HOLOCAUST II

ABORTION ON DEMAND

(About Baby Bryan and Others)

By B. Lokey, President

SAVE THE BABIES!

An Alabama Non Profit Corporation

Dedicated To Telling The Truth

For The Babies

&

Humanity

I

Copyright l997 by SAVE THE BABIES!

(Permission to copy or reprint whole or any part is hereby granted)

(No editing of content permitted) 

***

"Open thy mouth for the dumb in the cause of all

such as are appointed to destruction." Proverbs 31:8 (King James Bible)

There is a malevolence in America and the world presently animating adults, in concert with those in power, to commit acts against human babies the depths of which exceed any atrocity that Nazi Germany was accused of committing during World War II. Thus, I call Baby Bryan’s story Holocaust II.

The baby, whose brief existence is described here in heart-rending detail, would have been named Bryan. The mother came up with the baby’s middle name just two days before the abortion that took his life in his 21st week. She conceived out of wedlock, so the child would have borne her last name. His mother’s name was Hope. His name would have been Bryan Christopher, The Son of Hope.

The purpose of the abortion was because the mother (whose first name I won't mention,) was pressured by a counselor "friend" who worked at a local abortion clinic, to abort the baby before the mother "grew attached" to him. It was like a lottery that Baby Bryan lost because he drew the "winning" number to occupy the uterus of Hope, whose friend just happened to make her living by selling would-be mothers on aborting babies. There was no medical reason to slay Bryan. It was simply in the numbers. The counselor needed the statistical number that the baby represented. Alone, as an aborted baby, he was worth one dollar. In a statistical lot, he was worth three hundred.

Hope’s friend should have been a waitress.

***

In the womb little Bryan lay, nestled serenely in the fetal position, his thumb in his mouth. Babies in the womb know how to do this almost before they have thumbs to suck. Folks have recorded thumb sucking at earlier ages than Bryan had reached in his 21st week. Bryan sucked his thumb a lot. He was strong and healthy. A tiny package of humanity, for sure, he was petite even among his little colleagues of 21 weeks. Arms and legs combined were not much bigger than a good-sized thumb. But he was all there, every piece of him. When assisted with a little initial medical help, "Preemies" born at Bryan's age of 21 weeks, and even earlier, can and do survive. It was just a matter of all the parts growing larger now. Who could say, he might one day have grown larger than average, towering above his football buddies. It could have happened.

Bryan, himself, in his own way, was expectant. He was as strong and healthy as an intrauterine baby can be. He was impeccable--a little diamond with no flaws--with everything calibrated to perfection, all tuned and "revving" like a fine racing machine, but here anticipating the Race of Races: Life Itself. Unlike an Indy machine, however, Bryan was as fragile as a snowflake on a warm day. All babies are fragile.

Bryan already recognized the sound of his mother's voice. Most babies won't do this for a while yet, not normally until somewhere around the seventh month. But Bryan was uncommonly alert for his age. Loud noises startled him sometime (as they do you or me,) indicating superb reflexes. He could wrinkle his forehead, and make a fist. Bryan was "kicking" a few hours earlier, as babies can do at this state of their human beingness. At this point, he was only responding to ages, maybe eons, of highly developed autonomic reflexes. He was not aware that he was offending anybody, especially the Mighty Brethren of the U.S. Supreme Court, and the Iron Maidens of "Pro choice." He was only being Bryan, one of God's Little Miracles. He was being a Minuscule Human. He simply was--and all was right with the world--Bryan's world of the womb. At this juncture, while the "doctor" was straining and flailing around between the legs of the Hope patient, grappling for advantage with the tongs, aiming at the vagina with both hands, Bryan was reposing, pacified, suckling his tiny thumb. Everything was perfect...

That is, until the "doctor" found his target.

No baby could be prepared for the outrage. In one moment, peace and serenity. In the next, tongs--cruel, ripping steel tongs--plundering, stabbing into the placenta with him, groping for his head, gouging and scraping against his gossamer cheeks and mouth, plunging at his little head for leverage to twist and tear his arm off with another set of tongs held in abeyance for him by the efficiently proffered hands of a "nurse." The baby's nerves, infinitely tender, lying, as they do in an unborn, so close to the surface of the skin, autonomically constricted the muscular structure, deforming the lovely little face into a scowl of speechless, tortured trauma. His tiny body writhed, involuntarily convulsing, violently jerking, legs twitching and kicking. The little arms flailed.

Intrauterine babies are sentient. They feel pain.

***

The counselor at the clinic, a woman in her late forties, had received her bonus for slaughtering Bryan because he was her 300th baby that month. To get the bonus she had to convince 300 expectant, would-be mothers in a month that they should abort their babies. Even without the bonus the money was good, very good. She smiled a lot. She had deposited the bonus in her account for the month, representing one dollar for each baby. Well, rather than consider it a baby, she chose to say "useless tissue," on a level with a wart, or a boil. Sometime she thought of them as alien invaders. But she had to walk a thin edge here when selling a would-be mother on the proposition. Too much ice too fast could run them off. Referring to a baby as an alien invader still bothered quite a number of women (and even some men,) although she could not imagine why it mattered to anybody. She only knew that she needed the bonus pretty badly (to get that new car) and the Hope Baby's slaughter just squeaked her through.

That darned friend of hers had almost backed out at the last moment. Something about religious feelings. Nothing was more preposterous. It was a well-known fact that Almighty God does not recognize babies in the womb. Why, they are nothing but squishy stuff. She had witnessed plenty of abortions. The gory crap that came out was never anything but squishy stuff, and who could care about that? Sure, sometime it resembled human hands and feet--heads, if you will--and that sort of thing, but the parts never really looked like anything but stew meat. They certainly were not cute, like little babies she saw toddling around, all diapered and smiling so prettily. Although she had not ever had children of her own, she simply loved cute little babies (except when they urinated on her--there were some things she just could not tolerate.) Furthermore, it was a well known fact that the soul never enters into a baby's body until after the baby is completely born, full term. Before this point, God simply could not care less; nor should she, as an abortion counselor. If she cared too much it could fray her "objectivity" about the matter. She knew all the arguments. They were patent.

"Who cares about babies, anyway?" she mused silently, then spoke aloud to the trashcan. "They're nothin' but trouble. All they do is demand, demand, demand. Never giving, always taking. Sometime I hate babies!"

Then a clump of stray neurons fired an involuntary burst through a dormant synaptic junction somewhere near the brain stem, triggering a different pattern of thought, shifting her reflections to the new car, where she now imagined herself behind the wheel.

"Vroom! Vroom!" she thought, as tiny veins in her face gorged with blood, brightening the skin in a reddening glow of ecstasy.

Her upper lip began to sweat.

The babies were gone now. Babies did not exist where life was a new car. With abandon now, she caricatured what it would be like. Grabbing up a paper plate from a past lunch to steer with, jamming her foot forward, stomping at the trashcan for acceleration, she pantomimed a speed shift from first to second, liberating a squealing, deep-down gurgling in her throat.

"Vrrrooooooooooommmm! Vrrrrrrroooooooooooooooommmmmmmmm!" she said aloud this time, throwing her head back and laughing.

She drove all over an imaginary countryside, showing off her new car, a shiny red convertible. Man, she loved that car. It was what she needed to compete for younger women. As a middle-aged lesbian, and absolutely addicted to beautiful young women, a different one just about every night, she needed a lure to drag through the streets to capture the youngest and most gorgeous of the prey. She could sate her hunger now.

After a little while she stiffened, staring deeply and soberly at the trashcan.

"Sometime I just love my job," she told the can. "Because it's all about helping people."

***

"Thus says the Lord: 'For three transgressions of the people of

Ammon, and for four, I will not turn away its punishment,

Because they ripped open the women with child in Gilead…'"

Amos l;23 (New King James Bible)

As the Hope patient lay on the table in the clinic, just moments earlier prepped for the ordeal, and now almost comatose, the "doctor" hobbled into the room. He was seriously crippled in both arms and legs, but still ambulatory (though just barely,) and all togged up for the occasion. He was not smiling. His legs didn’t feel too well right then. Even drugs were ineffectual for the special kind of pain he suffered. He hurt three ways: mental, physical, and spiritual--all at the same time. Neither patient nor "doctor" had met before this moment. Hope was already drugged. There was no point in trying to communicate with her, not even to demonstrate a fine bedside manner that he had worked so hard to inculcate for display purposes. When he conversed, it was in a whining falsetto almost indistinguishable one word from the other. He detested his voice. As hard as it was to speak, he sometime had to repeat himself as many as five or six times before folks meeting him for the first time could discern what he was trying to say. Mother Nature had not been kind.

He considered the Hope patient an animal, as just about all "doctors" in the abortion industry at least privately regard women and their offspring in these cases. It's a known locker room fact (which a well affected, strategic bedside manner conceals well enough.) He was glad she was too drugged to know he was in the room. There was no way he could allow anybody to suspect, however, especially the patient. He didn’t mind so much that a few of his co-workers knew. They were all in the same boat. Where else could he make this kind of money with so little effort? He was catastrophically crippled. He was not even in control of his vocal chords or facial muscles, not to mention his poor limbs, and he slobbered on himself pretty badly. He could barely grasp the tongs. However, he could stab them in the vagina on the first poke. It required Herculean effort, but with only a little help from "nurses" sometime, he could do it almost the first time, every time. First poke. He was proud of that. To a select few, he bragged about it. He was not all that crippled. He could stab a vagina. He loved stabbing vaginas, especially in the younglings. The younger, the better.

He would have nodded to his assistants, but he could only just sort of flop his head to them: two "women" who called themselves "nurses," both in their forties, as he was. His demeanor was a little grave right then, because it was expected. He considered this pair to be nothing but animals, also, on the same level as the Hope woman and her "thingy" that he would tear out of her guts pretty quickly now. He considered all women to be stupid, and these were a couple of bona fide sows. All women were sows, especially for the way they rejected him. There was no way he could help being crippled and ugly. Look at this "nurse" that thought she was so pretty. Somebody had chiseled her face out of colored glass. Where did these misshapen creatures come from, anyway, an assembly line for sows? He would guffaw aloud about this, if his legs just did not hurt so much right then. But he couldn’t even chortle. Today his pain was particularly intense.

"Bring me a pretty one sometime, would you God?" he implored, rolling his eyeballs upward, mockingly.

He didn't believe in God. This was only his way of joking to himself. God was nothing to him but a "non-viable metaphor," the same as the "glob" he was about to remove from Hope. Sometime joking about the God concept kept him from crying out in pain. How could there be a God, other than himself, the "doctor?" Did he not possess the power to kill or heal, at will, and with impunity? Did he not exercise this power? Yes, he was God, as every doctor is God, whether he knows it or not: God, the giver of life--God, the taker.

This "doctor" almost never smiled, except when he was manipulating somebody (putting on an act to get what he wanted; then it was a fake smile.) However, he did like to think about the money and prestige of being a "doctor," even one that was dreadfully crippled. There was so much money in this kind of "doctoring;" and here, he was in control. He commanded respect and a lot of money. The only effort it entailed was comparable to a certain segment of the auto mechanic trade. Instead of a mechanic, he was an auto wrecker, which requires little more than a hammer and a crowbar, in which the machines are simply smashed and sold for scrap.

On the other hand, those who repair automobiles must exercise care and concern. They have to know a lot about many different machines. They must disassemble machines very carefully, so that they can be reassembled later. Then, the machines have to work better when they leave the shop than when they came in. Otherwise, the mechanic is out of business. Out of business is out of money. And there was no requirement here to make the machines work better. He could not do this if he had to. He didn't know that much about repairing these things. His only job was smashing them. Happily, somebody else flushed them into the sewer. "Nurses" did that part of the job. As "doctor," he was above the drudge work. He was happy about one thing: abortionist "doctors" are not held to the same standards and ideals that real doctors are.

"Yes," he mused inwardly, "I'm just an auto wrecker, and a fine one, too. Not bad for a cripple."

***

Sometime, in the womb, when babies are attacked so viciously, they cry out. Little Bryan cried out, his pretty blue eyes wrested precipitately open, staring innocently at this implacable neural horror--pain the baby's only comprehension. His cry was just a squeaking, gurgling sound; but he cried out.

Nobody on earth heard. Or cared.

God heard, cared, and He told me to hear. I heard, saw, cared. I saw it all. And God told me to speak for the babies, to tell the story of Bryan. He told me Bryan's full name, and about the evil, twisted little demented abortionist "doctor" that murdered him. l/ He has murdered so many babies.

Several months before the telling, God actually put me on an elevator with this individual, but at the time I knew not why. Although there was a crowd trying to board, only the "doctor" and I got on. The crowd pressed, but remained at a distance, looking all around the door, but not entering. I thought this was curious, and I began to wonder at it. Abruptly, the doors closed, and we--just the "doctor" and I--started down. The elevator jerked to a halt, stopping between floors. He began to ridicule a Pro-life sticker somebody had dropped, which was lying on the elevator floor, his face twisting and contorting as he laughed, cackling like a deranged maniac. I picked up the sticker, examining it. Puzzled, I looked at him. I was about to speak, to ask him, "Why?" and "How?" and, "Aren't you glad just to be able to slobber on yourself with the life you obviously possess?" when he told me that he was an abortionist "doctor," and he attempted to expound on the virtues of destroying unborn babies, or "non-viable metaphors." It was a whining, begging, slobbering sound, hollow, echoing in the elevator, which enclosure became huge, with the "doctor" reduced almost to insect proportion as I listened, aghast. It seemed as if I were several hundred feet tall, squatting down to hear him, scrutinizing him under a glass. 

As he attempted to relate, I began to see and hear a faraway wailing in my consciousness. Then it was a din. Then I saw it all: millions of babies, as though exploded into pieces, and still alive, all sobbing and wailing and screaming in terror and pain, with no advocate of any real efficaciousness, nobody to care. I felt that this creature had done this to all these babies for the egotistical pleasure of it. He became large again, even larger than I (now the size of an insect myself, as we switched magnitudes, somehow.) In the tiniest particle of an instant, I almost marveled at the impossible preposterousness of this creature, as one might be astonished at a revelation of nature under powerful ocular magnification. Unlike nature, however, there was no beauty here--only a ghastly irrelevancy, stifling me spiritually, threatening to choke me to death. I wanted to laugh, to cry, to kill him. These occurred almost at the same time, and in that order. I wanted to abort him. I hungered to abort him. I almost lost control of myself, teetering, literally performing ballet on the point of a needle with my desires.

A deep down yearning urged me, "This is not murder. This is self-defense. This is a ticket to heaven."

If not to have this confrontation with the son of Satan, why had I breathed air for more than fifty years, and gone through Hell to meet him? Why was I made? I had been especially designed and prepared. This was the only reason for my life: a holy design. I was my choice, my design. I was Death Himself. I was The Reaper, existing only for God's Holy Purpose. How could I be wrong here? This was my mandate: I was the Chosen One. After the longest impossible struggle that anybody could imagine, I had reached the pinnacle. It was my own personal pleasure to plant the flag now, in behalf of all those babies, for God, and for myself. It was my reward for persistence and determination, often interpreted by the world around me to be "just plain, stubborn, bull headedness." I felt like the first man to set foot on the moon, but unlike Armstrong, I had had no help getting here. Except for God, I‘d had to do it alone, unacknowledged; no cheering sections; no banners; no parades with slogans proclaiming acts of self sacrifice in getting here fully capable and willing and able to do what I was created for (even some acts of genuine heroism.)

This son of Satan, and I, alone together, faced one another. He was arrogant, self assuming, pretentious--a living, breathing contradiction in terms--urging me, demanding that he had a "right" to slaughter babies, and that I should understand, as though I had the power to make it all right. He tried to make me feel as though I were THE JUDGE, and that I appeared to be "too intelligent" to make a stupid decision here. Surely, I was so smart, I would take his side. (This was nickel and dime psychology in its finest hour, completely wasted on me.)

Even so, he was right about the last part. I was smart enough to make the right decision. Here was my dessert for all the hell I had traversed alone, and it was wallowing before me in whipped cream and walnuts enticing, demanding that I gorge myself.

I started to move. Almost at the same instant, a dreadful clanking and clashing, a millisecond before me clamped onto me. I stopped. Time stopped. It was In The Beginning Again...and the earth was without form.

In the beginning was The Word, and The Word was with God...

A tiny baby's voice, God's, cut through the void, "Son of man, you must forbear. Vengeance is mine."

I wanted vengeance. I still want it. But even if I could, I would not take it from God. He has so many Ways, of which my puny brain knows nothing.

This son of Satan was in the same position with me (for a precious moment) that the babies are in with him as a "doctor" of slaughter. He perched delicately against the wall, hanging precariously upright, shaking and trembling, pitifully, from the effort. When the elevator jerked to a stop between floors, bouncing up and down, he nearly fell. It would have been so easy for him to fall and break his feeble little neck, with just a tiny bit of help. When the elevator resumed motion and the doors opened below I could have been "ministering first aid" in a futile attempt to "help" him, calling out, "Get an ambulance! He fell when the elevator malfunctioned!" I had witnesses. Who would have believed otherwise? Should I have treated him in the same manner that he has done so many helpless, innocent babies simply because I could, and the opportunity presented itself, as it does with him and the babies? Accidents do happen, and I'm certain no one would have suspected. Indeed, I doubt that suspicion would have arisen. As a truck driver, I have been so "blood and guts" close to accidents, a few people have died in my arms, and nobody suspected me of anything but trying to help. I could have been trying to "help" in the elevator in the same way. The "doctor" could not have told otherwise, as the babies could not, heretofore, tell what he and other maniacs are doing to them. Who would have cared?

However, because I refrained, this creature from Hell will continue to torture and slaughter innocent, helpless babies. And what is to stop him--not "the law," for certain, not even the slightest administrative ethical considerations.

I'll have to live with my "choice" on this.

I refused to internalize a single word he spoke. I had to get away from him. It was a "must." This tortured me almost more than I could endure. I was Baby Bryan at this moment with power, opportunity, and the will to kill this man and make him stop. I heard only grating sounds from his beastly, malformed vocal chords. I felt that I was in the presence of Satan's own persona: the Devil in human form.

And so I was.

In his mercy, God stopped my ears.

The elevator moved.

***

God can stand this kind of knowledge, because He is so large and knows so many things. He gave His Son to this same darkness, to teach men The Way. Because God required our first born, He gave His. What a trade. This burden of knowledge, about the babies, is difficult for me. I love babies and babies love me. Observe us sometime. See for yourself.

I am exceptionally robust physically, and psychologically secure, having lived and conquered rigors, standing entirely alone much of the time, that few can fathom though they be told, and I have not cried since I was a baby myself. It has been many years in time and eons in experience since I have cried. I am too tough to cry. I have seen and know too much. But when God made me stand with Him to hear little Bryan cry out, I cried with Bryan, and I cried for Bryan, and for all The Others, the little boys and girls.

God told me, "Son, My Spirit will continue to cry, with Rachel, until the end of the world."

There is no way I could touch that Sadness. It would shatter me, or any mortal, into a trillion universes of agony without end. But now I know why Jesus Wept. He Wept for the babies.

And I swore an oath to Almighty God, to make the world hear these babies as I have heard them. With Grace, I will succeed.

***

Peer pressure alone can stop the holocaust, as it could have done in Nazi Germany. It matters not how powerful the U.S. Supreme Court is, or how many or which women or abortion factories love to kill babies. People of good will and human sensibilities need only refuse to accept the horrors of human baby pieces that are offered on the plate of the feast. Simply refuse to eat of the plate. Turn cold backs on these murderers of babies. Shame them back to Hell.

Shame is a powerful force. Use it. Prevail here. Leave no doors open to them. If you open a door the tiniest crack, they shove a pin through it, then wedge it wider and wider, until the entire invasion force from Hell drives through. The main body of the elements is here already: witness the nonchalant slaughter of human babies at the hands of mothers. Indeed, here is the "Abomination of Desolation" spoken of by Daniel the Prophet, "standing where it ought not," in full array, girded for war, already pressing the attack against humanity, beginning with pitiful, helpless babies, flying in the faces of God and humanity, just as the Bible says it would.

And if these words don't stir the reader to at least a modicum of action, even if no more than pity expressed to one other person, exhibiting at least a trifle of solidarity with the plight of the babies, that reader is a lost soul. Every word here is true, and the images conveyed, extraordinarily horrible as they are, fall so far short of telling all, that I nearly despair. God has shown me so much, and I am so inadequate in the telling. I am mute here. In the face of this predicament, I am silent.

This is the plumb line that God has put in my hand to measure every reader: ALL WHO ARE NOT FOR THE BABIES ARE AGAINST THEM. And being against the babies, are against a Dread and Terrible God that I certainly cannot paint an image of. God is more than the babies are. Having read, no eye can say, "Gee, I didn't realize." And when Hell comes for you, I won't cry. But I may smile.

***

Today, abortionist murderers don't like to be "embarrassed" by a baby coming forth from the womb alive, sometime gasping for air, at other times catching his or her breath and crying, as newborns can and will do. In these cases, they throw the baby into a trashcan and shut the lid, so that nobody, especially the mother, can hear the cries. Sometime a most hardened "nurse" loses composure at the spectacle of a baby struggling for life, knowing that the baby is to be slaughtered in spite of the most ingrained will to survive expressing itself in a manner so innocent and piteous that it would tug at any purely human heart. But these hearts are not purely human. In the trashcan, the baby usually dies promptly, without assistance, "embarrassing" nobody. However, babies can be so persistent, sometime it behooves medical personnel to strangle them to death. Even in the trashcan, alone, prematurely born by force, they sometime will not quit crying out. There is no choice but to strangle them. Nonetheless, the mental picture of a "doctor" removing a baby from a trash can and strangling him or her is so drastically unsightly that "nurses" with a scintilla of pity have been unnerved. But the job is done. Devoid of human conscience, "doctors" in the baby killing industry are "supermen" with nerves of steel. Some are proud of this, and laugh about it privately, (in locker rooms at golf courses, for instance.) Still others are so haughty and belligerent, they laugh in public, to chide real nurses and doctors for their squeamishness and weakness. The architects of Roe vs. Wade anticipated and hoped for this very hardening of hearts.

To allay "embarrassment" caused by the more persistent babies, the procedure was designed for killing them in the womb by dismemberment. 2/ It is much "cleaner" and less "embarrassing" for everybody concerned. Out of sight, out of mind, so to speak.

***

The tip of a tong thrust into Bryan's eye, and that eye, God's Own Miracle, so delicate and fine, was gouged out as the tongs probed for leverage to get at the arm. The baby writhed and thrashed. Blood spurted. 3/ Relentlessly the tongs plunged, rummaging through the baby's eye socket, groping, grasping, oblivious to the devastation. Yanking and wrenching at the little head, the tongs slipped in the blood, careening into Hope's intestinal tract at her lower colon, stabbing a hole through one side and out the other. Now her feces mixed with the blood and other carnage that her "right to choose" had liberated into her body, her baby, and the remainder of what would be her life of misery and pain. She would no longer sit on a commode to defecate. She would carry a plastic bag taped to her side, the perennial dropping of feces a constant and demanding associate; more bothersome, indeed, than a child. 4/

***

Bryan's eye, one day, may have explored the heavens for God's most hidden secrets, marveling a perhaps brilliant Dr. Bryan Hope, renowned physicist; possibly tantalizing him to discover a whole new science, as Isaac Newton's eye has done. Or, that eye might have peered so keenly into the microscopic world as to uncover cures for mankind’s most dread diseases, as Pasteur, or Salk, or any number of others have done. A Nobel Committee might have recognized the work of the eye, immortalizing Bryan in the archives of the historically great.

Or, his eye may have beheld only ordinary things, discovering nothing of great moment to speak of--maybe just delighting at the myriad aspects of a butterfly's incredible beauty, as I have done--or simply transfixed by a flower--or watching "Mommy" bustling around in the kitchen. But great things or small, it was Bryan's eye uniquely, and his alone. Not his mother's, not any Supreme Court's, not the abortionist "doctor's," not mine, not yours, but Baby Bryan's own, uniquely, created by Almighty God and him, and already endowed with the magical ocular sensation of vision, in utero. Babies in the womb can perceive light.

Ripping a living intrauterine baby into pieces is a neural experience entirely unimaginable. No one can imagine it. Intrauterine babies feel pain. Presently, Bryan's pitiful little eye would not serve the primitive function of preventing his brain from bulging through the empty socket. It was more than an empty socket. It was a ghastly, ragged maw obliterating almost half of Bryan's noble little head, with a skull plate hanging askance. The eye didn't belong to anybody now. It was a "possible contaminant" in the patient's child bearing apparatus, which, for "safety's sake," the "doctor" removed and discarded.

***

After an eternity of gouging, stabbing, and probing, the other set of tongs located the diminutive arm, and, pinching it near the shoulder blade yanked it from its socket, tearing it from the baby's torso. In an arrogant flair, the "doctor" extracted the little arm with the tiny thumb that Bryan had been suckling, and held it high, victoriously, before the face of a "nurse." He contrived a huge smile, and tossed the arm at a stainless steel bowl. The arm plopped wetly on the floor, missing the whole table. That didn't matter. He exulted anyway, if only in the gesture. In his condition, he was an "Olympic Gold Medallist," at apex, just for being here with the ability to throw anything. But he sighed, painfully, at the excess exertion, his legs cramping badly.

He shouldn't have shown off. He slipped in the blood and fell, banging his eye on the table.

"Nurses" hurried to his aid. They were efficient, concerned. Then the three skidded around in the gore, grappling with one another. If Bryan's situation had not been so grim it would have been comical. Here were the three stooges from Hell.

After wrestling around for a while, they were a bloody mess. When the "doctor" was finally stabilized, the "nurse" with the glass face glowered menacingly at the arm (as if it had somehow caused the fiasco,) snatched it up and flung it in the bowl, then curtsied behind the "doctor," sticking her tongue out and making a face at the back of his head.

The other, her pretty little blood-spattered hat hanging crookedly, obsequiously consoled, "It'll be over soon, doctor. It'll be over. Please be brave."

She yearned for his approval, craved it, mopping his sweaty brow, daubing at the flecks of blood on his face, fussing like a chicken over a brood.

He smiled, wanly, yet stolidly, feigning interest in her empathy at the ordeal he was going through with his legs, but insisting that he would be all right. It was a hard gesture to put together, and it took a great amount of effort. How could she know anyway? He wished she would simply shut up. He enjoyed wallowing in blood. And he didn't care what she thought. How could he care? She was a sow, putting on an act, and a bad one at that. He wished he had her in the same position the patient was in. He would ruin her uterus for spite. He faked his most gratuitous smile at her, flopping his head for emphasis.

She smiled back, overwhelmed by a gigantic sense of pleasure, finally, and bustled around, humming to herself.

***

It was a small stainless steel bowl, but there was ample space to hold all the remains that had been the Little Miracle of Life named Bryan, with plenty of room to spare. Soon, this Miracle, this Son of Hope, that God and man had made between them, the Diminutive Person named Bryan, would be nothing but a little pile of refuse, as excrement, to be stuffed into a garbage disposal unit, or flushed into the sewer. There was no Hope for Bryan.

Curling his lips back over his teeth, wincing at his pain, gesturing toward the bowl in which the tiny arm had plopped to hang crookedly over the edge, the "doctor" cooed to the "nurses" assisting the slaughter of Bryan, "That's part of him."

The belligerent "nurse" responded with a long sigh, scowling alternately at her watch, and then each of her confederates in turn, twisting her heavily painted glass face mockingly, demonstrating an icy, manifest impatience at the time it had taken to remove only one arm. She was still standing behind the "doctor," waggling her tongue at him, trying to elicit mirth out of her colleague in white. She thought the "doctor" should be in a cemetery robbing graves. He reminded her of Quasimoto, in the Hunchback of Notre Dame. As far as she was concerned, this cripple was unfit even to call himself a doctor. He should be at home, in a wheelchair, with the idiot mother that brought him into the world catering to him hand and foot, as penance for her crime. Why hadn't he been aborted? She hated to get so bloody. At the moment her thoughts were not on her glass face and her paycheck, which normally assuaged the inconvenience this "doctor" carried around with him. He was such a grievous burden.

She wished he were dead, and divulged aloud from time to time, "If not for the money..."

The other, cognizant of the undercurrent, chastened, "The doctor is doing his best."

Then the baby's leg was ripped off, tearing his delicate stomach open, his guts trailing out through the maw opened at his lower torso. Blood squirted, geysering from the vagina.

For the first time this day, the "doctor" began to smile a genuine smile. His pain was gone. This was the best part. He felt so powerful. He was The Most High God at this moment. In his unholy euphoria he began to vibrate, shivering uncontrollably. Nobody else noticed. He wanted to scream and beat his chest. He was GOD ALMIGHTY.

His leg buckled under him and he nearly fell again. The moment was gone. The pain returned. It was so unjust. Why him? God, his legs hurt. Nobody could possibly know. He was so alone in his pain.

***

There was a lot of blood for such a tiny creature. Yet, even with his brain bulging from the eye socket, and his guts hanging out of the gaping hole where a moment before the thigh had been so splendidly attached to the tiny torso (as though he had just suffered a mortal automobile accident,) Bryan's patrician little heart continued to flutter. The baby was still alive. By means unfathomable, he was hanging on. But slowly the heart beat. Because of the trauma Bryan had suffered, his brain, even at this early state of his human beingness, knew that it must slow down all physiological functions, lest he perish, bleeding to death. Baby Bryan's brain didn't know that it made no difference.

Inexplicably, the baby was still alive while the remaining arm and leg were torn off, each in its turn. By this time, however, the violent jerking and kicking of the little body had ceased. Bryan's pain may have been hushed finally, though the heart doggedly fluttered, feebly, instinctually anticipating that life might still lie ahead for Baby Bryan if he only would not bleed to death. Bryan was alive until the "doctor" gouged the tongs through his head, ripping and tearing, back and forth, in and out, decapitating him in one last heaving, gouging, grunting moment--the accomplishment punctuated by a loud, deliberate, rudely unselfconscious expulsion of intestinal gas from the "doctor"--losing bowels into already dirty underwear. He grinned, satisfied now.

"Nurses" giggled.

Now Bryan was dead.

***

The "doctor" searched the womb minutely to be certain that not a single piece of Bryan was left inside. Leaving any part of Bryan in the patient's womb could be hazardous to the patient. Not that he cared so much about the patient. He didn't care about patients at all. It was his ego trip that he cared about. Abortionists are not held to the same medical standards that real doctors are. This is why so many women suffer horrid physical complications when they exercise "choices" in this manner--complications that sometime include "accidental" colostomies that they bear for the rest of their lives, defecating perpetually in plastic bags taped to their sides. Nobody in the abortion industry cares about them or their babies.

The tiny body, broken and torn, pieces of Bryan, resembled raw stew meat in the diminutive bowl, very bloody stew meat. There was a lot of blood. To be certain that all the body parts were there, and after Hope had been removed, the "doctor" and "nurses" studiously attempted to reassemble the stew meat that was Bryan (the "arrogant" little pretender to Son of Hope) to be sure that all of the parts were there. This was a "safety measure" for the patient, to ensure that no "garbage" (any part of Bryan) was left to contaminate the inside of the womb. Even the single eye that was gouged out, nearly as small as a pencil eraser, had been removed.

Egotistically, the "doctor" took pride in his safety record. To the best of his knowledge, he had never poisoned a patient by leaving scraps of meat where they didn’t belong, although he had accidentally punctured colons in what he considered these animals that called themselves "women." He had nothing but contempt for any woman who would pay somebody like him to kill her baby. The hole in this colon could not be mended, but he saw nothing amiss in a woman walking about with a colostomy bag taped on her side. He had bigger problems with his poor legs. It would be nice if he only had a colostomy to worry about. He’d rejoice; he’d cheer. But he could act as if he cared about the patient. He was a good actor. The best actors make the most money, and many people felt sorry for him. He wore pity as a cloak of protection. It worked when all else failed.

This "doctor" did not know which he liked the most about his work, the money or the blood. Destroying these creatures felt so good. He loved hating women, especially his mother. He was glad that they were too stupid to know. If anybody knew, he'd be out of work. He had a way of causing people to believe that he loved babies, too. What a laugh that was. People were such fools, particularly women. They were so inferior. And they treated him like God in the operating room. At least he could call himself a man, and a fine doctor man at that (even though the pain was so enormous at times he wanted to scream out for help.)

With exaggerated display he asserted loudly, almost pugnaciously, referring to the remains of Bryan, "He's all there."

His legs hurt severely--each was like a huge, rotten tooth, aching at the same time. And his back hurt. Everything hurt. He'd throw the clothing away. It stank like Hades. Between that and perennial acute halitosis he was smelly at both ends.

***

As the "doctor" trembled and flailed his worthless legs out the door, the "nurses" scraped little Bryan's remains off the table and flushed them into the sewer. The garbage disposal was for larger, firmer babies that could not be flushed. It was nothing to the "nurses." Except money. They would be paid well. The one with the glass face could buy some more colors, and the other fattening groceries. Bryan had been worth about $30 to each "nurse." And another baby was waiting in the wings, where the "doctor" was already eagerly making an appearance. The next one was a "youngling," a thirteen-year-old, already having labor pains. Her baby would have to be stabbed to death with scissors in the back of the neck, ripping crudely into the base of the skull to suck the brains out with a steel tube (in a so-called partial birth abortion.) This was a little girl. Here, the gender struggle for equality had been resolved. Here, there was no such thing as gender. Aborted babies are neither male nor female. Aborted babies are money (and a whole lot of blood.) There would be three more this day. To these "nurses," one hundred twenty dollars apiece for a day's work was not bad.

***

Terror and pain were mankind's only legacy for Bryan, because mankind is so evil, so corrupt, so worthless and so cowardly.

 Now, Bryan's laughter will never be heard. His eyes will not behold beauty; nor will the unknown millions of other babies who have suffered similar fates at the hands of what must be described as fiends from Hell, emboldened and protected by a U.S. Supreme Court that is also peopled by fiends from Hell. Now, Baby Bryan will never bless the earth with his presence, anointing humanity in the toddling, stumbling, squealing, twinkling manner that only a baby knows how to do. The U.S. Supreme Court, and every abortionist "doctor," and every stupid dupe of a would-be "mommy" who has slaughtered her baby by abortion actually prefer Hell over Bryan and his like, even as the Jews, in another manic moment two thousand years ago, preferred a murderer instead of Jesus, stating, "Let his [Jesus’] blood be on us and our children."

Any persecution of the innocent is the crucifixion of Jesus again. And any that participate are and were in that crowd of 2,000 years ago howling, "Crucify Him, crucify Him." And again, for the second time in 2,000 years, "the law" is up to its neck in the destruction of the innocent and pure, with the U.S. Supreme Court posing as Caiphus, the lower judicial system as the Sanhedrin, and the Iron Maidens of "Pro choice" as Judas.

Every individual responsible for an abortion on demand, and every cheering section, standing side by side, including the U.S. Supreme Court, the President of the United States, and all of their accomplishments combined, are not worth, or worthy of, a single Bryan Christopher Hope, at any point in his existence, abbreviated as it was; any more than all the Jews who ever lived are worth one Jesus. Baby Bryan was and is Jesus. And so are The Others. Every mother who deliberately kills her baby is killing Jesus. And she will know the depths of Hell. This is the Promise of The Almighty Himself, and God does not lie.

In her own way the mother is more victimized than the baby. Duped into slaughtering the most precious thing imaginable--second only to God Himself--she is nothing but a hell-bent minor chess piece. She and her baby are cannon fodder in a game of money and power, in an industry of abortion so malevolent that it caters to little else than depravity and cruelty and death so mind numbing that no earthly intelligence can even begin to describe it for naked cruelty and horror. I fail as well.

An alien enemy of humanity has attacked at the most elemental level of man, loosing a malignancy into humanity so pervasive as to grow tentacles of evil and depravity into the minds and hearts that people the highest legal body in the United States; gnawing and nibbling away the vestiges of a fine thread of humanistic ethos that, itself as fragile as the tiny eye of Bryan, nonetheless held the Brethren's judicial robes together. A gossamer thread, to be sure, albeit, from time to time, was decidedly perceptible running through the judicial decisions here and there, helter skelter at times, but still discernible even in the dankest of the legal mumbo jumbo. In Roe vs. Wade, the robes fell apart to expose a cloister of depraved little old men and one woman, and not a real woman at that--little more than child molesters of the most evil stripe. It was as though we had suddenly awakened in the Twilight Zone one fine, sunny day, from a shower of ice water, abruptly, as Bryan had awakened in the womb to the neural nightmare of dismemberment in a vivisectional horror of living reality.

And not a vestige of humanity in Roe: only dark, clammy, legal hocus pocus, signifying nothing but horror for humanity, for all time to come, and a debt to Almighty God and human babies that can never be paid, not even by eternal confinement in Hell. Woe to humanity.

The U.S. Supreme Court ought not to be looked upon with the reverence historically accorded the position. It should be looked upon with loathing, disgust, contempt; the same as history looks upon any King Herod that ever lived, or Jack the Ripper. Because this is what these men are: Kings Herod and Jacks the Ripper (literally) of an ilk that overshadows the Herod of Jesus' day and time for contemptible, disgusting satanic ugliness and cruelty. Abortion on demand is the worst form of child molestation. The sexual variety of the most contemptible kinds cannot stand for similitude beside Roe vs. Wade. Roe overshadows all, for all time. The Founding Fathers, George Washington and Thomas Jefferson, in particular, would not sit passive about Roe vs. Wade. They orchestrated and personally participated in a National Revolution over less. Yet, King George was Santa Claus in comparison. Attilla the Hun was Mother Theresa. Need I go on? Only Satan could devise such a horrendous and ungodly scheme as Roe vs. Wade, to strike and invade the very womb where man is created, incubates, and develops; instigating and loosing a full blown Holocaust on the most innocent, helpless, and needful of humanity; subjecting man's most delicate aspects, and God's Favorite Creatures, to a capricious, torturous disposal; reducing them to excrement; flushing them into the sewers; grinding them into hamburger meat in garbage disposal units.

This is the work of ghouls and fiends.

***

What did Jesus think of children? I won't quote chapter and verse. Simply go to the Bible and look. On one occasion the disciples of Jesus (who certainly were men of higher stature than any present day judge of any court) contended among themselves about who was the most important in heaven. Jesus told them to hold on just a moment. He stretched forth His Hand, and took a little child and set the child among them.

And He said, "Lest you be as one of these, you will in no wise enter into heaven. None is greater than one of these, whose angels always behold the face of my father in heaven."

It bears repeating: none is greater than one of these.

***

The arguments against unborn babies (little else than tiny persons maturing in the womb into the next state of human beingness: infants outside the womb) are so specious that I hesitate to mention one. They are filth in the mouth; so dirty and underhanded and ugly and satanic that it sickens a normal person to exercise them in the consciousness even to refute them, which is simple and easy to do. They are lies and subterfuge compounded by more lies--all an affront to any interest of any baby whatsoever, living or dead. Indeed, they war against and ravage the most deeply strategic interest of all humanity, including Brethren and Iron Maidens (who just don’t know it.)

Even so, one of the "greatest" arguments from pro butchery forces against the babies, for destroying them in the millions, is that they are "not human yet," because the "soul" does not enter into a baby until he or she is legally born (as though nature somehow cares about legality.) Does the sun care how legal it is to blast a solar wind into the earth and cost men hundreds of millions, and billions of dollars in power disruptions, and even death? Does an earthquake care how legal it is to flex the earth and slay a city, or a civilization? I don't think so.

It's as though, because they are expert on slaughtering unborn babies by torture, they are also expert on the precise moment when the "soul enters the body." They don't even know what a soul is. Humans do not have souls. Humans are souls, according to the Bible. The Bible states in Genesis that when God breathed life into the clay out of which man was formed, Adam became aliving soul. It does not state that Adam was given a soul, as though the body and soul are two separate and distinct entities. Human flesh is the soul. And human flesh exists from the moment of conception. It is appalling that a minor semantic misconstruction can be occasion for human mothers to unbridle a torrent of living hell on their babies, treating it as nonchalantly as though they were expectorating phlegm from their throats.

It is said that many women who are duped into frivolously ordering their babies to be slaughtered often have psychological and physical problems later; ranging from "accidental" colostomies performed by knocking holes through the uterine wall and puncturing the colon (which can't be closed again in many or most cases) to sometime dreaming that their slain babies are talking to them, and a host of other problems too numerous to entertain here. I am happy to know this. They should have serious problems after tearing their babies into pieces in vivisection. It demonstrates that Satan is not totally in the driver's seat. It seems that conscience is a factor. Evidently, protestations to the contrary notwith-standing, spitting phlegm from the throat is not what is hurting the conscience. Has ridding oneself of actual phlegm ever hurt one’s conscience? Has it ever hurt yours? What causes consciences to hurt here must have something to do with spitting babies from their wombs as though the babies were just so much phlegm, but knowing in their hearts what a vicious lie it is: a crime against The Almighty Himself, against nature and humanity, and against the babies and any concept of motherhood whatsoever. This is a classical symptom of conscience. Observe it in motion here as it lives and breathes.

Who could stand to live in a world where mothers have no pity for their offspring, no matter how horrendous their conditions, so that they were totally unaffected at gouging babies’ eyes out and ripping and slashing them into unrecognizable garbage, to be flushed down the sewer, or thrown in the trash.

Yay for motherly conscience. May it hurt and hurt and hurt.

***

It’s all about the love of money.

What abortionist baby butchers are up to is money, all of them, from the Supreme Court, all the way to the ghouls that dispose of the murdered little bodies. They all think we are too stupid to know. The loudest champions of so called rights have the most money to gain. And the others, flailing around with their pom poms at pro-abortion rallies, are dupes and cannon fodder. "Family planning clinics," a euphemism for slaughterhouses, are the factories of an industry that destroy unborn babies simply because it is legal and profitable to do so, and some, because they love to kill babies. It is an orgasm for others, courtesy of the Brethren, the abortion factories, and the Iron Maidens of "Pro choice." The whole thing, regardless of purpose, contrived or otherwise, is the ultimate societal orgy in child molestation, unequaled in the history of the world. But nobody is calling anybody "dirty old men." This sort of child molestation is like smoking: it is "socially acceptable;" but Praise God, some of us are exempt, and we will not ever accept it, no matter what we had to go through in preparation. (Indeed, together, we can end it, if there are enough brave souls still alive today. Are any of them in government?)

The U.S. Supreme Court has ruled that unborn babies are not "persons." Therefore, they do not "fall within the guidelines" of the laws that protect human beings, who are persons. A fine legal distinction, indeed. Not so long ago, Black folks were ruled by the U.S. Supreme Court to be non-persons. The Brethren's "unblemished" reasoning of the day went this way: "The Negro is not a person, therefore he is property, therefore a White owner can dispose of him in any manner that the owner deems fit." The "Negro" was not a "person" by legal definition. "Negroes," therefore, (as do the babies today) "fell outside the guidelines" of the laws protecting human beings. At its whim and caprice, the Court may thus reduce human beingness to a "legal guideline." (America’s Most Singular Founding Document, however, the Declaration of Independence, ignores "legal guidelines," as it imbues all with God endowed, "unalienable" rights of life and equality. The Declaration of Independence does not exempt unborn babies. Nobody advised the Court about this, apparently, and so the Court is ignorant of the fact and law.)

Then, as now, it was about money, and not at all about what is or is not a "person." And the "reasoning," unaltered, is exactly the same today as it was then. However, there is not one of the "Brethren" who can prove that he is a person. "Legal person-ness" is nothing but amorphous arbitrary designations, depending entirely upon still other fanciful stipulations, all resting upon the most intangible of foundations, none of them rooted in truth and reality. I would like anybody to prove to me that he or she is a person. And I promise not to be hard headed on the matter. Prove to me that anybody is a person, if you can, if you will. The U.S. Supreme Court has fabricated a whole case for butchering babies out of fanciful notions that everybody but babies are "persons." Thus, if anybody can prove exactly what a person is, I'm all ears. Don't try to prove to me that the babies are not persons. Simply prove that you, and every individual that looks like you, is a per-son. Show me proof. I'd like to learn this sort of cerebral prestidigitation. It could be exercised to save Babies by the same twisted reasoning in which it is employed to legally murder them. So, come on, hit me with it. Line up, and I'll take one at a time. Or, you might wish to even the odds a tiny bit: get in a gang and come at me all at once. But be careful. I'm not a helpless baby. I only think like one sometime. You all might walk away convinced that you are wrong. I have that way about me.

In the history of the world somebody in power is forever ruling somebody else to be "non-human," so that they can legally have their way with them, such as it was with slaves, and now the babies. And not because they even have a hope of being right, but simply because they have mouths, vocal chords, and designation of power. Woe to humanity when idiots have the power of enforcement.

Any law that has ever labeled others to be "non human" has never been vindicated by posterity, and none will ever be. The best have tried and failed. Undaunted, the Brethren keep trying. Who's turn will it be tomorrow? Who will be the next legal class of "non-humans?" Maybe the elderly, but instead of speculating, I suppose I should direct this to the Supreme Court.

***

I'll stand up for Bryan and The Others. I wish I could replace them and stand in the furnace in their behalf. If the babies are not human, or "persons," neither am I. In fact, I am not as human as Bryan and The Others. To be sure, I am much less. Babies are meek. But look at me. I don't know how to be meek. Will the Court, in concert with the Iron Maidens and the abortion factories, have me butchered because I am inferior to the babies? Perhaps. It's not farfetched. Babies are more precious than I, and they are butchered, so why not I? It would not hurt me any more than it does the babies, I suppose. And it would keep me in such fine company. I could be flushed down the sewer also. If the sewer is a fit place for babies, it's fit for me. Where there are babies, under any circumstances, there is spiritual wholesomeness and cleanliness, even where legally murdered babies have been flushed. As excrement they anoint sewage with a highness and grace that renders the sewer unobjectionable to me. I'll take the sewer over the towering chambers of ivory peopled by Brethren and Iron Maidens. Hell is coming for them, and Heaven for the sewage.

***

Dogs have specific and vital legal rights in the modern world. No person, in any State of the United States, may legally and morally starve, maim, or torture a dog. If one person observes another ripping the leg off a dog, or gouging its eyes out, or tearing its head off, in every State in the United States the offender can and will be legally and morally sanctioned. Dogs have more and better rights than human unborn babies. Only a satanic U.S. Supreme Court could invent such an anomaly. Woe to humanity.

***

Some women commit the rape of their babies through abortion on the grounds that the Bible does not explicitly forbid it, in exact words, such as: "Thus, saith the Lord God: ‘Mothers, rapeth not thine offspring.’" As though they would not commit the act if the Bible explicitly forbade it.

They argue, "The Bible does not expressly say not to rip Babies into pieces, so where is the moral authority to guide us?"

One would not have thought that the Bible need admonish mothers in this manner. 5/

And so, mothers (and fathers,) here is a simple test: imagine that you are in the Presence of Jesus Christ.

"Jesus," you query, "Should I [or we] commit this abortion?"

What do you suppose Jesus would say?

Do you suppose He would reply, "Oh, yes, commit the abortion. Take the easy way out. Avoid the responsibility of rearing a child. The child may be troublesome; may be problematic in hundreds of ways. Fill your cup to its brim with sexual satiation, conceive, and then abort. Tear the babies into pieces and flush them down the commode, or consign them to the garbage disposal unit. Yes, I'm definitely into killing babies as The Method of solving things. Witness My hanging on the cross. Witness My 10 Commandments."

And then, "After telling you this, I will turn to these other folks, and admonish them in this way: 'strait is the gate and narrow is the way to salvation, but the road to damnation is a broad highway.'" (See the King James Bible for reference if you need it.)

"And to answer your question even further, how about this: I went through a more excruciating ordeal than anybody can comprehend. God's Innocent Child, evil claimed Me, because I was given to you and yours, to show you the way. I, the Most High and Holy, was scourged by the most debased and depraved among you. They spat on Me, slapped My Holy Face in their egotistical fury, and mocked Me by placing on My Fine Brow a crown of crudely fashioned thorns. They very seriously battered Me, because of My Innocence. I raised not a finger against them, even though I could have. My Finger could furrow a canyon in the earth, but I chose to forbear.

"And I bled.

"My pain was excruciating, because I was rendered a man most lowly, even among you, but with nerves more sensitive than Bryan's. I was nailed on a crude stick of wood, and the hammer wielded by a twisted, diseased little pervert of the same sort that killed Bryan.

"I died, ignominiously, as a man, so that My Fine Sense of Responsibility, which could, in no wise, even so, be wrested from Me, could be so graphically demonstrated to you all, to show you the Way of Ways. I could have shown you another, easier way. But I used this mode because it was the only way humanity could comprehend. A human man, I could have walked the earth as The Most Powerful King, drinking perennial adulation as I went, catered to by all. Wouldn't this have been nice and easy? But in order to show you the way to salvation, I chose ignominy, even death--real, true, ugly death: separation from God.

"This is why I cried out on the cross, ‘Father, why did you forsake Me?’ even as little Bryan cried out.

"For humanity’s sake, I, Jesus, chose Hell--to conquer it as a mortal man, with the same simple virtues I taught the world of men, as a man."

Thus speaketh the Lord God Almighty.

And now, "Mommy," allow me to turn to you more personally, and inquire of you: where is your tiny thorn of responsibility named Bryan and The Others that you could "choose" to sacrifice yourself for? You could simply let the child be born in due course, and if you didn't want him or her, give the child away to kindly, loving human creatures, of whom plenty exist, even today. Biologically, womankind was made to bear children, and so, unless you have some special infirmity, you can do this more easily than any baby can bear the awful consequences of the mediaeval Iron Maiden that you make of yourself when you bow down to the Baal repository that the U.S. Supreme Court has become in creating bogus grounds for you to frivolously butcher your baby.

Where is your tiny thorn of responsibility to yourself as the human being and "person" you claim to be? Ordering the slaughter of your baby, simply because "the law" allows you to do it, as The Alternative to the most miniscule responsibility to your child, as a mother, renders you the non human that you, the Supreme Court, and the Iron Maidens of "Pro choice" hold your baby to be.

Where is the little thorn of responsibility that the "Mighty Brethren" could have chosen, in a single gesture of a pen, to save millions of Bryan Babies, also Babies of Hope?

How about the President of the United States?

And what of all the Legislatures in the land?

Government has failed.

For The Lord God Almighty, and The Babies

SAVE THE BABIES!

An Alabama Non Profit Corporation

2865 County Rd. 415

Opp, Alabama 36467-8808

(334) 897-3965

savbabys@alaweb.com

FOOTNOTES:

1/ All Baby murderers are deranged.

2/ Even more grisly, fiendish means for killing babies have been developed and employed by a medical profession that now answers to nobody. One popular method is to drag the baby more than halfway out of the womb, leaving only the head inside. A gash is then torn through the back of the neck and into the base of the skull, with any instrument at hand: scissors, forceps, scalpel. A steel or plastic tube is jammed into the skull at the foramen magnum, and the baby's brains are sucked out. Uncontrollable by ethical doctrine now, unscrupulous medical practitioners lack not for hellish inventions. Witness Nazi Germany of the l930's-40's, and American abortion factories since l973.

3/ Often, when babies are murdered by dismemberment or saline injection (a procedure which scalds the baby’s skin as if he or she had been dropped in boiling water,) they plunge and thrash, violently, inside the womb, so that the stomach of the would-be mother bulges rapidly in and out as if she were giving birth to a wild baby stallion. Some "doctors" and "nurses" are enthralled at this spectacle, and laugh and joke about it privately. Be not misled by creatures who wear sheep’s clothing, but are actually ravening wolves. Don’t let them tell you how "dismayed" they are at the "necessity" to do this terrible work. They love it, or they would not do it. I drive a truck. I could be a "doctor" of abortion if I chose. What do you do for a living? Do you kill babies? Why do they have to kill babies for a living if it "dismays" them so much? Are they unfit to be real doctors and nurses? Can they not stand on street corners and beg money for a living, as any self-respecting beggar does?

I could not stand begging, but I would do this before I would kill babies for money (or for any other reason.) If I were told, "You will be an abortionist, or you will starve to death," I would have to reply, "Bring on the fast." I actually could get into starving to death in such an instance, and enjoy dying from starvation. With my last breath, just before expiring, I would take the opportunity to state: "I’m glad to die this way. It feels so good."

4/ Mother and baby bled profusely now. She would bear no more children, and she'd live with her colostomy. This particular "doctor" was a real butcher. He loved carnage.

5/ Simply because something is not in the Bible does not mean one should run headlong and do it. The Bible does not say not to pick one’s nose with a straight razor, for example, but who picks their noses with straight razors? It does not forbid the eating of ground glass, but who eats ground glass?

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