Abuse of Power - Michael Savage [15]
Several weeks later, the London Daily News ran a story on the ban, revealing a series of illuminating e-mail exchanges between the Home Office and the PM. What the newspaper uncovered was a case of political cowardice in the extreme. Jack Hatfield was being used to make the British government’s bias against Muslims seem relatively tame and tolerant. This was the same government that many believed was instrumental in the concurrent release by Scottish officials of Abdelbaset al-Megrahi, a convicted terrorist who was responsible for the fiery deaths of two hundred seventy people on an airplane passing over Lockerbie.
Months later, it came out that the very home secretary who had banned Jack had been using government funds to support her husband’s porn viewing habit.
When a reporter from a London tabloid had asked Jack for a newspaper quote, he said, “Her politics are more pornographic than any sex scene. What can be more obscene than the government of the U.K. refusing to deport radical Muslims who preach the overthrow of England, demand the introduction of Sharia law, and chant ‘death to the queen,’ all the while refusing to lift the ban against Jack Hatfield? I am the only member of the American media prohibited from entering the U.K. because of the degenerate political minds of the home secretary and her cohorts.”
The hypocrisy of the U.K. and the weak-kneed sensibilities of his own nation were stunning, but with his credibility all but destroyed he was forced to surrender those battles, withdraw from the national scene, use his wits and skills and whatever closet supporters he had left—and thank God there were a bunch of them—to earn a living.
He did it alone, because his wife had withered under the scrutiny and catcalls, the burning bags of feces on the doorstep and the death threats on voice mail.
He made his deals in back rooms, wrote or produced anonymously because even his friends were afraid of Lawrence Soren, Muslim backlash, or both.
But he did it all, survived so he could get to this point.
Not to stroke his wounded pride, not to show a president or prime minster that by God he was right.
He did it for this one chance to help the nation save itself from itself.
5
Sofia, Bulgaria
The moment Hassan Haddad stepped off the elevator, he knew he was being watched.
It was a weeknight, and across the lobby the hotel lounge and casino were full of European and American businessmen, either drunk or getting there, planning their schemes to rape and pillage the country’s economy as they gambled away their weekly salaries.
Both the hotel and casino were examples of the new Eastern capitalist vulgarity. Crowded craps tables, roulette wheels, and slot machines, surrounded by gold-inlaid walls and marble floors—all symbols of decadence and woeful immorality.
Then there were the Gypsy whores. Bulgaria didn’t hide its perversions any more than it hid its corruption, and these brown-skinned Roma girls knew where the gold was. Nothing could be easier than picking off a pasty American salesman whose wife was nearly five thousand miles away.
Haddad understood the temptation these men felt. He had felt it himself, many times. Most of the girls were quite attractive, wearing short sheer dresses that clung to their skin and suggested at the pleasures that lay beneath. Just last night he had succumbed to the charms of one sloe-eyed beauty, taking her to his room where she had let him do things few women would ever permit. She had received him with such enthusiasm, such passion, that he had to wonder if, unlike so many of the whores he had spent time with, her pleasure was genuine.
Haddad was so surprised and delighted by the girl that he considered inviting her to accompany him home.