The Siege of Minneapolis
- Thread starter nsacpi
- Start date
Trump and DHS could have changed their policies too to lower tensions.
sturg33
I
Taps the sign
Tapate50
Well-known member
sturg33
I
Repeal it.
They can protest in their handmade costumes. They will love it. It will give them much more purpose and fulfillment
Tapate50
Well-known member
Violence is the only way they operate. Straight mafia shit.
Its pathetic. Hard to have the moral high ground while wishing death and destruction on people and property.
I cannot fathom how people can get behind this behavior with their votes and donations. It is the exact element of society we should be throwing in jail instead of proliferating at the election level.
Its pathetic. Hard to have the moral high ground while wishing death and destruction on people and property.
I cannot fathom how people can get behind this behavior with their votes and donations. It is the exact element of society we should be throwing in jail instead of proliferating at the election level.
sturg33
I
Try to remember this when there may be violence from ICE.
They are not facing people just holding signs and chanting. They are facing people shooting them, trying to burn them alive, hitting them with cars, etc
Any violence that may occur didnt just spawn out of tyranny
Tapate50
Well-known member
The video from the guy busting in the church in awful.
Normal people know this which is why ICE and deportations poll favorably across the country.
You can't reason with communists. You have to put your foot on their throats.
Well, when it’s not just ICE agents making it up to avoid accountability for shooting people.
nsacpi
Expects Yuge Games
Headquarters, near the Mississippi's banks
Minneapolis, Minnesota
February 14th, in the year of our Lord 2026
My Dearest Eliza,
I take up my pen this bitter evening with a heart both heavy & relieved, to relate to thee the events that have befallen us here in this northern city, which has proven more formidable than any rebel redoubt we imagined when first we marched. The snow lies deep upon the streets, the wind cuts like a bayonet, & the people—O, the people—are resolute as any Virginian farm-boy who ever stood against us in the old war.
We came under orders from on high, a great host of us, more than four thousand strong in our ranks, to execute what was called a “surge” against those deemed unlawful among us. The plan was bold: to sweep the avenues, secure the precincts, & restore what the administration termed order. Yet from the first day the citizens met us not with open arms but with closed ranks. They marched by the tens of thousands in the coldest winds man ever endured—fifteen below, they say—refusing labor, shutting shops, filling the squares with songs & signs. Two of our number fell to violence in the fray, shot while attempting their duty, & the papers cry “murder” while our own mourn in silence.
We held the line as best we could. The bridges & thoroughfares were ours for a season; we took many into custody & sent them south as commanded. But the city rose as one. The general strike they called it—a thing I had read of in history books but never witnessed. No wagons moved, no fires were lit in factories, no children trod to school. Even the ordinary folk, the mechanics & clerks & mothers with babes, turned their faces from us. We were become invaders in our own land.
Yesterday came the word from Washington: the operation is to conclude. A “significant drawdown,” they phrase it, though we soldiers know plain speech—a retreat. The trains & wagons are already loading our gear; many comrades ship out at dawn for other fields, while a small guard remains to watch the “agitators.” The city cheers their victory; we count our losses & wonder at the cost.
I confess, my love, a strange mixture of shame & gratitude stirs within me. We sought to enforce the law, yet found the law's own people arrayed against us in such numbers that no force could prevail without greater bloodshed than any man ought to bear. Perhaps in this northern clime, where the lakes freeze & the prairies stretch endless, the spirit of resistance burns hotter than southern fire. I think often of our boys who fell at Bull Run or Gettysburg—how they too marched with right upon their side, only to learn that right alone does not always carry the day.
Do not grieve for me, Eliza. I am whole in body, if bruised in spirit, & shall soon be homeward bound. Kiss little Jamie & tell him his father served as honorably as he knew how, though the field proved different from what we expected. Pray for this divided country, that wiser heads may yet find a path to peace without more broken homes.
Thy ever-loving husband,Capt. Josiah HarlanFederal Service, lately of Operation Metro Surge
(Should the post be delayed by storm or rail, forgive the tardy arrival of these lines. My thoughts are with thee always.)
Minneapolis, Minnesota
February 14th, in the year of our Lord 2026
My Dearest Eliza,
I take up my pen this bitter evening with a heart both heavy & relieved, to relate to thee the events that have befallen us here in this northern city, which has proven more formidable than any rebel redoubt we imagined when first we marched. The snow lies deep upon the streets, the wind cuts like a bayonet, & the people—O, the people—are resolute as any Virginian farm-boy who ever stood against us in the old war.
We came under orders from on high, a great host of us, more than four thousand strong in our ranks, to execute what was called a “surge” against those deemed unlawful among us. The plan was bold: to sweep the avenues, secure the precincts, & restore what the administration termed order. Yet from the first day the citizens met us not with open arms but with closed ranks. They marched by the tens of thousands in the coldest winds man ever endured—fifteen below, they say—refusing labor, shutting shops, filling the squares with songs & signs. Two of our number fell to violence in the fray, shot while attempting their duty, & the papers cry “murder” while our own mourn in silence.
We held the line as best we could. The bridges & thoroughfares were ours for a season; we took many into custody & sent them south as commanded. But the city rose as one. The general strike they called it—a thing I had read of in history books but never witnessed. No wagons moved, no fires were lit in factories, no children trod to school. Even the ordinary folk, the mechanics & clerks & mothers with babes, turned their faces from us. We were become invaders in our own land.
Yesterday came the word from Washington: the operation is to conclude. A “significant drawdown,” they phrase it, though we soldiers know plain speech—a retreat. The trains & wagons are already loading our gear; many comrades ship out at dawn for other fields, while a small guard remains to watch the “agitators.” The city cheers their victory; we count our losses & wonder at the cost.
I confess, my love, a strange mixture of shame & gratitude stirs within me. We sought to enforce the law, yet found the law's own people arrayed against us in such numbers that no force could prevail without greater bloodshed than any man ought to bear. Perhaps in this northern clime, where the lakes freeze & the prairies stretch endless, the spirit of resistance burns hotter than southern fire. I think often of our boys who fell at Bull Run or Gettysburg—how they too marched with right upon their side, only to learn that right alone does not always carry the day.
Do not grieve for me, Eliza. I am whole in body, if bruised in spirit, & shall soon be homeward bound. Kiss little Jamie & tell him his father served as honorably as he knew how, though the field proved different from what we expected. Pray for this divided country, that wiser heads may yet find a path to peace without more broken homes.
Thy ever-loving husband,Capt. Josiah HarlanFederal Service, lately of Operation Metro Surge
(Should the post be delayed by storm or rail, forgive the tardy arrival of these lines. My thoughts are with thee always.)
nsacpi
Expects Yuge Games
Dayton, Ohio
February 18th, in the year of our Lord 1826
My Dearest Josiah,
Thy letter reached me this morning, borne on the wings of a weary post-rider through drifts that seem to mirror the chill in my own heart. I read thy words with tears that froze ere they fell—thy wounds of spirit deeper than any bullet, thy honorable service cast aside like a broken musket after the fray. Thou hast borne the cold, the scorn, the very wrath of a city risen against thee, all in the name of law and order. Yet now, as thou makest ready to return, a fiercer anger burns within me, one I can no longer contain.
How can we speak of enforcing the nation's borders, of sweeping away the unlawful intruder, when the very men who command these armies have taken foreign wives to their beds? The President himself—O, the gall!—wed to Melanija, that Slovenian-born woman who crossed our shores on dubious terms, modeling in ways the modest call questionable, yet elevated to First Lady by virtue of his ring alone. She speaks our tongue haltingly, her very name foreign to American ears, and yet no ICE wagon drags her southward, no chain binds her wrists for overstaying or entering without full leave. Nay, she graces the White House still, her portrait hung where patriots' wives once stood.
And the Vice President, Mr. Vance, whose voice rings loudest against the "theft of the American Dream" by hordes from afar—his own consort is Usha, daughter of Indian immigrants, her bloodline tracing to distant Andhra Pradesh. Born here she may be, yet her parents came as strangers, their faith Hindu, their customs alien to our Protestant hearths. He rails against the very tide that bore her forebears to these shores, while she stands beside him in finery, her children bearing names that echo foreign lands. "Send her back," the people cry in mockery, and rightly so! If the law is iron for the poor laborer from Mexico or the weary family from the south, why is it silk for those who share the rulers' pillows?
Thou marched for principle, Josiah—for the sacred duty of a sovereign people to guard their own. Yet these leaders practice one creed in public and another in private. They decry the immigrant as thief, parasite, invader—then embrace the exception when it wears a wedding band or bears their heirs. Hypocrisy! It stinks worse than the smoke of cannon. If Melanija and Usha are fit to mother the nation's future, why deny the same chance to others who toil honestly? If their foreign origins are no bar to power and privilege, then the whole edifice of this "surge" crumbles as mere theater for the base passions of the crowd.
I fear for thee, my love, caught in this snare of double tongues. Come home swiftly, whole and unbowed. Let the politicians play their games; we shall raise Jamie in truth, teaching him that honor demands consistency, not convenience. Pray forgive the heat of my words—they spring from love for thee, and from a righteous fury at the betrayal of the cause thou served so faithfully.
Thy devoted wife, ever thine,Eliza Harlan
(Write soon, Josiah, that I may know thy safe return. The house is cold without thee, but my heart awaits.)
February 18th, in the year of our Lord 1826
My Dearest Josiah,
Thy letter reached me this morning, borne on the wings of a weary post-rider through drifts that seem to mirror the chill in my own heart. I read thy words with tears that froze ere they fell—thy wounds of spirit deeper than any bullet, thy honorable service cast aside like a broken musket after the fray. Thou hast borne the cold, the scorn, the very wrath of a city risen against thee, all in the name of law and order. Yet now, as thou makest ready to return, a fiercer anger burns within me, one I can no longer contain.
How can we speak of enforcing the nation's borders, of sweeping away the unlawful intruder, when the very men who command these armies have taken foreign wives to their beds? The President himself—O, the gall!—wed to Melanija, that Slovenian-born woman who crossed our shores on dubious terms, modeling in ways the modest call questionable, yet elevated to First Lady by virtue of his ring alone. She speaks our tongue haltingly, her very name foreign to American ears, and yet no ICE wagon drags her southward, no chain binds her wrists for overstaying or entering without full leave. Nay, she graces the White House still, her portrait hung where patriots' wives once stood.
And the Vice President, Mr. Vance, whose voice rings loudest against the "theft of the American Dream" by hordes from afar—his own consort is Usha, daughter of Indian immigrants, her bloodline tracing to distant Andhra Pradesh. Born here she may be, yet her parents came as strangers, their faith Hindu, their customs alien to our Protestant hearths. He rails against the very tide that bore her forebears to these shores, while she stands beside him in finery, her children bearing names that echo foreign lands. "Send her back," the people cry in mockery, and rightly so! If the law is iron for the poor laborer from Mexico or the weary family from the south, why is it silk for those who share the rulers' pillows?
Thou marched for principle, Josiah—for the sacred duty of a sovereign people to guard their own. Yet these leaders practice one creed in public and another in private. They decry the immigrant as thief, parasite, invader—then embrace the exception when it wears a wedding band or bears their heirs. Hypocrisy! It stinks worse than the smoke of cannon. If Melanija and Usha are fit to mother the nation's future, why deny the same chance to others who toil honestly? If their foreign origins are no bar to power and privilege, then the whole edifice of this "surge" crumbles as mere theater for the base passions of the crowd.
I fear for thee, my love, caught in this snare of double tongues. Come home swiftly, whole and unbowed. Let the politicians play their games; we shall raise Jamie in truth, teaching him that honor demands consistency, not convenience. Pray forgive the heat of my words—they spring from love for thee, and from a righteous fury at the betrayal of the cause thou served so faithfully.
Thy devoted wife, ever thine,Eliza Harlan
(Write soon, Josiah, that I may know thy safe return. The house is cold without thee, but my heart awaits.)