FYN Chapter 108 You troublemakers! Go work!
Chapter 108 You troublemakers! Go work!
Chapter 108 You troublemakers! Go work!
In Europe, somewhere, in an underground wine cellar.
The wine cellar is very large and was originally used to store wine. Now the wine barrels have been pushed against the wall, and a dozen chairs are placed in the open space in the middle.
A projector was set up in front of the chair, and the projection screen was hung on the stone wall of the wine cellar.
A video is playing on the cloth.
The image shows the steps of the Lansing State Parliament Square, where Carl Jensen stands with flames behind him.
He raised his hand, pointed at the camera, his lips moved, but no sound came out.
The speakers connected to the projector were turned off.
No sound is needed.
The members of the society will fill in the blanks themselves.
"He's about to start a holy war!"
A voice rang out, young, sharp, and trembling.
The speaker was Adolf Hans, 22 years old, the head of the society.
He stood at the very front, his face only half a meter from the projection screen, his eyes wide open, the pupils reflecting the flickering firelight.
He was holding a bottle of vodka.
Unscrew the bottle cap, tilt your head back, and blow directly into your mouth from the bottle opening.
After finishing the bottle, my eyes became even redder.
"He is our white man's savior! He is the Messiah who has descended to earth!"
He shouted, and his voice echoed through the wine cellar.
"Ah~ They swept through the entire state of Michigan in one night, a miracle, this is a miracle in itself!"
This time it was Joseph Ilsa, a woman in her early thirties with short blonde hair, wearing a suit.
She raised her right hand, her index and middle fingers together, pointing at Karl on the projection screen.
"The Lord is watching over him!"
She shouted.
"The Lord is watching us!"
There were twelve people sitting in the wine cellar, plus Adolf and Ilsa standing, making a total of fourteen.
The participants ranged in age from twenty to fifty, and included both men and women. They were all dressed very well, wearing wool coats, custom-made shirts, and handmade leather shoes.
Their ancestors were people who swept across Europe and returned to their rightful place, watched over by the Lord.
Well, at least that's what they think.
It does not matter.
Importantly, new subjects of observation have now emerged.
Carl Jensen.
A collective gasp filled the wine cellar.
Then came laughter.
"Hip hop!"
Adolf took another swig of vodka and then raised the bottle.
"For the greatness of the Aryans once more!"
"Hip hop!"
Others joined in, raising their glasses—some with red wine, some with whiskey, and some with vodka, which was just like water.
Ilsa lowered her hand and walked to a wooden table in the corner of the wine cellar.
On the table lay a nautical chart, several passports, and a car key.
"The ship is ready."
She said, her voice lower, but tighter.
"I can't wait any longer."
She is the richest person here.
Some of them bought boats.
It's not a yacht, it's a cargo ship registered in Liberia, named "Polaris".
It is 400 feet long and has a load capacity of 12,000 tons.
The ship is not currently loaded with containers.
It is a modular missile system, sourced from European wombs and Goose.
And the local specialties of everyone also come from these places.
"To fulfill the Lord's will!"
Ilsa turned to face the others.
Let's go!
She raised her right hand, arm straight, palm down, and then tilted it upwards at a 45-degree angle.
"Hip hop!"
Adolf shouted, and raised his hand in response.
"Hip hop!"
The others stood up and raised their hands.
The wine cellar was a forest of arms.
Ten minutes later, they left the wine cellar and got into three black Mercedes vans parked in the alley.
The car drove towards the port, a private dock that is not open to the public.
The "Polaris" was moored there, its hull painted dark gray, without lights, like a stone floating on the water.
They boarded the ship.
Start driving away.
At the same time, several other ports in Europe.
Rotterdam, Netherlands, a container terminal.
A converted cargo ship departed from port, flying a homemade flag.
A portrait of Napier T.T., with the German phrase "Make America Great Again" below.
The twelve people on board were all of German descent, mostly older, and the leader was Hans Müller, a former bank employee.
Marseille, France, a small yacht marina.
A sixty-foot-long yacht set sail, flying the same milk dragon flag.
The ship owner was a retired lawyer who brought eight "like-minded friends".
Genoa, Italy.
A cargo ship departed port, not carrying missiles, but "donations"—a gold bar, cash, and a batch of well-preserved vintage World War II rifles.
There were five ships in total, departing from different locations, all heading towards the east coast of North America.
Some went to Lake Michigan, some to the Great Lakes region, and some went directly to the Chesapeake Bay, awaiting further instructions.
They carried different signs, but the same slogan: "Make white people great again!"
"Hip hop!"
Change perspective.
Michigan is now called New Canaan.
At the end of November, a cold wave arrived.
The weather forecast says the temperature will drop to minus 15 degrees Celsius tonight, accompanied by heavy snow.
General Dong must love this land dearly.
In downtown Detroit, what was once ruins is now lit up.
It wasn't a streetlamp, but a temporary searchlight with a high wattage. The beam of light pierced through the snow and shone on the construction site.
The construction site is huge, covering more than a dozen city blocks.
Bulldozers, excavators, trucks, and cranes were all working, their engines roaring.
There are people on the construction site.
A lot of people.
The elderly, children, women, and youth.
Everything that can still move is still here.
They moved bricks, pushed carts, mixed concrete, and laid pipes. Their movements were slow, but they never stopped.
Each person wore a wooden cross around their neck, with the words "New Canaan, fight for God" engraved on the back.
Carl Jensen stood on a high platform, next to a flagpole with a blood flag hanging on it—red with a black cross.
The blood-red flag fluttered in the wind and snow.
Karl wasn't wearing a coat, just an olive green shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
He raised his right hand, palm up.
[Blood Flag Domain] unfolds.
Everyone paused for a moment, then sped up.
It's power!
They looked towards the high platform.
Carl stood there, like a statue.
"Get everyone moving!"
He shouted, his voice amplified through the megaphone at his waist, sounding somewhat distorted in the wind and snow.
"For the Lord! For the New Canaan!"
The people below shouted along, their voices uneven but loud.
"For the Lord!"
Karl lowered his hand and stepped down from the platform.
A middle-aged man wearing overalls ran over, holding a tablet computer in his hand.
"Leader, we're running out of precast concrete slabs at Plant 3. We need to get more from Cleveland. But they're saying the roads in Ohio are icy and the trucks can't get out."
"Tell them that if the goods don't arrive within two hours, I'll send someone to pick them up."
Carl said calmly.
"Yes."
The middle-aged man nodded and took notes on the tablet.
"Also, the potato reserves on the farms in the south are insufficient, only enough for three days."
"Let the women and children go dig for wild vegetables; there are also frozen berries in the forest. The old people go to the river to break the ice and fish."
"Yes."
"Arsenal progress?"
"Working 24 hours a day in three shifts, the rifle production line has resumed operation and can produce 200 rifles a day. The ammunition line is still being tested and can begin trial production tomorrow."
"Too slow."
Carl said.
"I want to see a production capacity of 500 units per day within three days."
"There aren't enough materials, especially one."
"Then buy it; if you can't buy it, then steal it."
Carl interrupted him.
"clear."
The man ran away.
Carl continued walking, passing through the construction site.
The snow fell heavier and heavier, and snowflakes as big as goose feathers landed on his shoulders and hair, which he did not brush away.
He walked to a makeshift shed, lifted the canvas curtain, and went inside.
The shack was warm with a stove burning inside. A hand-drawn map hung on the wall, marking resource points, fortifications, and patrol routes.
Next to the map was a printed sheet of paper titled "Regulations for the Theocratic Wartime System".
The content is very simple:
All resources belong to the Lord and will be allocated by the Holy War Command.
All laborers must obey orders; those who disobey are considered apostates.
All production activities are prioritized for military purposes.
All external transactions must be approved, and violators will be punished.
Carl stared at the paper for a long time.
Then he turned around, faced the stove, and knelt down on one knee.
He lowered his head and clasped his hands together.
"Lord."
He spoke in a low voice, half of which was drowned out by the crackling of the fire.
"Please punish me."
He knew what he was doing.
He is usurping the Lord's rights.
He is allocating resources, directing manpower, setting rules, and preparing for war in the name of God and on behalf of man.
But if we don't do this, the winter after Thanksgiving will take half the lives.
They froze to death, starved to death, or died of disease.
The people he rescued will freeze-dry and pile up by the roadside like firewood.
"For the holy war."
He continued.
"In preparation for your gaze."
"I am willing to bear all the sins."
He paused, looked up, and gazed at the roof of the shed.
The canvas was slightly dented by the weight of the snow.
"But please let this snow stop soon."
He stood up, dusted off his knees, lifted the curtain, and stepped back into the snowstorm.
Outside, in the beam of the searchlight, snowflakes spun wildly.
The noise from the construction site never stopped.
The sounds of bulldozer engines, shovels clearing snow, concrete mixing, and the faint, unified chanting of workers.
"For the Lord—"
"Hey!"
"For the New Canaan"
"Hey!"
Karl walked back to the platform and stood on it again.
The blood-red flag fluttered above his head.
The snow fell on his shoulders and didn't melt.