in a series of bursts. He began to be angry. He threw the Pontiac into reverse and backed toward the Ford and the two men standing behind it.

“Listen,” the photographer said nervously. He was fat and hadn’t been in a fight since the ninth grade. “Listen, maybe we just better—”

He was thrown forward with a grunt as the stringer brought the Pontiac to another screeching halt, threw the transmission lever into park with one hard thrust of his hand, and got out.

He began to walk toward the two young men behind the Ford, his hands doubled into fists.

“All right, motherfuckers!” he shouted. “You almost got us fucking killed and I want—”

He had been in the service, four years in the army. Volunteer. He had just time to identify the rifles as the new M-3A’s when they brought them up from below the rear deck of the Ford. He stood shocked in the hot Texas sunshine and made water in his pants.

He began to scream and in his mind he was turning to run back to the Bonneville but his feet never moved. They opened up on him, and slugs blew out his chest and groin. As he dropped to his knees, holding both hands out mutely for mercy, a slug struck him an inch over his left eye and tore off the top of his head.

The photographer, who had been twisted over the back seat, found it impossible to comprehend exactly what had happened until the two young men stepped over the stringer’s body and began to walk toward him, rifles raised.

He slid across the Pontiac’s seat, warm bubbles of saliva collecting at the corners of his mouth. The keys were still in the ignition. He turned the car on and screamed out just as they began shooting. He felt the car lurch to the right as if a giant had kicked the left rear, and the wheel began to shimmy wildly in his hands. The photographer bounced up and down as the Bonneville pogoed up the road on the flat tire. A second later the giant kicked the other side of the car. The shimmy got worse. Sparks flew off the blacktop. The photographer was whining. The Pontiac’s rear tires shimmied and flapped like black rags. The two young men ran back to their Ford, whose serial number was listed among the multitude in the Army Vehicles division at the Pentagon, and one of them drove it around in a tight, swaying circle. The nose bounced wildly as it came off the shoulder and drove over the body of the stringer. The sergeant in the passenger seat sprayed a startled sneeze onto the windshield.

Ahead of them, the Pontiac washing-machined along on its two flat rear tires, the nose bouncing up and down. Behind the wheel the fat photographer had begun to weep at the sight of the dark Ford growing in the rearview mirror. He had the accelerator pressed to the floor but the Pontiac would do no more than forty and it was all over the road. On the radio Larry Underwood had been replaced by Madonna. Madonna was asserting that she was a material girl.

The Ford swung around the Bonneville and for one second of crystal hope the photographer thought it was going to keep right on going, to just disappear over the desolate horizon and let him alone.

Then it pulled back in, and the Pontiac’s wildly jittering nose caught its mudguard. There was a scream of pulling metal. The photographer’s head flew forward into the wheel and blood sprayed from his nose.

Throwing terrified, creaky-necked glances back over his shoulder, he slid across the warm plastic seat as if it were grease and got out on the passenger’s side. He ran down the shoulder. There was a barbed wire fence and he leaped over it, sailing up and up like a blimp, and he thought: I’m going to make it, I can run forever —

He fell down on the other side with his leg caught in the barbs. Screaming at the sky, he was still trying to free his pants and dimpled white flesh when the two young men came down the shoulder with their guns in their hands.

Why, he tried to ask them, but all that came out of him was a low and helpless squawk and then his brains exited the back of his head.

There was no published report of disease or any other trouble in Sipe Springs, Texas, that day.



- posted by H.V.O.M - Kerry Wayne Burgess 6:24 PM Pacific Time Spokane Valley Washington USA Sunday 13 March 2016