All Our Sabres Bare: Story of the Peregrine Men

Editor’s note: The following is a 9839-word fictional scenario of a scene prior to the establishment of the Federal Reserve System in December, 1913. It involves a time-traveling assassin from a dystopian future who intends to kill the principal pro-fed figures. Mr. Holliday’s sources include the work of Eustace Mullins, writings from Ludwig von Mises and Murray Rothbard, notably the book The Case Against the Fed. Lastly, the documentary works of William T. Still (Jekyll Island: The Truth behind the Federal Reserve) and James Corbett (The World War I Conspiracy) (Century of Enslavement).

Part 1: Time’s Echo

—In the wake of the two world wars, lay the smoking ruins of, at one time, a vibrant culture—a once great empire.  Not only were our beautiful European cities, villages, and monuments razed to rubble but also our morals and traditions.  Then out of that ruin was built the kind of world they envisioned for us.  A world of enslavement and death—

     —Dr. Peregrine White

An out-of-place-looking man with substantial and wiry reddish-brown beard enters an office on the 53rd floor of the Woolworth Building, a prestigious New York high rise and the tallest edifice in the city.  The man’s first act was to immediately barricade the door with a nearby chair and with the same zeal, pulled from his waistband, a Winchester revolver.  His movements were quick and deliberate; an air of duty surrounded him.  He was a man possessed.

His clothes were anachronistic to the era—a gray suit and hat, black tie, long, brown overcoat and thick rimmed glasses.  The suit was ill-fitting—a size too big—and the sleeves of his overcoat barely reached his wrists.

He is technically a man—being the ripe age of 23—but if one is to know him, it would be difficult to call him one.  His naivety and puerile alacrity lent to his child-like aura although his discipline and reliability set him apart from many men his senior.

Hastily, he ripped off the pair of spectacles and tossed them on the floor.   He scanned the room quickly, the barrel of his pistol followed his gaze.   He noticed on the opposite side of the large room was a large oak desk in front of a massive window through which he could see the vast New York city skyline.   It was dawn and the rising sun which peeked over the line of tremendous buildings rained down its warmth with an effulgent tangerine glow.  He could see the newly fallen White snow covering the streets.  To the man’s right was a door from whence he could hear the voices of several men.

His heart began to race and a lump formed in his throat.  “This is it,” he whispered to himself as he emphasized his quiet remark with a deep sigh.   “This is why I came all this way.  Those are the men whom I must kill.”

This virtuous actor (as he would certainly refer to himself) is on an ethical mission to right wrongs that he deems are egregious acts of iniquity.  Like Gavrilo Princip, Marcus Brutus, Leon Czolgosz, and other famous political assassins before him, he has a moral calling and believes wholeheartedly in the deed he is about to perform.  He took a great risk to get here and he intends on carrying out his act no matter the cost.  It is his belief that the fate of the Western world is in the balance and the key to its salvation is extinguishing the men who reside in that next room.

During his haste, the assassin took a brief moment to absorb the illustriousness of his surroundings.  He’d never seen such a display of wealth.   In this opulent office of marble surfaces and gold trim, oak paneling of the highest quality lined the upper half of the walls under which one long bookshelf, standing just under the height of an average man, girds three out of the four walls.  Flanking the large window are scarlet drapes on which a subtle pattern of the fleur-di-lis adorn the entire fabric.  The design had no significance to the purchaser; he chose it because, to put it in his own words, “it looks like something a wealthy man would own.”  A gleaming White crown molding was affixed around the room.  It was unmistakably marble and it is such an intense White that it nearly blinded the observer.  A gold statue of Prometheus about two feet high rests front-and-center on the desk and positioned near it was a name plate that read, “J.P. Morgan.”

The strange gun-wielding man quickly moved to the desk and began a frantic search.  He surveyed the desktop and then rifled through drawers.  He sought something specific, a piece of information.  He grew impatient in his futility and set his gun on the desk to double his efforts.  Rifling through stacks of paper, the assassin was sweating profusely at this point; drops of the salty liquid fell from the tip of his nose.

“There’s not one here,” he whispered to himself in a panic.  “A man of business and he doesn’t have a newspaper?”

The assassin, annoyed as he was, moved on around the desk and crept slowly toward the door from whence he could hear a cadre of men gaily laughing; they were celebrating.  The door was ajar and a sliver of light peeked through crack.  One surreptitious step after another, the gun-wielding man inched along, careful to not make known his presence.  He must be precise.  This might be his only chance.  He has six rounds in his pistol along with six more in his vest pocket and he does not have the best aim.  Three men against one is not great odds even if he is armed.  He must pounce at the right moment.

The furtive onlooker forced his eye to the small slit of light between the door and the frame.  There he could see three well-dressed, highfalutin older men lounging on lustrous leather chairs.  Each one of them boasted a sheen of sweat and an unadulterated grin.  The three, amidst their revelry, vacillated between imbibing their whiskey from one hand and puffing on their cigars from the other.  An air of arrogance, cigar smoke, and affluence surrounded them.  It was a jocund scene.

There they were, thought the youthful assassin.  The men that he had waited so long to confront. He knew their faces—as well as their reputations—intimately.  He watched them grin; he watched them converse; he watched them ebulliently drink.  He hated their unrestrained joy, hated their smiles, hated their faces—he loathed who they were as men.  The strange man clinched his fist until the skin was White; his face grimaced harshly.  The thought of their crimes enraged him.  Their acts were at best selfish (certainly immoral) and, at worst, reprehensible—beyond the realm of ever being reconcilable.  Their trespasses precipitated such a series of devastating events upon the Western world, its effects could hardly be comprehensible.  The damage that had been done was immeasurable.  He pictured himself bursting impetuously through the door and unleashing a hail of gunfire.  The man was incensed.  But he kept his head.  He had some time, he thought to himself.  He must be patient.  The assassin remained measured and the blithesome scene inside the smoking room was left undisturbed—for now.

“Gentlemen, a toast to Mr. Baruch for his generous contributions to our endeavour,” exclaimed a square-headed middle-aged man as he raised his glass.  “It’s a shame he couldn’t be here with us.”  His thick mustache danced on his lips as he spoke. The man is JP Morgan Jr.  His features were much like his father’s: similar boxy head, tall forehead and beady eyes which crouch under thick eyebrows as if hiding under an awning.  But Junior’s nose was curved and came to a point like an eagle, dissimilar to his father’s which was bulbous and unsightly.

“Here, here,” was the resounding cry from the other two men in unison.

The assassin furrowed his brow.  What could they be celebrating?  It hasn’t happened yet.  He still has time, right?

“Don’t vorget your vata, Mista Morgan,” exclaimed another man in a thick German accent as his expression turned to one of austerity and concern.   “Pity he couldn’t be heeya.  His presence vill be missed.  To Morgan Seenya!”

“Here, here!”  The men raised their glass enthusiastically.

This German gentleman who had just spoken sat in his chair with a feminine air—his legs were crossed as if he was wearing a skirt.  He had a uniqueness to his visage.  Paul Warburg was his name.  His head was round and bald like a cue ball and he had soft eyes between which set his bird-like, Jewish nose.  As his other two cohorts have the collars on their expensive dark suits loose and neck ties removed, Warburg’s tie remained on while his collar constricted his neck so tightly that his round, bald head looked as if it could pop off.  Erect was his mustache which refused to move even while he spoke, as if at-attention like an obedient Hessian soldier.

“Quite right, sir,” Morgan junior affirmed.  “Thank you for your kind words.  We all miss him.”

“We could be here all night recognizing the combined efforts of those who aren’t present,” started a third man in a prominent New England accent.  “Let us instead enjoy the victory, gentlemen.”

(Victory?  What victory?  It couldn’t have happened yet.   That’s impossible.  All the calculations were painstakingly made; they were correct!)

This third man was Nelson Aldrich.  He was a political stooge—a puppet for the powerful— by which the wealthy men of this operation were able to accomplish their recent machinations.  Aldrich is a senator from Rhode Island, a founding-stock descendant of Protestant faith whose priorities in his adult life were upholding proper etiquette, acquiring status and attending opulent galas.  He had a silky White mustache, silvery hair, stern eyes, an iron jaw and a strong mouth from which a soft voice deceptively sprung.  Spending his career virulently defending the interests of large corporations, the influential senator was merely a lever used by men who were more recognized by history.

“I for one,” continued the Senator after blowing a billow of cigar smoke in the air, “am astounded at our success.  When we were here just three days ago, I still was skeptical of a victory despite the major inroads we were able to make in the last few years.  I am truly spent gentlemen.  I need a vacation.”

Morgan Jr. raised his glass in agreement with this sentiment.

“I am prepared to spend the winter in Jekyll with Abigail.  I don’t care that I am a Rhode Island boy, I still hate the cold.”

There was a low rustling of laughs while the men chewed on their cigars.

“Returning to the scene of the crime, are we,” joked Morgan Jr. which elicited abundant laughter.

“Mr. Warburg,” Aldrich resumed in the midst of the gaiety, “out of us all, you especially have every justification to take a holiday.   After all, if it wasn’t for your pertinacious work, this wouldn’t have been possible.  A trip to the motherland might be in order.”  Aldrich punctuated his remark with a grin and a nod towards Warburg.

“I don’t zink zo Mista Aldrick.  Deutschelant vill alvays be my home, but I haf come to appreciate America—zee land of zee vree and home of zee brave.  It offas freedoms no otha country can.  Zertainly, zee place for unlimited vinancial opportunity”  (Morgan Jr. raised his glass).  “My intention iz to stay heeya.”

“Good on you, sir.  Glad to have you here!”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of a victory yet, gentlemen,” stated a mysterious fourth voice.

The sonorous voice was spoken with such force and volume that it sparked fear in the heart of the lone assassin.  It was like the voice of Satan, if one could imagine such a thing.  The mysterious man spoke in a perfect English accent—proper and elite.  Clearly, it belonged to someone who was associated heavily with the upper echelons of society.

“Last I spoke with President Wilson,” the voice continued, “his confidence of the presence of a central banking system in America seemed to waiver.  Such a pity.  It makes me second-guess our choice in who we installed as the country’s executive.  When you meet with him tomorrow, Morgan, emphasize that his reelection bid is contingent on him signing this bill into law.”

Sign the bill?  Panic quickly replaced fear.  Distressed, the assassin backed his head away from the crack in the door and placed his hand on his forehead.  No, this can’t be.  I thought I had time.  I’m too late.

Confused as to what to do next, the assassin impetuously burst through the door creating a racket which made Warburg nearly swallow his cigar, Aldrich recoil in his chair and Morgan Junior spill his drink.  The mysterious fourth man on the other hand remained still as a stone.  His mien was blank and empty.  Only his eyes shifted to the intruder.

“What’s the meaning of this,” cried Mr. Morgan as he rose to his feet.

The intruder stood quivering at the door’s threshold, failing to conceal his agitation.  He held the gun at his hip and pointed it in the general direction of the three men seated in front of him—Morgan’s and Warburg’s chairs faced him, Aldrich’s faced away.  The intruder’s eyes darted from man to man, resting on each one for only a split second.

“Don’t move,” the assassin shouted.  “Sit down, Morgan!  Don’t move, not one of you!”

The assassin surveyed the place for any other threats as he closed the door behind him.  The room was smaller than he anticipated it to be (much smaller than the room from the one he left) but it was equally ostentatious in that it contained displays of wealth which no early twentieth-century midwestern farmer could ever comprehend.  Along the opposite wall of the intruder was an inoperable fireplace, built just for display purposes; it was framed with incarnadine-colored marble.  Set above it was a bronze sculpture of a dramatic scene from some famous Greek play and centered above that was a larger statue of an angel, its wings spread wide, playing a Celtic lyre harp.  A layer of similar-colored marble lined the bottom half of the whole room above which contained painted murals of various biblical scenes.  The floor was just as impressively aesthetic as it was adorned marble with various ornamental patterns.  In the center of the room was a round oak table which was polished to an immaculate level.  It was enclosed by the chairs of the assassin’s three targets who still looked at the stranger with wide, frightened eyes.

“Who are you to speak to me in such a way,” squeaked Mr. Morgan Jr whose face was scarlet up to his ears.  He returned sitting in his chair; his hands were trembling.

The intruder was taken aback.  In anticipation of this confrontation, he expected the men to be more intimidating.  In his mind, he had conjured an image from his own prejudice of these three men as hellish devils whose singular purpose was to dismantle the Euro-Western world—beings of pure hatred and malice.  Instead, they looked like cowards, possessed not by evil but fear.  Not one looked to be an entity of unadulterated darkness; not one had eyes as dark as the moonless night; none had claws where their hands would be nor did horns rest upon their heads.  They were men—human men, soft with pliable skin, prone to regular human emotions and not at all frightening-looking.

“Vat ist dis” the German national vehemently asked.  “Anotha assassin iz afta you, Morgan.  Vat did you bring to uz?”

“The other man,” demanded the stranger still pointing the gun, “I heard a fourth voice.  Where is he—,”

In that moment, the intruder detected an outline of a seated man in his periphery.  There, to the right of him was a shadowy figure in the corner of the room.  His heart jumped at the sight of this ghost-like form.  The dark silhouette whose right leg was crossed over the other, his left hand holding a thin cigarette, his right resting on his boot, was like a marble sculpture as it did not move at all.  The man’s taciturnity was unnerving.

The assassin swallowed hard and mustered a weak utterance to the mysterious man.

“You, in the corner.  What is your name?”

There was no reply but the tap of the man’s finger on his boot.  The faint disheartening rap was steady and slow like a snare drum keeping a beat for an advancing army of musket-bearing soldiers marching for battle.

As his eyes acclimated to the dimness of the room, the assassin could begin discerning features of the tenebrous figure who wore a plain black suit with an unbuttoned coat which revealed a snow-White collared shirt.  Around his neck was a striped ascot which was tightly wrapped. His advanced age was apparent due to the dim candlelight of the room being lost to shadows in the deep valleys of the man’s wrinkled skin.  A ring of White hair from his scalp down and around his chin and under his nose was like a halo on his face.  Out from under his eyes protruded into the muted light a long and prominent nose which was obscured by shadows.  These features were unmistakable.   This man who is seated before him, thought the assassin, in a such unassuming manner is unequivocally Nathaniel Rothschild, 1st Baron of the massively wealthy Rothschild banking empire, the prime mover of most, if not all, of the covert schemes of this era.  A cold chill ran down the back of the assassin’s neck.

“Der Knabe, aufwachen” impatiently shouted Paul Warburg which startled the assassin.  “Shoot uz iv you must, but I vood ratha get on vith it.”

“Warburg, please,” reproached Morgan Jr as he held both of his hands in the air, still clasping to his cigar.  “What do you want,” demanded the speaker, turning his attention to the assassin.  “Money?  We have it.”  (He motioned with his head to two black pocketbooks resting on the table).  “Take it and be gone.”

“I don’t want your blood money,” rejoined the stranger, gritting his teeth.  “What bill was passed?  I heard one of you mention a bill needing to be signed.”

Morgan Jr and Warburg exchanged confused looks.  Even Aldrich who had been hiding his face behind his drink glass, emerged from behind it to show his puzzlement.  A few moments passed until Morgan Jr. meekly offered up the information to the stranger.

“The Owen-Glass Act.  It was passed yesterday evening by the Senate.”

“Today is the 19th?!”

The stranger erupted into hysterics.  He spouted invectives as he paced the floor.

“I was allotted three days.  He told me I was going back on the fifteenth.  It is doomed.  The mission is doomed.”

He was incensed.  His pacing continued at an increased rate while his hands clung to his head.  It was as if the stranger forgot that he was still in the same room as the men whom he came to slay.   The wealthy men watched in horror.  Strange doesn’t begin to encapsulate what they had experienced in the last minute that had elapsed.  Who is this man, they all asked themselves?  Where did he come from, what does he want and why is he having a mental breakdown right here in front of us?

“No, no.  Think, think.  There is a way.  There’s still hope,” resolved the assassin aloud.  “Wilson has yet to ratify it.”  (He glanced at his watch.)  “I can reach Washington in two days.  I can stop this.”

“I zink I’ve had about enough of zis,” crowed Mr. Warburg.  He stood up in his chair presumably as an act of intimidation but his meager stature only demonstrated his lack of physical prowess.  “Git owwt right now.”

The interjection by the German banker jolted the stranger out of his solo exchange and reminded him of his mission.  The mere sight of the bald German’s aspect reminded the assassin of the atrocities his financial subterfuge reaped upon his people—the millions dead worldwide and the millions more that were displaced, maimed, or utterly spiritually broken.  The carnage of the pictures he saw, the words he read, and the hardships he witnessed and experienced personally flashed through his mind in milliseconds.  A rage burgeoned within him.  He whipped around and pointed his pistol toward the center of Paul Warburg’s professionally-fitted dark-purple vest.

“Sit down you scum.  It is time the lot of you face judgment for your crimes against humanity.”

“Crimes against humanity?  What is this nonsense,” cried Mr. Morgan

“That’s right, Mr. Morgan.  All the manipulations of international financial markets and the unethical surreptitious political dealings that you all have committed will be dealt with by me.  The chickens have come home to roost.  You all should have been in the grasp of the hangman’s noose but unfortunately your crimes were never punished.  I am here to right those wrongs.”

“How dare you sir,” barked Mr. Morgan.

“Zuch accuzations.  Toze are egregiouz claims,” demurred Mr. Warburg who still stood.

The two other men in the room had nothing to say.  Aldrich was still cowering in his chair and the dark man in the corner was leering at the gunman, motionless.

“Don’t act innocent.  I know everything you thieves have done.”

“Teevies” Warburg yelled, “Voo are you to call uz teevies?”

“I am, Mr. Warburg,” the assassin barked harshly.  “I know all about you.  You are Paul Moritz Warburg from Hamburg Germany of the Warburg banking Dynasty.  Ever since immigrating to America, you have made it your mission to fundamentally alter the banking sector into a scheme to siphon money from the working middle class through debt manipulation.  You masqueraded your way into and through various federal positions, such as the National Monetary commission, chaired by this fool (the speaker gestured to Senator Aldrich).  You coaxed our government officials and bribed our congressmen to get them to adopt a European banking system which was the model for the bill that was passed.  To give you a glimpse of the effect this bill has in the future, it has indebted millions of Americans, enslaving them and cursing them with rampant inflation.  From where I come, cities and towns of all sizes are rife with the poor and destitute, victims of your sordid legacy.”

The short bald banker looked both confused and unamused at this complete stranger’s testimony.  Just being recognized by common plebians wasn’t a common experience for Mr. Warburg.  In fact, the same goes for the other men in the room.  This was during a time when information was scarce and the average person was ignorant of most things finance, corporate, banking and high society.  On most occasions, even highfalutin, ultra-wealthy men like Mr. Warburg or Mr. Morgan who control most the world’s wealth, own dozens of complex and prodigious companies and pull the most influential of financial and political levers, can walk down the busy streets of New York mostly unrecognized.  This was especially true in the rural Midwest where most, if not all, have never heard the names of these personages.

“I fail to infer the prosecution of any crimes from your specious allegations,” Mr. Morgan confidently remarked.

“Of course you don’t,” the assassin snapped.  “A devil is unable to perceive himself as a devil until he looks in a mirror.  And you men stay far away from mirrors.”

“I originate from an established family who attained our wealth justly, as a matter fact,” Morgan Junior proclaimed proudly.  “My grandfather’s father fought for this country’s independence.   My grandfather was a self-made man in business and finance.   My father, despite being the wealthiest man in the world, selflessly rescued the American economy in worst financial crises of the day.  As for me, I follow my lineage in operating my firms virtuously—.”

“You father was greedy and cared only for himself and his empire.  He was the Judas of your time.  He caused that financial crisis in 1907 and profited handsomely.  As for you, you unjustly acquired a fortune which rivals your father’s later, after the war in Europe began.”

“What do you mean ‘later,'” Morgan Jr. vehemently asked.  “And what war? There’s no war in Europe.  You’re mad.  From what asylum have you escaped?  Someone is missing an inmate.”

“I dont have any more time to waste.”  The assassin determined that he had humored these men far too long.  He ignored Morgan Junior’s inquiries to state his primary goal.  “I must reach D.C. before the twenty third.  Men, I’d advise you to stand up before I shoot you.  You lived undignified lives of greed and deception so the least you could do is die with dignity—die on your feet.”

A tumult erupted.  Hands flew high.  Shouts and protests followed.  Morgan Jr. hastened from his seat and the short German who was still standing, prattled something in German while gesticulating wildly.  Conversely the coward Aldrich covered his face with his hands as if he accepted his fate.

Two deafening reports flooded the room followed by two streams of smoke escaping from the gun’s barrel.  All the men in the room flinched, even the assassin.  Mr. Aldrich had let out a high-pitched shriek.  Mr. Warburg stumbled back a few steps.  The short German gasped for air and clenched his torso.  He collapsed into the chair after his compatriot, Morgan Jr. failed at staying his fall.  Amongst all this, Mr. Aldrich could be heard pleading for his life.

“My God!   You shot him,” cried Morgan Jr.  “You’re insane!”

“You Schweinehund!”

An obvious damp spot formed on Mr. Warburg’s black vest around the wound.  The bullet struck the man on his left side and had just missed his stomach.  It hadn’t penetrated any vital organs yet it splintered one of his ribs to pieces.

“Morgan, git out ov zee vay zo I can schrangle dis vermin.”

“No sudden movements,” commanded the assassin.  “Morgan, go sit down.”  (He did so but slowly and with a recalcitrant expression.)  “Warburg, shut up.  I won’t hesitate to fire again.”

What the bankers don’t know (and the gunman is entirely aware of) is that when the assassin twice pulled the trigger (the first round obviously penetrating Warburg), the second round was a malfunction—the cartridge misfired which resulted in the bullet being lodged in the gun’s barrel.  A subsequent pull of the trigger would fire another round into the stuck one, exploding the gun and with it, the hand of the gunman.  This unlikely circumstance changed the nature of the situation.   It limited the assassin’s options insofar as eliminating his targets.  He has no other means by which to kill them except for a small concealed knife.  Moreover, he must not allow his targets to know about the malfunction since he could be easily overwhelmed by the numbers imbalance.

“Whoever you are,” Mr. Morgan Jr. said resolutely, “I for one am exhausted with your games.  I’ve taken one of you down before—I can do it again.”

Mr. Morgan leapt again from his chair toward his captor.  Immediately the assassin’s anxiety heightened and he had to act quickly to stop the impending mutiny.

“Don’t!  Stay back, Morgan!  I will shoot you!”  The assassin’s hand trembled and his forehead was dripping with sweat.

“Morgan, sit down you old fool,” boomed an English accent from across the room.

The assassin looked over to the dark corner to find that it was the old Rothschild (whom he forgot was there) that had just spoken.  The elder’s wobbling finger was outstretched and he looked to be annoyed at Morgan Junior’s foolhardiness.

“You geezer, how do you expect to pacify such a young lad—and one that wields a pistol.  No use of you getting futilely slain. Sit down already.”

The old man Rothschild spoke with such composure and yet with such force.  His voice was such that it was gravely, perhaps a vestige of his distant German ancestry.  He was still obscured by shadow which lent a chilling air to him.  He showed no fear at the prospect of being killed.

“Enough with this foolery,” snapped the eminent Rothschild in a more gravelly voice than he began with.  “You seem like a man spurred by an ideological crusade.  Tell us—before you assassinate us, who you are.”

The assassin took a breath and stood erect.  He was about to deliver speech which he has waited for so long to give.  It was practiced not literally but in his mind interminably since the moment this mission was given to him.  Despite still being flustered from the gun malfunction, the assassin voiced his polemic flawlessly.

“My name is—well my name doesn’t matter.  I come from far away to stop the evils you men are going to commit.  What you—and others of your ilk—have conspired to do will lead to the deaths of millions of ethnic Europeans in two world wars, the dissolution of our culture, bankruptcy of our people and our eventual ethnic replacement.  The Western counties’ unique qualities which you take for granted—high trust, efficiency, competency, order, peace—will all be obliterated and replaced with chaos, incompetency, and violence.”

A silence followed.  The wealthy and powerful men shot glances at each other.  A lone and unexpected voice, albeit a meek one, broke the silence.  It belonged to the least expected candidate, Senator Aldrich and he asked the most obvious question which was on everyone’s mind.

“Why are you referring to everything in future tense?”

“Because those events haven’t happened yet,” retorted the assassin.  “I guess I have no reason not to tell you the truth.  I have traveled here from the future to correct the course of time.  I am not alone.  My group sent more than just me to the past.  I know this may be incomprehensible to you but the technology to make time travel possible has been—or I guess—will be developed in about 150 years.”

The assassin noticed the incredulous looks he was receiving from his captive audience.

“I guess it is hopeless to convince you.  But at this point, it doesn’t matter.”

“Zis man iz crazy,” screamed Mr. Warburg who was still clasping his wound.  “Don’t leezen to hiz ramblings.  Vee don’t care to schare in your deeluschons!”

“Do you have proof,” Mr. Morgan inquired, ignoring Mr. Warburg’s outburst.  “Surely you have something on you that can demonstrate your wild claim—an object or piece of technology from your time?”

(“You are geeving in to his madness?”)

“Proof?  I don’t have anything on me.  But I do know a few things that no one else would know,” said the gunman confidently, succumbing to his desire to prove himself correct.”

“And what would that be?”

(“Not you too Mista Aldrik!”)

“Firstly, I know, Nelson, that you abhor being called by your first name.  Secondly, this played a part in your annoyance with the ‘First Name Club.'”

All the men, even the austere Rothschild and the suffering Warburg, jolted in their seats.

“How do know that,” Mr. Morgan curiously asked.

“My knowledge of your secret group’s escapades doesn’t end there.  November 22nd, three years ago—does that date ring any bells” (the wealthy men looked unsettled by its utterance), “a half dozen men, two of you included, departed the Hoboken, New Jersey train station for Jekyll Island, Georgia under the cover of darkness.  The participants convened for ten days to discuss the overthrow of the American banking system for a new, European-system banking system where the bankers controlled the volume of money in the system.

“Benjamin Strong and Frank Vanderlip were there—close friends of yours, both filthy bankers.  Also, your lackey” (he nodded at Morgan Junior) “Henry Davison—he was there.  You Mr. Aldrich—you were there.  Tell me Nelson, were those 30 pieces of silver worth it to sell your people down the river?”

The Senator’s brows furrowed at the vituperation.

“And Paul, you were there too.  Just when I thought you hadn’t done enough damage to the moral and financial infrastructure of my country, you also participated in this pernicious conspiracy.  Glare at me all you want, Mr. Warburg.  I know of your creation, The National Citizens League and its proclivity for installing pro-central banking professors in universities to ensure the next generation of financiers and economists will pledge their loyalty to our banking overlords.  Oh, and not to mention, you slithered through Congress bribing politicians to vote for the bill that was passed yesterday.  Such a cowardly way to fight your battles.  But I shouldn’t be surprised.  It is the nature of your people to slither silently in the grass and sow your discordant philosophies in societies that are not yours rather than meet an enemy head-on in a fair fight.”

Warburg erupted, shouting in his native German.  He was foaming at the mouth.  The searing pain in his abdomen was replaced with injured pride.  The short German nearly slipped from his chair if it wasn’t for the assistance of Mr. Morgan.

The assassin gave a despondent look.  “You snakes have your tentacles everywhere. Nelson, that daughter of yours who is married to John Rockefeller’s son, their son Nelson will become vice president.  And Paul, your son James, from your Loeb wife, will be the financial advisor to a future president and will organize a group which will aid in replacing my people with yours.  It’s like a kind of ruling-class incest—marrying and procreating with these other banking and political families.  It is disgusting. Anything to keep the money and power in the family. ”

Warburg became apoplectic.  It took all the might of Morgan Junior to hold him down in his chair.

“Relax, Paul, relax” mocked the assassin who was getting much pleasure in this exchange.  “You are one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in this country.  A few words shouldn’t injure you.  After all, your work will be rewarded in due time when you will be elected as one of the members of the federal reserve system.”

“So say this is all true,” said Mr. Morgan Jr. who was patting the shoulder of Warburg as to communicate to him to calm down.  “I’ll assume that you are from the future and what you say about the future is true.  Where’s the correlation?  How can we be responsible?  We seek to repair the banking system.  Our motives are true—in the interest of the country and its people. Any man can skew facts to fit his agenda.”

“Then tell me why you must do everything in the dark.  Through the secret organization of Cecil Rhodes, you installed President Wilson to further your plans—you handpicked him, ordered your bankrolled newspaper editors to promote him; I just heard Rothschild say it through the door not ten minutes ago.  You secretly met at Jekyll island to draft a bill in which you ordered the Senators on your payroll to bring it to a vote when the opposing politicians were on Christmas holiday.   Does that seem like a fair fight?  Why must you operate in the shadows, hiding from the eyes of the polity, if your plans are truly altruistic?”

After a brief ruminating pause, Morgan answered.  “It is my experience that middle America requires leadership—well, not just leadership but guidance.   Most are drones.  They have their little spheres of influence over which they operate—their area of expertise, their families, their communities.  Beyond that, their interest ends. The masses cannot grasp the complex workings of the financial system, foreign affairs and politics.  What is required is men like us who have intimate knowledge of these esoteric things and are involved in milieus of important people.  Those cadres of experts determined that a federal bank is the best option to mitigate any future economic downturns and to maintain a successful economy, long-term.  The masses would have ignorantly opposed our measures.”

“So that justifies war?”

“What is this war you keep speaking of,” asked an incredulous and frustratingly annoyed Morgan.

“It begins next year,” started the assassin in a melancholy tone.  “It will involve dozens of counties with intermingling alliances and will be fought on three continents.  It was—or rather will be—a futile war.  The destruction was catastrophic.  The brutality will be immeasurable.  Mechanization brings unimaginable death. The eye-witness accounts are a thing of nightmares.”

“Much of the hostilities were aggravated by the secret group begun by Cecil Rhoades which is led by magnates, state officials and financiers—all interwoven in governmental affairs of Great Britain and the U.S.  That group is operating as we speak.  Don’t try to claim that your machinations are anything short of self-serving and malevolent. ”

The assassin shouted the last word for emphasis and making sure to catch the gaze of every man in the room.

“Cecil Rhoades.  I bet you would never have guessed I knew that name,” the assassin firmly stated as he shifted his attention to Rothschild.  “You financed his little escapades in South Africa—monopolizing the diamond mines there and starting the Boar War at the behest of Alfred Milner which resulted in the death of thousands of women and children in English concentration camps.  How about the navy you helped build for Japan in the Russo-Japanese War?  Once the world war begins next year, your bankrolled press will again be employed to lie about Germans to force America into the war for the purpose of taking land in the Middle East in the name of Israel and Zionism.”

“This is preposterous,” roared Morgan and Warburg simultaneously.  “Lies.  All lies.”  The English banker, Rothschild however remained oddly silent.

“Thousands upon thousands dead—English, Afrikaans, French, Russians, Germans, Americans.”

The gunman turned his gaze back to Morgan Junior who was now leering at Rothschild.

“Morgan, as for you,” progressed the assassin—his pride would not allow him to stop.  “You end up enriching yourself during this world war on the brokerage of guns, as did your father during the Civil War.  Like father like son, right?  A lucrative deal will be made by you with Russia and France to finance their war effort.  Like I said a bit ago, yours and other financiers like you, will have a vested interest in the victory of France and Great Britain and the defeat of Germany.  So, you and those men will facilitate the entry of the United States in the war by rigging the 1916 presidential election, propagating anti-German war propaganda through newspapers whose editors are on your payroll, and instigating German U-boats to fire upon and sink cruise liners.  The White Anglos will not want war.  In fact they will protest vehemently against it.  Americans sought peace; they had no interest in killing their kindred in Europe.  But so much for democracy.”

The wealthy men were ineffable.   They looked around at each other once more, incredulous at the stranger’s narrative.  Details which only few men would know and a prospective future which they couldn’t believe were just laid before them by this lowly (seemingly mentally deranged) stranger who was pointing a gun at them.  Warburg and Morgan Junior had knowledge of some of the men and machinations whom the assassin invoked, but was ignorant of the rest.  Aldrich, the cowering fool who had participated the least in this colloquy, hiding in his chair, was ignorant of most.

“You have an ill mind,” stated Rothschild, sustaining his forbearance.  “Frankly, your accusations border on racist.”

“I thought you had quit that Zionism charade,” Morgan Junior interrupted.

“Please Mr. Morgan, this lunatic is trying to sow discord,” Rothschild remarked with an air of disturbance.

“Paul, do you still remain involved in the Zionism agenda too?”  Mr. Morgan shot his glance down toward the injured banker who was slumped in his seat, holding his wound.  He remained reticent.   He was able to muster a pathetic look, his chin resting on his chest and his eyes peering up toward Mr. Morgan; his expression said everything.

“I can’t believe this,” Morgan Junior exclaimed in a defeated tone.  “When my father and I agreed to work with you gentlemen, I thought our stipulations were explicit.  He and I held the opinion that Zionism is a dirty and unethical ideology and too close to Marxism and Communism.  I cannot under good conscious collaborate with its agents.  Calling for the extermination of a people just for their land is unconscionable.”

“You speak of Zionism as if you are an authority on the subject,” remarked Rothschild.   “You don’t know the strife of the Jewish people.  To have a home country is a privilege of all nations of people except for my own.”

“So you admit it,” said Morgan Junior.  “You are still funding it.”

“Enough,” shrieked a red-faced Warburg.  “Zis maniac iz ztill pointing a gun at uz und you chooze to hash out your petty differencez now?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” remarked an equanimous Morgan Junior, “you are right, Paul.”

“Listen,” the assassin chimed in, “as much as I enjoy the in-fighting.  Do me a favor Senator, remove Warburg’s shoestrings and tie up Warburg and Junior, will ya?”

The Senator showed utter fear at the notion of being mentioned by the captor.  His eyes went wide, showing a sea of White around his brown irises and he shot a glance at Morgan Junior as if to request permission to fulfill the assassin’s order.

“Hold on, hold on,” Morgan Junior petitioned desperately.  “Do not tie us up like pigs.”

“Shut up Morgan.  Nelson, do as I say or I’ll whip you with the butt of this gun.”  The assassin reared back his gun-wielding hand.

“Aldrich, stay where you are,” Morgan Junior ordered Aldrich who by that time was shifting his head back and forth between Morgan and the assassin.  He hoped for the attention to be shifted away from him soon so he can return to cowering in his leather refuge.  “Why do you need us bound?  I think I speak for all of us here when I say we’d rather not be retrained.”

“Who is holding the gun here, Morgan?  This isn’t a negotiation.”

Morgan remained firm in his conviction.  He motioned for Aldrich to remain in his seat.  For the banker to put up such a fight surprised the assassin.

“Well it seems the old man has more zeal than I thought.  I guess I’ll have to do it myself.  Nelson, raise your foot.”

Kneeling down but careful not to lower his gun, the assassin went to untie and remove the shoelaces of the Senator single-handedly when Morgan took a bold step forward in an attempt to halt the proceeding.  It was an empty threat since the banker had no intention of truly taking action yet the act proved to be effective for the gunman was frightened backward.

“Stop! Hold on there Morgan.  Do you want to get shot?”

“Please, please,” supplicated Morgan in the most genial tone he could muster, “there’s no need for this.  I want to hear more.  So you believe we brought about this war you speak of and a disastrous future—.”

“Believe?   I am living it.  I am living proof of the dystopian future.”  The offended assassin interrupted Morgan Junior with an antipathetic exclamation.

“Fine.  You are from the future.   Then you have done what you came here to do.  Now that we know the ramifications of our actions, then we will alter our course.  As you can see, we aren’t monsters after all.  If what you say is true and the next few years follows your narrative, we will work to fix the state of things once we realize your prognostications have come to fruition.  Personally it doesn’t please me to have Europeans and Americans killing each other and dying senselessly nor do I want to see our country change drastically for the worse.”

“No, Morgan,” the gunman remarked solemnly, “I didn’t forfeit my life in my time and guarantee I will never see my family again to leave my job incomplete.  I took an oath to complete it for the betterment of my people.  They are all relying on me—on us.”

“Okay, okay,” quietly uttered Morgan and followed it with a deep sigh and contemplative expression.  “I admire your conviction” (Warburg perked up and looked at his colleague dumbfounded).  “But it isn’t worth blackening your soul with murder.”

“I don’t see it as murder.  When a government proves a person to be guilty of an unspeakable crime, the subsequent execution of this person is not categorized as murder.   It’s justice.  And that is what I am doing.  Delivering justice.”

Dejected, Morgan delivered looks of desperation at both Rothschild and Warburg.  Then, slowly he checked the time on his pocket watch and stroked the end of his mustache nervously.

“How terrible could it be,” resumed Morgan Junior, his eyes still focused on his watch”—your future that is.  If time travel is possible in your time, then undoubtedly it has the technology to fulfill all basic needs—housing, food, water, medical care.  What sort of grievances could you have if all your requirements to live are met?”

Morgan’s question seemed to quickly annoy the assassin who already had already shown a penchant for losing his composure.  His face turned a vibrant red and the veins in his skull prominently protruding.

“At this point, you are clearly mocking me.  Stop stalling and do as I say.”  Anxiousness was beginning to set in for the gunman.  As grotesque and grim as extinguishing his targets with a knife sounds, it was his only alternative and now it seemed to him more improbable to carry out the more time expired.

“What about your mother and father,” Morgan inquired with a sincerely concerned look.  “Aren’t they missing you?  Wouldn’t they rather you be with them than here wasting your time with us old men?”

“My parents are dead.”

Momentarily, the line of questioning ceased and Morgan felt a small ounce of empathy for his captor.  If anything, the banker concluded that this youth was directionless as a result of his parent’s demise and he is misappropriating his youthful spirit towards fruitless conspiratorial pursuits.

“You won’t get back your loved ones by killing us because of some unfounded accusations supported by a delusional narrative that you have constructed in your mind.”

“I am not delusional,” stated a tired and melancholy gunman who has accumulated much stress from this whole situation.  A small part of him wanted to toss the gun on the floor and forget about the mission.  He could live the remainder of his life in this time period, find a nice girl, settle down in the midwest on a farm perhaps, have several children and be happy.  At least he could live in a country that he preferred—White, Christian, traditional, peaceful.

“Do you want to know what happened to my parents?  Do you want to know the hell that is America in 2050?”

A sense of wantoness filled the young man.  The probability of fulfilling the mission seemed more and more out of reach so why not indulge in berating his enemies? Proving the validity of his claims and castigating those responsible in an attempt to make them feel ashamed (as futile as that may seem) is a consolation prize worth achieving.

“In my time, being White is nearly illegal.  We are blamed for all the ills of society, a narrative which began in the 1970s, propagated by Jews and endorsed by liberal Whites.  They claimed the socio-economic woes of the non-Whites was due to White racism.  This  lie was accepted whole-cloth by the American Negro which led to them violently target White people.   This aspect was ignored by the majority White population since the attacks were limited and they still were the dominant group. The violence increased over the years concomitantly with the loss of political power, progressively compounding each year that passed until around the year 2030 when White people lost all political representation.  We are grossly under-represented in all governmental positions from the local level to federal.  Biased laws exist favoring non-Whites and discriminating Whites.  It is only a matter of time until all European descendants are rounded up and executed.”

A resounding scoff erupted from Warburg.  He called the assassin ignorant and prejudicial.  The absurdity of such a statement.  Even the meek Senator looked at his captor as if he said something akin to the world being flat or bigfoot being real.  Rothschild, on the other hand, boasted a slight grin.

“You want to mock me, Warburg?  I am an ignorant racist?  There are two Jews from Eastern Europe right now in this room who invaded my country and exploited its people.  Keep quiet.”

“Filthy git,” Mr. Rothschild erupted.

“Immediately when you Jews arrived, you sought to replace our Christian culture with values antithetical to ours.  Stealing technology from Edison and then absconding to California to create the most subversive propaganda ever to exist.  Then distorting the country’s zeitgeist concerning immigration, gender and race and drafting and passing unprecedented legislation to import third world non-White immigrants to replace us.

“You are an insidious and diabolical people.  Your kind succeeded in usurping Western Christian values and replacing the European founding stock.  You and your people don’t and never have belonged in European societies; you were rejected, persecuted, and loathed for your antithetical values and practices yet you were determined to make a home in our midst—the stubborn people you are.  Since Jews have grasped a foothold of power in Western nations, your reign of vengeance commenced.”

At that moment, a rattle could be heard in the next room.  An increasingly louder rumble followed until there were a series of loud knocks at the door.

“Help, we are being held captive,” yelled Morgan junior.

Furious blows then quickly gave way as if a battering ram was taken to the door.

“What the hell—,” exclaimed the assassin.

“My security—.  I always have them check on my well-being every hour, on the hour,” Morgan junior confessed.

“You’re time haz ended, scoundrel,” barked Warburg in a satisfying tone.

“No, no, no!”

The assassin pulled a knife from under his coat.  His jaw clinched and his body tensed.

“If anyone must die here, it must be you!”

The assassin leapt toward Rothschild in three giant strides, the tail of his overcoat whipped behind.  He was a blur as he moved.  Just then, three men in dark suits burst through the door of the smoking room.

“Have mercy,” shrieked Lord Rothschild as he took cover behind his out-stretched hands.  The gleaming knife, held tightly in the resolute hand of the time traveler, propelled through space, destined to hit its target.

A report rang out.  It was deafening.  Another resounded just as loud as its antecedent.   One of the three dark-suited men, a younger man, former Pinkerton agent and now a personal bodyguard of J.P. Morgan Junior, was in a motionless pose with his arms out from his body and a smoking gun grasped in his hands.  The time traveler fell to the ground at the feet of Rothschild.

It happened so quickly.   One minute, the strange assassin was lecturing the bankers and magnates, the next he was lying on the floor in a mess of his own blood.

“Goot schow,” Warburg shouted in elation which made him winch in pain.

Senator Aldrich peered through the cracks between his fingers to see the supine assassin at the feet of Rothschild.

“He’s dead,” proclaimed one of the bodyguards who was already at his side.  An air of relief came over the four hostages who had endured twenty minutes of psychological torture from a delusional madman.  It was over.

A small amount of time had passed.  Aid was rendered to Mr. Warburg and arrangements for his transportation to a nearby hospital was made; he was expected to make a full recovery.  It required some persuasion by the agents and some ridicule by Morgan Jr. for Senator Aldridge to emerge from his leather refuge and regain his mental faculties.  As soon as he was able, the senator fled the room.  He was careful not to step near the still body of his captor.

Morgan Jr. briefly summarized to his head of security what occurred and then promptly went to Rothschild to assist the elderly man to his feet. The two men were escorted by one of his agents downstairs to the street and out to their respective motor cars.

“This is why I don’t visit America,” Rothschild glibly remarked to Morgan with a rigid expression as the younger magnate helped his older counterpart in the rear seat of his private motor car.

“I have never met an American like him,” Morgan Jr. quickly added to lighten the tension.

The elderly banker paused for a moment.  He stared into the back of the driver’s chair.  He then spoke with an air of incredulity and concern.

“I do not know what just occurred up there, Morgan.  That man’s account was far too accurate.  I cannot bring myself to believe his fantastical tale of time travel but the detail at which he described the future—and what he knows about us—stretches the limits of logic and reason.”

Rothschild paused again.  He then came out of his trance and met eyes with Morgan and his demeanor darkened.

“He must have been an agent of an enemy or an obsessed political revolutionary.  He knew too much.  Inform the group that infiltrators might be amongst them.”

Morgan nodded.

“Listen,” said Rothschild sternly, “I will return to England promptly.  I don’t trust that Colonel House is up to the task in persuading Wilson to sign the bill.  Your president’s recent vacillation on the topic of Central Banking concerns me.  Make certain Wilson signs the bill.”

“Rothschild, tell me the truth about your involvement in the Zionist movement,” Morgan demanded.  “You were well aware that that our professional relationship is contingent on you eschewing all support for that movement.”

“Morgan, that can wait.”

“No it can’t, Nathaniel.  I can’t in good conscience have business dealings with a man who supports murder of a people.”

“Murder of a people,” repeated Rothschild mockingly.  “What do you know of being a Jew?  All your life you enjoyed Anglo privilege.  We Jews are regarded as cockroaches wherever we go.  My great grandfather—he had to scrounge and protect with his life for every penny he earned.  My family was lucky.   Many others in my tribe don’t have the same fortune.  I want to give back to them.  I want to give them a country of their own ”

“Through pernicious and violent means?”

Rothschild face turned rubicund.  He was apoplectic but didn’t show it.  It was no use; there was no convincing the Anglo-American of the plight of the Jews.

“Have Wilson sign that bill,” Rothschild snapped.  “Get it done.”  The Jewish banker then slammed the door of his car.

The banker stepped back from the curb and watched Rothschild’s car speed off over the powdery snow.  The noise of the motor lessened as the car progressed until it disappeared. There was silence.  The streets of New York were tranquil.  Morgan and his bodyguard were the only signs of life.  Another hour must pass before the sun would overcome the height of the city’s skyscrapers, until then, the warm, red sphere barely peaked through the small spaces in the tightly arranged buildings.

Morgan reflected on the perilous events of the morning.  What could possess a man to believe such a tale and furthermore motivate him to attempt to kill four men I like?  It would take a deranged and creative mind to conjure a specific narrative like the one the assassin voiced, he thought.  Curious though that many of the facts which he knew would only be known to a few men.

Morgan’s brows furrowed.  What if he was truthful?  Could he have visited from a distant time?   Who is to say that that kind of technology couldn’t have been developed in the future?

Morgan stared into the concrete horizon and imagined his country populated with foreign faces—a polity of brown masses who look, speak, and act nothing like him.   He imagined them lording over this land for which his ancestors built by the sweat of their brow.   It is mentally wrenching for a man like him, a Christian and a lover of his country, to even tease the notion of the place so familiar to him—the sights, the smells, the welcoming and recognizable faces— inhabited by aliens who care not to preserve what is here.  Despite his tolerance of the recent immigration to New York of alien peoples, he had always held the belief since boyhood that a nation belongs to those whose ancestors are buried in the very ground for which they toiled, sweat, and bled.

Just then, bells in the nearby cathedral sounded splendidly and a most uplifting melody spilled out amongst the crowded buildings.  The bells were ushering in Christmas which was just days away.

Children’s laughter caught the attention of Morgan.  There was a family walking ebulliently on the sidewalk opposite him—a father, a mother, and two boys.  They had just emerged from an apartment building.  From the looks of it, the family was working class.  Their clothes were worn and old despite being their Sunday best.  The father donned a brown Stetson that was faded around the brim and an overcoat of the same color that was slightly tattered at the bottom.  The wife’s modest and simple dress which she purchased used at a thrift store on account they could afford anything more, most likely attracted disapproving looks by higher-class women.  It was clear that they didn’t have much but what they had was enough to live on.  The family was demonstrably happy.  The husband and wife were arm-in-arm.  They were conversing amongst themselves and occasionally exchanging loving glances.  Their boys chased each other around their parents; their profound gaiety could not be matched.  They had what Morga the Christin regarded as the Christian spirit; their wealth and contentment was reliant not on the material goods they own but the riches of family, gratefulness, and humility.  It was a beautiful sight; something fragile and a quality of American society which could be lost in a single generation if not fiercely preserved.

A motor car pulled next to Morgan.

“Sir,” his bodyguard said, “your car awaits.”

“Huh?”

“Your car sir—to take you to the rail station.”  (Morgan gave the bodyguard a perplexed look).  “Your train leaves for D.C. in an hour.

The bodyguard opened the door to the car and gestured for his employer to get in.  Morgan hesitated.

“Sir?”

Morgan didn’t budge.  He looked at the vacant car seat, then the family, then back to the car seat.  He looked again across the street to catch the last glimpse of the family entering the cathedral which was still proudly ringing its bells.

“Sir, please.  Your train awaits.”

The banking magnate composed himself.  He straightened his posture, rectified his crooked hat, neatened his scarf and assured the buttons on his jacket were all tucked into their respective clasps.  His eyes closed for a moment and he nervously gulped.  Then, he pivoted away from the car.

“Sir?  Sir?  Where are you going?”

—-END—-