February 2, 2020

"Relentless Inhumanity"

"Relentless Inhumanity"

As it is,

All existence alternates between phases of Being and Non-Being. The Law of Universal Kokyu. Once the point of furthermost expansion has been reached, and all energies have been fully spent in the expansive act, existence begins to withdraw, to contract back in on itself in anticipation of its next Universal Breath.

As above, so below.

In this case much, much more below, into the deepest pits of ideological hell, in fact.

Here, Hell is more than just other people, it's a System. A system of "Relentless Inhumanity" according to Augustus Invictus, a man who is now experiencing a systematic contraction of his own. For those of you who may be unaware of his current situation, Mr. Augustus Invictus had previously thwarted the System's attempts to expand itself further at the expense of a group called the American Front. Having successfully defended them from Systemic legal predation in his professional capacity as a criminal defense attorney, Mr. Invictus had no doubt earned its wrath.

And so now unable to expand any further in its desired directions on account of the actions of Mr. Invictus the System is now contracting around him like a reactionary python hellbent on enacting this ritual of criminal (in)justice cannibalism, as it tries to swallow his life and liberty whole.

Read then his own account in his own words...

The Cattle Grinder
Written by Augustus Sol Invictus

     "The Land of the Free? Whoever told you that is your enemy."

- Zachary De La Rocha

Relentless inhumanity. When I think of what might be the defining characteristic of America’s for-profit prison system, it is not the malice of its officers that comes to mind, but the relentless inhumanity of the system itself. This is the phrase that recurs over and over, for we in here are not the prey of maleficent demons, but rather, animals trapped in a metallic ranch, making money for invisible industrial farmers who own the machines.

Relentless inhumanity. Everything is concrete and steel. Everything is plexiglass and plastic. Everything is electric lights and air conditioning. With the exception of the day of my extradition, I have not breathed real air, touched grass, or seen the sun or the moon in several weeks. Everything is artificial, filthy in the most unnatural way: the food processed and synthetic, half of it bread and sugar; the trays and cups of styrofoam; and whatever chemical concoction they provide us to drink is generally and uniformly called “juice.” I cannot even see my family through glass; I have to see my own sons and daughters through a video screen.

Everyone here is guilty until proven innocent. Once a man is proved innocent and leaves this godforsaken den of lost souls, no one will know, and no one will remember. Here, everyone does his own time, everyone suffers his own cross. “There was a guy here,” they might say, “who said he was innocent, and they took him out, so he might have been; I don’t know.” That will be a mere footnote in a conversation amongst the damned.

For my own part, I have been held in isolation since the morning of January 2nd. In Florida, I was told that being held in isolation under 15-minute observation and 24-hour lights was “for [my] protection.” Here in South Carolina I am told that I am placed in maximum security “because of the nature of the charges.” Everyone keeps telling me it is not punishment. God forbid.

Nevermind the fact that the charges are false. Nevermind the fact that I am innocent. Never mind the fact that I have not been to trial — much less have I been convicted — or that I have never been arrested, or that Anglo-American law has always held sacred that ancient and noble maxim, “innocent until proven guilty.” As an innocent man falsely accused, I am treated in the same manner as a gang member convicted of double homicide.

Again, what is remarkable about this is not the malice of the overseers but the utter inhumanity of it all. Justice be damned: efficiency rules here, the Viceregent of the god Money. Everyone is interchangeable. Every warm body is a number in the computer that can purchase snacks and papers, soaps and phone calls. I’ll say this for labor camps: at least they produce something. Here we are caged until we are allowed out to be electronically milked like cattle: buy stamped envelopes, buy deodorant, buy candy and feed the fucking Machine. There is at least a certain dignity in being a workhorse; here they merely attach their suction cups to the inmates’ udders, sucking out the precious, life-giving milk of donated cash.

I am a criminal defense attorney and the son of a criminal defense attorney. I have a team of criminal defense attorneys in Florida and a team of criminal defense attorneys in South Carolina. The fact that I could be arrested, held without bond, extradited to another state, triple-chained in the back of a squad car, denied bail, and held in isolation for weeks on end — all based upon a false accusation — is absolutely unfathomable in America. Yet the truly horrific thing is this: if I, an attorney and son of an attorney, with tons of attorneys in two different states, can be treated in this fashion, what do they suffer who have no attorneys, who are not attorneys themselves, who have no voice and no one to speak for them? I am a white lawyer in America. If anyone in this nation is entitled to due process, it is me, and if this Soviet charade is what passes for due process these days, it must be admitted at last that America has come to its end.

When I began practicing criminal law, I focused on drug cases, the bigger issues being police militarization and the destruction of the Fourth Amendment. The fact that the Pentagon was unloading military-grade weapons, gear and vehicles to local Sheriff and Police departments was not at all secret; it was simply that no one cared. One day, while helping a friend at a parade gather signatures to run for judge, it appalled me to witness the Osceola County Sheriff’s Office displaying an amphibious assault vehicle through the streets of downtown Kissimmee. Even more appalling, nobody seemed to question why in God’s name a sheriff’s office, in a town like Kissimmee, would need an amphibious assault vehicle at all.

Ironically, that was the Fourth of July. The following spring, that same sheriff’s office rolled a tank onto a man’s property in a joint set-up operation with the FBI. Thus began the American Front case and my involvement in defending the right wing.

For years now I have fought these political cases, and I have sought to free our political prisoners. I took each and every one of these cases personally, losing sleep with the knowledge that these men were fighting for us — and that this could have happened to any one of us. However, despite having gained a reputation for being the man with his finger on the pulse of these things, I am now forced to admit that I never understood what these men suffered through, or what were the stakes.

Sure, I knew the stakes in the grand political sense: victory or defeat, freedom or slavery, our culture or theirs. In terms of what each man faces as an activist, though, I could not fully comprehend that until now. Each and every time I would visit a client in jail or prison, I felt dread deep in my bones. The grey walls, the humming lights, the electric doors controlled by anonymous hands in a control room somewhere, all combine to create a very deliberate impression that you, once human, are now trapped as a component in the Machine. For an activist fighting for freedom, it is the cruelest end of the road imaginable. Yet in these visits, I had always been able to leave, to shake off the suffocating cloak of mechanized doom in the parking lot.

Now I fully understand. From here, there is no exit at my volition, only the long waiting as the gears of the apparatus turn ever so slowly, unlocking each gate, each measured corridor, at its appointed and scheduled moment. Here we suffer the interminable device of the Machine — its whirring, clicking, clanging and slamming; its shuffling motion and the torturous measured moments like grains of sand between — impersonal, soulless, unnatural.

As a parting thought I note the grand scheme of things. I have realized in this cell that many of the stories I have known have been mere abstractions to me until now. The imprisonment of Odysseus and his men by the Cyclops, for instance, holds far greater terror when one knows firsthand the meaning of being trapped by hostile forces. The story of Edmund Dantès gains an entirely new depth after one has been falsely imprisoned, particularly if it is for political reasons. Cesare Borgia’s incarceration as a hostage, Napoléon at Elba and St. Helena, T.E. Lawrence in Arabia, Ché in Bolivia, Hitler in Landsberg: unjust incarceration is a recurring rite of passage. Let us therefore pray not for the end of imprisonment but for the restoration of its humanity.

So be it.