association-of-freed-people · 8 months ago
Can you tell me more about this concept of Feds impersonating white supremacists? I’ve only heard about it from anti-statist circles here on tumblr. What does the federal government get out of doing this? Seems pretty amoral. I just am super tired of trying to figure out what is real vs what is a grift. Love your content tho, keep it up!
This is gonna be a long one.
The government creates foils that serve its agenda.
Most of my life “white supremacists” or neo-Nazis were an oddity that you’d hear about maybe once every five years or so.
They were always goofy pariahs that no one took seriously. There would be a march somewhere that would get some attention and they were always outnumbered and went away and life carried on.
It wasn’t until the 2016 election of trump that this contemporary construct was created.
In my opinion it was to distract from a chunk of trumps platform that was populist and had gained earth shaking traction. This was with respect to the US relationship with China and the transnational corporate entanglements associated with it.
MAGA was poking that relationship with a stick.
If you look at how trump won it was by flipping Pennsylvania, Ohio, Michigan and Wisconsin.
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It was the rust belt, he flipped the labor vote by speaking directly to them.
MAGA was going to at least shine a light on 50 years of policy from the Nixon regime forward that resulted in the gutting of American industry, the destruction of the dollar, stagnant wages and massive trade deficits. That conversation was being drawn too close to the surface for very powerful interests.
I remember distinctly when the “racism” narrative began and the term “alt-right” went from internet slang for anyone not supporting GOP neocons or Democrats to Hitler in America.
It happened practically overnight and was predicated on two things; one was the creation of Richard Spencer as a political tail to wag the dog, with the second being the events that unfolded in Charlottesville during the summer of 2017 which solidified the pejorative.
Richard Spencer was a nobody prior to his creation by corporate media. I had never heard of him previously. One day out of the blue he was the face of Trump’s America.
I liken Spencer’s emergence to going out and finding a black Hebrew Israelite in whatever city, putting that guy on TV, and declaring him the face of Obama’s America. There’s no difference. That’s basically what happened. He was platformed into existence.
Then Charlottesville was organized with Spencer’s involvement in 2017 and a woman was run over and killed in the street fighting.
The primary organizer of Charlottesville was a guy named Jason Kessler. Interestingly Kessler had been an Occupy Wall Street protestor and Bernie bro who had attempted to turn those protests violent according to activists with knowledge.
Another notable event surrounding Spencer was the media giving him Pepe and Pepe subsequently being smeared and destroyed as a symbol of white supremacy.
The meme war had an intangible but very real impact on the 2016 election. It fascinated me that Pepe was assassinated in this manner after playing such a major role in the online political combat. It sounds nonsensical but there should be a book written about it.
The feds began cranking up the rhetoric about the domestic threat of white supremacists parallel to the media / academic push to label everything from math to merit as white supremacist. This drive led to a nonstop wave of fake hate crimes between 2017 & 2020 with Jussie being the most prominent.
The white supremacist narrative allows the security state to turn inward.
The corporate state sensed a bottom up threat when trump was elected. The threat was not from “white supremacists” but from a disaffected working class that had gotten the short end of the stick and been sold out for 50 years.
Calling everyone white supremacists made draconian policy easier to justify.
The problem is there really isn’t a threat from white supremacists (see wave of fake hate crimes) so one needs to be manufactured.
As the intersectional orthodoxy exerts it’s power it will label an increasingly broad swath of people white supremacists by changing the meanings of words and arbitrarily condemning value systems that conflict with it. This is the game. You’re being herded into a box and the state is preparing the auspices under which to persecute you if you resist it’s authoritarian policies or indoctrination practices.
Patriot Front probably serves the purpose of a honey pot in an effort to confirm the political threat, but also as a political amplifier of the supposed threat itself.
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thefreethoughtprojectcom · 3 months ago
​Twitter has been on a recruitment drive of late, hiring a host of former feds and spies. Via - Mint Press News
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jerseydeanne · a month ago
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Let us farm. Let us produce for the people.
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crissynotkristy · 2 months ago
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friendlylocalwhumper · 8 months ago
Fingers slide up under their jaw to tip their head up. Quinn takes slow breaths through their nose and ignores the intimacy of a hand at their throat. Strands of auburn hair dangle from above to tickle their cheek and forehead as Joseph stands behind them and looks down.
“Call me sir.”
Brown eyes flicker with confusion. “...Okay.”
Joseph cocks his head to the side, watching them from behind big round glasses. “That easy? You don’t have any pride?”
Quinn just watches him back. They don’t react to the thumbpads tracing circles in their jaw. The interrogator finds it interesting each day when Quinn looks almost unimpressed with the tactics he’s using.
“I want you to say yes sir when obeying a command. And if you choose not to obey, say I’m sorry, sir.”
Their Adam’s apple bobs under his fingers. They don’t look nervous, exactly, but they are uncomfortable. From reading the file on them, it’s safe to assume they’ve encountered this style before.
Joseph leans around their side, shamelessly pressing against their arm to reach for their leff cuff and unlock it. Next the right cuff clicks open. Now they are no longer bound to the chair they’ve been stuck in for days.
“Get on the floor. Hands and knees.”
A pause, then, “Yes, sir.”
First, Quinn lifts a hand and gingerly uses the side of their thumb to brush hair out of their face that has been tormenting them for an hour. Their palms are still a mess of dried blood and torn skin so it’s no wonder that they don’t bother to brush their hair completely back. They scoot forward in their seat, eyeing the floor warily, before placing an elbow on the arm of the chair and awkwardly lowering themself to the ground. Hair hanging forward now, back and thighs worn pink from being pressed to metal for so long, Quinn gets on their elbows and knees and holds the position without swaying too much.
Joseph walks around the chair and stands beside them, casually looking over the big freckles scattered across their back under long, faint scars from a whip. “I said hands and knees,” He reminds blithely.
Frozen for a moment, Quinn breathes, “Yes… sir.” They lift their weight off one elbow, their left hand now hovering inches above the floor. The palm and back of their hand are black-brown from blood dried and spilling anew and drying again, their fingers curled inward and locked in a tense claw-shape. So far it has caused them too much pain to try to straighten them out.
Their first attempt is to lower the hand curled up as it is and press the side of their palm to the floor. Even that seems to be too much to bear, though, when they yank their hand back up and choke out a weak cry.
“Hands flat, not in fists, by the way,” Instructs the interrogator.
Their back was straight at first but now it curves with defeat. Quinn focuses hard on their task, leveraging their fingertips against the floor and forcing their fingers to slowly straighten out. Panting with the effort, letting out quiet whines at every impasse, they finally manage to get the hand somewhat straightened out. Slowly, painstakingly, they lower it again to just barely touch the palm to the floor, gasping at the sting of the contact -
Joseph swings a foot and catches them in the ribs, kicking them off their elbow and knee to fall to their side. Quinn yelps at the blow and covers their head. The beating that they’re expecting doesn’t come.
“You forgot something.”
Wide, frightened eyes peek out from behind the arms crossed over a mess of tangled hair. Quinn swallows, gears turning in their head as they try to track where their mistake occurred.
“I - oh, I-I forgot - yes, sir,” They stammer. It takes them a few breaths to calm down and again take up their task, watching him out of the corner of their eye as they again get to their elbows and knees and restart the process of straightening out their hand.
The pain and exhaustion are wearing them down. Joseph is aware that in the best of circumstances, Quinn would be unreadable and possibly planning something huge while simultaneously playing a role that allows them to learn about their enemy. But these are not the best of circumstances, and unfortunately for the spy, Joseph and his people are fully equipped with a deep understanding of how Quinn Mae works and, with the right implementation, how to break them.
They place their weight on that first hand, their arm quivering, and begin working on straightening out the second one. Each breath is short and forceful, now. A bead of sweat drips from their nose. By the time Quinn finally manages to plant their second hand and obey the order, every exhale is a whine of distress.
Joseph backs away from them until his back meets the wall. He crosses his arms across the neat gray sweater vest atop a white dress shirt and red tie, and gestures with a nod. “Now crawl over here.”
Quinn lifts their head and gauges the distance with clear apprehension. Their elbows buckle here and there, forcing them to adjust their position and place their hands again on the floor.
“There’s always the alternative of talking,” Offers the interrogator. “Telling me something. Like where one of your friends is.”
The spy swallows and drops their gaze to the floor, lifting one hand and placing it further forward. The opposite knee comes forward too, and so begins their slow, shuffling crawl toward their torturer. Joseph watches with mild interest as they make their way with wretched sounds filling the room. They have little shame about the sounds they make when overwhelmed with pain. Oscar was right, this one has a lot of experience. That’s why it will take some deliberate, intense humiliation to get the same shame out of them that any other captive would feel as a baseline.
When Quinn makes it to his loafers they waver on their hands and knees. There are splotches of blood staining the floor in a pattern across the distance they crawled; their knuckles naturally tent upward the longer they hold still.
“Good job, Quinn,” Joseph offers unexpectedly, crouching down and rubbing their back. The spy shudders, their shoulder blades scrunching toward each other as they process the odd praise. “It’s disappointing that you don’t want to talk to me, though.”
They hold very still, waiting for what he might do next. It’s clear that they don’t feel the need to answer, especially if he’s asking his interrogation questions.
“I think we need to up the ante. There isn’t enough on the line for you to cooperate. Isn’t that right? You won’t talk?”
Quinn’s elbow buckles and they almost fail to catch themself before placing too much weight on the opposite hand. “...I’m sorry, sir,” They rasp in their interrogator-approved version of saying no.
Joseph pats them on the back before standing. He nudges their arm with the side of his shoe and whistles. “Crawl back to the chair. Let’s get to work on figuring out what kind of motivation you need.”
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call-me-remi · 11 months ago
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un-ruly · 9 months ago
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kriegsminister · 4 months ago
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United States, 1987
US Dept. of Energy Federal Protective Forces
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mudwerks · 8 months ago
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(via The Right Is Still Deeply Confused About What They Want The January 6 Narrative To Be - Wonkette)
1. It was antifa. Everyone there who was doing anything bad? Antifa! Or undercover Feds! Probably both! Any Trump supporters there just "wandered in," assuming they had been invited, probably. They were more like tourists!
2. All of the people who have been arrested and charged with crimes related to January 6 are beautiful patriots/political prisoners who did nothing wrong and in fact had every right to be there and do what they did.
Apparently it is not a problem to embrace BOTH of these redonkulous and mutually exclusive lies, as long as you don’t think?
Schrödinger's insurrection? The participants are BOTH: 
antifa/feds at the same time as they are 
innocent patriots
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cetme308win · 10 months ago
I asked one of these fake ass gun seller if he provides one way tickets to "Club Fed"
He literally replied me "yes we do"
Lmao I'm dying
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idiotdotdotdot · 10 months ago
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ironcites · a year ago
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The Masterful Mounted Border Patrol
America’s elite guardian angel cowboys doing the dirty work to safeguard the southern border from the scoundrels beyond.
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unimatrix-420 · 4 months ago
Wish the federal government would do like the Scooby gang and split up.
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brokeandfamouseu · 3 months ago
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bad attitude // 
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I have a fair trade for the gun grabbers:
I get to keep all of my guns, you can have my bullets. As many as you want.
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friendlylocalwhumper · 8 months ago
meet oscar | quinn shares their grief | quinn returns from a mission | quinn confides in oscar | major attacks quinn | [not yet posted] | quinn attacked, stabbed | oscar finds quinn, and so do the feds | this drabble
They’ve practiced for this. Quinn has gone on dozens of missions where they were in danger, lying, hurt. They’ve paid someone to torture them on their off days so they’d always be in the mindset of seeing threats coming and never relaxing. As soon as they saw those feds posted near the safehouse to surveil it, as soon as they heard Oscar yelling their name down the street, they knew capture was possible.
Foreseeing the possibility of an unfortunate outcome and actually living it are two very different things.
It’s not very original of the feds to have them tied to a chair, wrists tied to keep their palms turned upward, a bright light illuminating them relentlessly from above. The metal of the chair leeches warmth from their body as blood trickles down their calf. At least they were left with boxers, they think coolly. Of course, the downside of captivity beginning with anything aside from nudity means it can escalate to that later, at that is never a pleasant experience even if they do see it coming.
What is original about this setup is the bundle of wires at their left arm attached by small electrodes to their skin. When Quinn first came to, head throbbing and shivers running through their body at the chill in the air, they flinched at the sight of what they thought was a setup meant to electrocute them. The steady beeping behind them which jumped in frequency at their fear led to a quick, gut-wrenching revelation. This is a heart monitor, displayed on a faintly glowing screen on the wall behind them, and it could have some uses that are very ominous in this situation. Its main purpose, obviously, is to monitor someone’s condition to ensure they won’t die… which means that the feds may be planning to push their body as far as possible without killing them. The more frightening purpose, though, is to watch for reactions. Fear, calm, and worst of all for them… lying.
It’s fine, Quinn thinks, ignoring how the monitor beeps aggressively as their heart pounds with anxiety. There is a fed watching them right now, standing in front of them, and Quinn ignores eye contact for the moment as they think. They aren’t even sure if that’s just a guard or the interrogator that’s been assigned to them. The two bloody, recently-impaled hands bound in place are Quinn’s most obvious weakness, along with the stab wounds across their arm, chest, and stomach. Nothing has been patched up yet, so either they weren’t at risk of dying, or the feds are confident in their ability to stop it if Quinn’s condition suddenly declines. Do they have a healer on hand in this facility?
The sudden, sickening idea that their friends may have been caught, that Major or Remy are being used as kept healers, sends the monitor behind them beeping at a brusque pace. It takes a few minutes of intentional slow breathing to calm the beeping down to a less easily exploited level.
It’s probably been over ten minutes now. Why hasn’t this fed said or done anything? Quinn refuses to look up, certain that this is some kind of test.
They aren’t sure how much time passes, but at some point, the fed steps forward. He stands before them, not bothering to loom inches from their face yet. His fingers come to their right hand and trace a slow, thoughtful circle around the stab wound there. The spy sucks in a sharp breath when he places his palm on theirs gently.
“Where are your friends?”
The question comes in the form of a calm, low voice. The hand laid in theirs slowly applies pressure; weight bears down on the hole gouged into their palm by the knife they tore free of only hours ago. Brown eyes water, freckled cheeks scrunch up, brows crease in the center with unvoiced pain. Quinn can’t take this for very long without crying out.
In their mind, a flowchart blossoms. There are several routes they can choose from now that will affect what choices they’ll have later on. The possible escapes, the manipulation tactics, the lies they can use - or half-truths, if that’s what it’ll take to keep their heart rate down and evade being caught in their act.
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The mental math consumes all of their focus. It’s enough to make the epicenter of agony that is their hand wane and disappear from their thoughts, if only for a moment. It is the fed leaning forward to apply all of his weight on a ramrod-straight arm that sends the flowchart scattering into a jumble and tears a startled scream from their throat.
“Focus, Quinn Mae. There’s more on the line than you know.”
They whimper, fingers spasming randomly. He’s holding the new pressure steady and they can feel the fragile bones of their hand creaking under his weight. Fresh blood drips from the underside of the chair’s arm. Quinn tips their head up to finally meet the eyes of their interrogator.
His eyes are green and not quite shining with sadism like they’d expect. Auburn hair is tied back in a bun, round metal-framed glasses giving him an air of grace. Quinn bites back a yelp at a shift in the pressure and glances briefly down at his hand on theirs; it feels soft and smooth, not calloused. Fingers applied to sifting through paperwork more often than to breaking bodies.
“What… what’s on the line?” They reply in a strained rasp. A tear darts down their cheek from the pain but they maintain steady eye contact with the interrogator.
The interrogator turns his palm slowly to dig the heel of it into Quinn’s mangled hand, earning a low groan that builds into a scream. He watches and waits until the howl of pain dies out into ragged panting before he answers.
The door somewhere behind him opens. Blinking tears from their eyes and clearing their throat as they gasp around the agony that refuses to let up, Quinn wonders if their scream was a signal for something to happen. They can’t see anything past the interrogator’s narrow shoulders until he turns to look at the room’s newest occupants, his shift in position lessening the weight on their wound to the sound of Quinn choking back a dry sob.
Quinn freezes when they see who’s been brought in. Oscar hangs between two feds holding him under the arms, his head hanging. It’s easy to recognize his thick curls, the lankiness to his frame, his elegant hands. Of course… of course he would be here. He was with them when they were caught. They’d just hoped… no. If they’re honest with themself, they forgot to worry about him. They were so caught up in their own stress, in their own survival. Intense love and guilt bloom painfully in their chest at the sight of him.
Behind them, the heart monitor beeps insistently to announce their distress.
Oscar groans and lifts his head slowly, dark eyes peeking out from behind the hair that dangles in his face. There is a split across his eyebrow and a smudge of blood there, the beginnings of a black eye, a scrape across his cheek… did he fight back? Has he been beaten?
“Quinn,” He mutters, realization dawning. He takes in their bindings, the blood, the interrogator, the screen that displays their heartrate. Oscar makes an attempt to stand, to look less beaten down, but it seems to cause him pain to put weight on his feet.
They spy licks their lips and takes a shaky breath to try to steady themself. “Don’t say anything.” As soon as they give the warning, the feds start hauling Oscar back out as if they’re cops trying to avoid their suspect hearing he can ask for a lawyer. The interrogator slams his elbow down on their hand, and Quinn screams as hard as they can, their vision whiting out, before sucking in a breath and shouting through the door that’s been slammed shut, “Don’t tell them anything!”
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nicksand · 3 months ago
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My friends be safe out there. This ig handler is definitely a cop. Do not purchase anything from this person.
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