Waldo was not alone by any means in trembling over an unjust plight. With the recent uproar over drunk driving, arrests had skyrocketed and detention centers all around the country were overflowing with bewildered motorists. Many of these dumbstruck, inebriated souls had been transferred and thoughtfully placed behind the same bars that held back murderers and rapists. Unfortunately for our heroes, they now joined the ranks of these luckless citizens.
Try this.” O’Grady smiled. “It’s the only thing we drink. It’ll warm your insides.”
“What is it?” Asked the ever cautious Waldo.
“We call it the Forest Flaming Special. Go ahead-drink up.”
“Well, okay….” Waldo lifted the cup and nearly dropped it when saw his name printed clearly on the side.
“We’ve been expecting you.” Explained Fred, beginning to laugh.
At Snortin’ Reformatory, a notorious Washington, D.C. jail located in the northern Virginia suburbs, The Afro-Anarchists were being thrown into a cell. It was a situation that the three of them, like many young black males in the D.C. area, had long ago come to expect as a rite of passage.
As the door slammed shut behind them, Bucktooth spoke. “Man, Phosphate, they didn’t read us our rights or nothin’.”
The Council on Foreign Relations is like an establishment country club-a
veritable Who’s Who of American policy-making. The mainstream press has
historically given scant coverage to exactly what it is that the CFR does. The