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“Fuego!” and the firing squad volley riddled Rigo’s little bent body as he moaned and struggled awkwardly against his bounds, blindfold and gag.
“When you saw the beaming look on Che’s face as the victims were tied to the stake and blasted apart by his firing squads,” said former Cuban political prisoner Roberto Martin-Perez, to this writer, “you saw there was something seriously, seriously wrong with Che Guevara.”
Thus far I’ve cited Che Guevara’s bluster when addressing his defenseless victims, the defenseless mothers of his victims, and reporters. On October 8th 1967 in Bolivia “the world’s most famous guerrilla fighter” (thanks to Fidel Castro’s hand-outs to his ever-faithful international media and academic lapdogs and parrots) finally faced something properly describable as guerrilla combat. Shortly into this unprecedented, baffling and utterly terrifying experience Che Guevara snuck away from the firefight, dropped his fully loaded weapons and whimpered: “Don’t shoot! I’m Che! I’m worth more to you alive than dead!”
“If the missiles had remained in Cuba we would have fired them at the heart of the U.S.” boasted Che Guevara to Sam Russell of The London Daily Worker, Nov. 1962.
Given the veneration by Washington D.C’s Busboys and Poets of the racist Stalinist who craved to nuke Washington D.C. we have to think they also carry Che’s Message to the Tricontinental Conference in Havana 1966. Chick-fil-A “tastes like hate,” Mayor Gray? Well, then chew on this:
“Hatred is the central element of our struggle!…Hatred that is intransigent….Hatred so violent that it propels a human being beyond his natural limitations, making him violent and cold-blooded killing machine…We reject any peaceful approach. Violence is inevitable. To establish Socialism rivers of blood must flow. The victory of Socialism is well worth millions of atomic victims!” (thus spoke the icon of flower-children).
Had the icon of Busboys and Poets prevailed in October 1962, today the incinerated remains of many of the restaurant’s patrons, and those of practically all of their parents and grandparents, would fit in one cappuccino cup.
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