American Il Duce... Not What You Think

Cleaning the closet, I ran across this poster and a post from a few years back.  In view of the current crop of political candidates and their beliefs, it seemed like a good idea to resurrect it. 

Mr. Charleston sometimes earns his living as an independent life insurance agent. We prefer to call ourselves things like, financial advisers, counselors, or even, asset analysts.  It’s a hellish, but also rewarding, business. The rewarding part is when you really do help a family protect their assets or retirement savings. Or help them get a settlement from the thieving insurance industry who will screw you out of it given half a chance.

The hellish part is you spend an enormous amount of time on the phone trying to track down and set an appointment with people who have returned something in the mail expressing interest in what it is you are selling. They are called “leads.”

For a couple of years I worked the Georgia coast from St. Mary’s to Savannah and surrounding area. It was while tracking down an appointment in the “surrounding area” that I came across the professed President of the American Fascist Party. I didn't know that at the time.  To me he was a “lead.” A sheet of paper. I called, made an appointment, and got directions to his house, which was somewhere between Swainsboro, Georgia and nowhere (As if Swainsboro wasn’t nowhere enough already).

About 25 miles north of town on a narrow county road, the pavement ended. Another 7 miles or so further along, long out of cell coverage, following sketchy instructions and my nose, past miles of nothing but scraggly pine woods and an occasional field, I came to a clutch of mobile homes. They looked exactly as you would expect backwoods mobile homes to look, dirt yards, clothes lines, cars on blocks, children's toys, the ubiquitous BBQ grills, and yapping dogs. As I pulled up to the one that appeared to be my destination, a run-down mobile home with a shed like room built on to it and a large radio antenna tower on one side, any hope of a sweet commission evaporated in the Georgia sun.

But what the hell, I was there and it was certain to at least be a change of pace. I paused before getting out of the car as I couldn’t decide which end of the Pit Bull to believe, his head or his tail. The issue was settled when a somewhat disheveled El Presidente came out to greet me and ran the dog off. He was average height and build. A lanky redneck.

On the way into the house, through the car shed past a honker 4x4 truck with no roof and a hound dog lying in a dirt hole, I noticed that EP walked with a decided limp. (Insurance agents take note of such things.)

Click to enlarge

The interior of the place was cluttered and grimy, stuff piled everywhere, sofa and chair covered by dirty sheets (I wondered what the real fabric looked like) filthy carpet, or what was left of it. EP sat in the chair and motioned for me to take the sofa. I cleared enough space on the coffee table for my laptop. He offered me a beer. I thought, why not? I don’t usually drink when doing business but what did I have to lose?

As we talked I learned he had a few health problems and was on disability from the leg injury, but nothing that would totally disqualify him from coverage. He had no wife and family so I asked why he wanted life insurance in the first place. He said he wanted to leave something to a nephew who had helped him once. I wrote him a policy, with little faith it would be issued, and asked how he wanted to pay for it. He said he would pay cash as he didn’t trust banks or the government and wouldn’t have a credit card.  His premium came to something like $160.  After scrounging around for a while, he came up with the cash, a wad of cruddy bills.  I took it and wrote him a receipt.

I noticed a strange flag hanging on the wall and asked about it. He said it was the flag of The American Fascist Party. I said I didn’t know there was such thing and he informed me with pride that indeed there was and, in fact, that he was President of said party and had run for president of the United States this past election. He said it was at an election rally in Savannah that the FBI beat him up and injured his leg, which also precipitated his move from New York to East Bumfuck, Georgia.  At the first sign of interest on my part, he produced pamphlets and flyers and a CD that would tell me all about it. 

The information he gave me included their credo, part of which is:

As it is obvious to most, the current government system has become a gang of self-serving crooks who have sold out our great nation and betrayed the trust of the American people. Most people in this country know that "everything is upside-down." A true Fascist government in America would change all this. The AFP recognizes the "balance factor" in which, individual freedom is balanced with equal responsibility. National strength, military, economic, and political is balanced with the need to use such strength wisely, and with restraint. Productivity is balanced with a need to protect the environment.

If you agree with these sentiments, then congratulations, you may already be a Fascist! If you want to work against Communist treason and the U.N. dominated "New World Order," you just might belong in the American Fascist Party.

Crimini! I might indeed be a Fascist! Their credo goes on to say they are not racist and that they don’t care what religion you belong to, etc.

As I was reading through some of the information he gave me, I was gently quizzed about my thoughts concerning guns. I said I have one. In fact, I carry it in my car. He motioned for me to follow him, he had something he wanted to show me. He led me down a short, narrow hallway to a back room. The room was full of weapons. Racks of guns, swords, even a pike, lined the walls. Broken rifles and what-not stacked in the corners. A bookshelf loaded with ammunition.

To be fair, nearly all of them were antiques or collectables, but all in working order. WWII M1 rifles and carbines. A WWI Enfield and even a rifle from the Civil War. However, there were also a few modern Rambo looking semi-automatics and two Thompson sub-machine guns in perfect condition. I didn’t see anything more heavy duty like grenades or grenade launchers or the sort.

He was very proud of his collection, and rightly so.  I was genuinely interested and as I handled them, he would give me the history of the weapon with asides on the corrupt and dictatorial governments of the time. 

I couldn’t tell that he was a survivalist or anything like that. He struck me as someone who, whether forced to by the government or not, simply lives outside of the system and pretty much doesn’t want anything to do with anyone. I also got no impression that the little mobile home enclave was anything other than an odd collection of outcasts like himself. Not a smoldering nest of fascism or the like.

I suppose it’s just one man’s way of being free.

By the way, his policy was declined.