Global Independent Analytics
Scott Bennett
Scott Bennett

Location: USA

Specialization: Counterterrorist Finance

The Ambush, Murder and Resurrection of Robert LaVoy Finicum: Part One

"What in the hell has happened to this country!?"

“When the people fear the government, there is tyranny; 

when the government fears the people, there is liberty”.

                                                                          Thomas Jefferson

 

FALLING INTO OBLIVION

“Behold, I send my messenger ahead of you, who will prepare your way; the voice of one crying in the wilderness….”  Most likely these were the last words—and final hope—passing through the soul of Robert LaVoy Finnicum.

Standing tall and fearless, with arms raised high, and a defiant, unblinking stare shooting out from under his cream Stetson, Finnicum challenged the body-armored government agents of death crouching behind the black SUV, roaring at them like a lion at cowering, tail-tucked hyenas.  

And then, without warning, he felt something like a red-hot fishhook stab into his lower left side’s love-handle, and yank him violently backward,  twisting and buckling him over; and then as he straightened himself—hearing strange whizzings in the air from all directions—Finicum felt something like a stone thrown at baseball pitch speed hit him in the neck, knocking him off balance, as the clang of ten thousand piano keys pressed-down-at-once rocked his brain and tumbled him backwards into the deep snow.  Then a warm, familiar iron taste flooded his sinuses and throat, and all dimmed quiet and still.  

Lying flat on his back, Finnicum lifted up his eyes through the frosted, blue-green tree branches to the secretly watching Sky and Heavens beyond.  Except for a hissing wind numbing his cheeks red with waves of pin-pricking ice, silence haunted the forest around him.  He closed his eyes and breathed in the evergreen scents; opening them again as everything around him began swaying and dissolving and echoing in slow motion as if his childhood dentist’s ‘laughing-gas’ had become the air.  And then, for some bizarre reason, he began to hear Beethoven’s “Moonlight” Sonata from behind the indigo ceiling; then sinking footsteps approached, crunching through the deep snow, as the ridiculously over-armored FBI snipers clumsily struggled to encircle him.  Little did they know it was they who were being encircled—and cursed—by the eyes of an astonished world.  

He listened, studying them through his ears, as the agents closed in.  Suddenly he felt searing hot punches hitting him from all directions in the ribs and stomach, followed by the crack of gunfire; and then he heard angry voices in the distance, spitting curses at him.  Finnicum frowned only slightly, since something in the voices—cackling with a sadistic pleasure that seemed fake, like they were masking a festering hurt and self-loathing and fear—reminded him of the Roman soldiers buffeting and cursing at Christ on the cross.

Ironic, he thought, as the Roman soldiers were two thousand years ago, so are these FBI mercenary agents…crying out in desperation at their own spiritual imprisonment and inability to process or purge the agony of their own traumas from their own Middle East campaign.  Like the suffering, guilt, and furious scorn Richard Burton was consumed by in the classic film The Robe, until he was eventually freed by the truth within it, so these agents were, and mindlessly grinding away their soft innocence against the endless stone of pride.  Tragic, he thought… but not surprising.  He was reminded of the Passion of the Christ; the stoning of Stephen; Peter crucified upside down; Isaiah sawed in half; and the countless other burnings and torture of people by spiritually dead governments…all for the mysterious purposes of God, and the conquering glory His people credited to him through their example of fearless resignation to His control and destiny.  

A terrible thirst began wringing Finicum’s throat dry as some clenched fist in his skull expanded, flaring his eyes as strange visions pushed out.  He growled—more annoyed than in pain—and nodded slightly, not knowing to whom, as if unconsciously confirming that he’d been shot.  

Boy, now they’ve done it…now I’m pissed! he snarled in his mind. He began to imagine the different lawsuits he would file in multiple courts to burn their asses and government careers; and roast Obama, Valery Jarret, and the politicians involved with sending these assassins, including Oregon Governor Kate Brown, Senator Ron Wyden, and Attorney General Loretta Lynch.  He thought of the personal vindication he would get dragging by the hair the kicking and screaming Bureau of Land Management into court, throwing them before a jury, and taking back the lands and freedoms they had tried to steal from all Americans.  He began to see in his mind hundreds of black-suited lawyers waving their briefcases in the air and screaming like a battle scene from Braveheart, and guffawed at the thought of storming the courts with a “Dirty Dozen team” of the right kind of ball-cutting female lawyers who’d relish tearing these police and FBI bastards apart.  Perhaps it would even spread to other legal cases?  Perhaps it could help Cliven Bundy and his cattle?  Perhaps all ranchers and farmers would rise up?  Perhaps America as a whole would. Finally, he thought.  Time would tell.

Then he thought of the sounds and sight of the rolling thunder of ten thousand motorcycles and horse-mounted cowboys and flag waving Boy and Girl Scouts, rolling and clapping and marching around the courthouses like the ancient Israelites surrounding the crumbling walls of Jericho as they blasted the trumpets of holy American honor and courage.  A tear rolled down the side of his face as he smiled at the vision, and then catching himself, he coughed away the emotion, then grimaced as the dull pain stabbed unexpectedly.  But he couldn’t fully stop his amusement, despite the discomfort.  It was worth it.  He then realized humor was a weapon, and everyone needed to see clearly him laughing and scorning these FBI sniper agents and dull-witted cops—who in reality were probably just furious at him for disconnecting their ‘fancy-schmancy’ secret surveillance cameras illegally mounted on telephone poles the week before.  He laughed again at how pissed-off they must have been as they watched him climbing the poles and ripping down their expensive boxes.  The joy of the Lord is thy strength, he thought, and fearless humor shined in the faces of these killers would not only evaporate their smokescreen of legal authority and shatter their strategy of intimidation, but would ridicule their arrogance, strip away their thuggish bravado, and fearlessly neuter their aggression with one righteous stroke at the same time. 

Then a strange feeling came over him and he grinned and giggled—despite the dull ache oozing through his left side—as reality thinned like a dying cloud, and the eternal significance of his past few hours became poetically clear.   He thanked God for allowing him to be part of the trigger He would pull to fire the shot that would be heard around the world, and change the times of men with the ripple effect of its truth.  He knew his brethren—the cowboys—and how they would always make a stand for the Old West ways, the code of the gunslinger, the freedom of clean living.  After all, they were the descendants of the real Americans, those pioneers who had ventured out in wagon trains and hammered wooden claim stakes into the bloody ground with scarred hands to seed, grow and protect their family and nation...so long as America remained righteous—and thereby free.

THE BETRAYAL OF SHERIFF PALMER AND GRANT COUNTY

Then Finnicum snapped back to reality and remembered something.  They had been promised by Sheriff Palmer that the people in Grant County were a different breed of citizen-patriot compared to Harney County’s communist sheeple who whined and shuffled around in a half-lobotomized state of political isolation and fear of their abusers—aka, the treacherous Sheriff Ward and the BLM.  

Unlike Harney County, Grant County—so they had been told—was populated by the kind of citizens who loved their rights enough to protect them, and refused to suck on the Soma sugar tit of federal government jobs which had been used to lure and addict the Harney County half-wits with.   Grant County was also a “UN-free zone”—meaning they refused to recognize or obey any United Nations policies or authority—and this explained the aggressive and violent mercenary operations being conducted against them by White House advisor Valery Jarrett and her “National Command Authority” (as described by the Oregon State Police).  Under this ‘authority’ Jarret, and therefore, her boss President Barack Obama, had command and control of all operational aspects of these police-FBI-CIA operations against the Patriots at the refuge and Grant County.  But their reckless abuse of this authority had now shed innocent blood. 

Faces and voices were now coming back to Finnicum from out of the mist of past conversations.  He remembered Amanda Marshall, former Attorney General appointed by Obama, who had betrayed and resentenced the Hammonds for a second prison term, knowing it would trigger a reaction and form a trap.  He remembered being told about Heidi Moawad (her brother is Jeff Barker, former LT of Oregon State Police), who was a friend of Hillary Clinton staffer, Huma Abedin; and Governor Kate Brown, Senator Ron Wyden and Jeff Merkle, all pushing Washington DC and the FBI to bring the Patriot protest to an end, calling the patriots’ recognition of the Constitutional freedoms and rights a “virus” which had to be stopped.  Of course, Finnicum knew that by labeling the Patriots’ libertarian philosophy and values a “virus,” these politicians were actually confessing that their fear, weakness, or stupidity prevented them from being thinkers, and in fact confirmed that they were, in truth, too vain or paranoid about their reputation and careers to be authentic leaders; and therefore, they had no understanding or inclination towards preserving, protecting, and defending the Constitution.  Of course, this didn’t surprise Finicum, since BLM agents obviously enjoyed sadistically torching ranchers’ barns and burning their cattle alive as an intimidation tactic.  

Arrogant recklessness was too tame a term for describing these federal agents. Whether or not they knew about the larger Federal police-state agenda manipulating them is immaterial, since they were just pawns in a Kissinger game of black-hearted corruption, deceit, and power lust.  Nevertheless, these agents and their masters would still be judged and held liable for their actions, since there is no immunity from God.  Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, I shall repay… God is not mocked, Finnicum thought…and justice would prevail.  

Then Finnicum had an epiphany as he realized the meaning of these moments, and fully understood what it was that defined his feelings and ordered his destiny… it was justice.  Because of his experience, he now knew justice like an oft-repeated oath or favorite poem; he felt its four dimensions as instinctive, enchanting, spiritual, and sublime.  Somehow he could sense justice was the force of gravity, pulling down time’s sand grains as life climaxed into higher consciousness; and with Blake’s ‘Doors of Perception cleansed,’ justice now appeared as it truly was: the nexus of life and death in the equilibrium of eternity.  

That was how it all happened!  Finnicum triumphantly confirmed to himself, as if solving a difficult riddle:  They had agreed to drive up and relocate—making a strategic decision to do a ‘lateral shift’—into the next county over, Grant County, and meet with Sheriff Palmer.  He was the one who had asked for their help in empowering his townspeople with wisdom about how to understand and defend against the illegality of federal agencies—commanded by Washington DC and President Obama—abusing ranchers and stealing State land for the mineral wealth.  And it was this wisdom and boldness the Federal Government couldn’t allow its citizens to acquire, lest they awake from serfdom and cease to be slaves.  

In a spiritual sense, Finnicum could at last see that justice was the harmony of truth, the judgment of perfect love; and since “God is love,” justice and truth must also be part of God.  Therefore, since God was the reason behind man’s purpose, there was obviously reason and purpose and justice behind this day’s tragedy—regardless how difficult it might be to see or understand. 

THE AMERICAN COMA

Then Finnicum wondered sardonically: What in the hell has happened to this country!?  How did things get so screwed up and backward!?  When did Americans become so retarded, cowardly, or blind!? 

It must have started with the Federal Bureau of Land Management abducting and converting the local county bureaucrats, and absorbing them into the mindless zombie blob of the federal government by forcing them to swear a blood oath to the President—the Executive Branch—and religiously worship Obama’s philosophy of: “Abandon all hope ye who enter here,” he reasoned.  What else could explain it?

Then he heard a radio somewhere, approaching; most likely a car’s that had been left playing accidentally.  Finnicum smiled as he recognized the song—one of his favorites—by the 70’s band, Air Supply, prompting him to shut his eyes and whisper the lyrics: “Suuuuuuummmtimes... all I need is the air that I breathe and to love you.”  How true, he thought.

Then Finnicum took a long, deep breath of peppermint air, savoring it as if it was the final flavor of his earthly life; then relaxed still, and waited.  Wisdom slowly began to tingle all over him, settling like a warm blanket, as he perceived just how superficial and silly and empty these angry fascist Democrat agents were.  They lived for nothing but to gratify their earthly lusts, and to gorge their flesh with gluttony, drunkenness, and sex; and they defined their identity by intoxicating themselves on the empty calories of spiritual junk food, being dissolved by a culture of death, Finnicum mused.  Suddenly, he felt nauseous.

Time passed, Finnicum prayed, and embers of memory glowed into knowledge that grew as a pyre of wisdom.  And with it, he heard these words: a great revolution is never the fault of the people, but of the government.   Had he read this somewhere? Or was it recited to him by his daughter Teana, perhaps during one of their family home evening lectures?  She was the political theorist in the family after all. 

Then he smiled as he imagined her in the political arena of Washington DC, intimidating the weakling men in Congress, the Courts, and the White House with her raw cowgirl boldness; and bull-whipping them with her tongue as she exposed, challenged and condemned their every corruption—as well as every sickening perversity, vice, and addiction they practiced in secret backroom darkness.

MURDERING GOVERNMENT AUTHORITY

Then more thoughts came; but almost instantly he shook them loose from his mind, disgusted by their implications, since he didn’t want to accept that his country’s law enforcement would so cold-bloodedly murder a peaceful American citizen; and more than that, an American cowboy; and more than that, and American cowboy who was a father, grandfather, and loyal American patriot.  No way, of course not!  It had to be a mistake, he thought.  This was his America…or was it?  

Perhaps Obama really was serious about what he had threatened to do all along: steal and spread people’s wealth by the edge of the sword, while hysterically hacking at the tree of liberty using a lie as a license, and artificially generated fear to poison the air with the gangrene stench of refugees from a crumbling Middle East tomb.  Indeed, it seemed those pulling Obama’s election strings had unleashed him to initiate through Executive Order an open-ended Homeland Security contract for the private sector police-state, lobotomize freedom, and prepare the way for some Bill-Hillary Clinton murderous US-UN dictatorship.  Perhaps the bloody pencil of bankers and bureaucrats in the government boys’ club had at last scribbled-over the Constitution?  After all, as Atkinson said, “Bureaucracies are designed to perform public business.  But as soon as a bureaucracy is established, it develops an autonomous spiritual life and comes to regard the public as its enemy.” 

With this awakening suspicion of national integrity, a moral distrust emerged like a spotlight through the fog of Finicum’s childish patriotism.  It seemed his delusionally nostalgic love of country had matured into a mercilessly factual measure of its merits, and it occurred to him just why the FBI would attempt to murder them.  It was simple:  they knew that he knew and that he had the records and the testimony of all the dirty goings-on in Harney County, and everyone involved.  

They knew he knew the truth about ranchers having their faces literally stomped into the dirt under the boots of gun-wielding, paper-waving Bureau of Land Management (BLM) Agents; and their blocks of grazing land being secretly confiscated by the federal government for Dolomite and Uranium and other minerals for sale to Russian corporations through Canadian front companies; and the Thorium (number 90 on the periodic elements) as the way of the future of energy because its waste was carbon and not nuclear with spent fuel rods that would manufacture bombs; and how the largest deposit of Thorium had been discovered in Harney County.

He remembered the "STEEN MOUNTAIN ACT" (S.  Hrg. 107-756   pages 1-77), and the websites, radio stations, and other research he had been sent, which had prepared him.

And he remembered the discussions about Terra-power, a company owned by Bill Gates—Microsoft Founder and Global Vaccine aggressor—which was striving for ownership and control of this Thorium rich land through connections to Hillary Clinton’s time as Secretary of State, as well as the Clinton Foundation favors ; and Hillary Clinton abusing her power as Secretary of State to sanction the sale of these lands; and using newly confiscated private land as illegal collateral for Chinese debt, and other financial shenanigans; and that what they were doing to Oregon, they would soon try to do to California ranchers.  

He remembered the “Pay-to-play” schemes involving Green Energy billionaire Tom Steyer, associated with California Governor Jerry Brown.  Steyer had been making huge pay-offs to the girlfriend of former Oregon Governor John Kitzhaber. Kitzhaber would then, in turn, make green energy jobs that Tom Steyer’s company was guaranteed to get contracts to.

In other words, the more you dug into Harney County politics and resources, the more you discovered it was eaten away with corruption, criminal scams, pyramid schemes, and numerous betrayals of trust.  It was one big ‘musical chairs game,’ and the American taxpayer would be the one suddenly without a seat. He could almost hear the bankers laughing inside their cigar smoke rings blown within rented judges’ court chambers.  

And of course now, the government viewed him as the proverbial fly in the ointment, given the bullet-dotted Dalmatian paint job on his truck, and the screaming women inside it.  They—the CIA, FBI, international mercenary contractors—knew he and the women were the only living witnesses of a pre-planned, NSA surveillance aided, FBI authorized, police ambush, “deadman's roadblock,” and assassination operation targeting civilians on a lonely mountain road.  They also knew this ambush would be seen by the American public as nothing less than the most despicable demonstration of government corruption and cowardly wickedness since America was invented.   Real Americans would not tolerate a President ordering his FBI-mercenary minions to shoot-up a couple of unarmed cowboys, defenseless girls, and turn a crippled truck into Swiss cheese.  So they obviously couldn’t be allowed to live, thought Finnicum.  Obviously.

METAMORPHOSIS OF DEATH

Suddenly, Finnicum was shocked awake and pulled out of his melting Orwellian dream by the sound of a hail of gunshots shattering glass and ricocheting off steel like firecrackers in a coffee can.  One of the bullets fired sounded like a 300 Winchester Magnum rifle fired from a tree platform, due to the silencer masked sound barrier crack following the shot and the single rip through the truck’s roof, windshield, and hood.  Finnicum grimaced in new agony as he thought of the women—Shauna Cox and Victoria Sharp  —inside the truck, pressed face down on the floorboards, hiding for their lives.  He heard them, screaming out the words, “Stop! Stop! We surrender, we surrender!”  

Then something shook him, prompting him to bellow and pray out loud, like a harp string vibrating after an invisible finger’s pluck.  He prayed for the two women—one still a child—to be protected, reciting the sacred words, “He shall give his angels charge over thee to keep thee in all thy way.”  Finicum’s jaw clenched as he demanded from God a storm of righteous destruction to come upon these mad, uncircumcised Philistines, as he recited David’s moment of passionate vengeance.  Then he relaxed, recognizing the supernatural power he was unleashing, as he remembered the invisible armies, Elijah facing the prophets of Baal, Daniel in Lion’s Den, David and Goliath, the fiery furnace, and so many other chapters of spiritual battle and Divine deliverance. 

And then Finnicum drifted sleepily into the twilight of consciousness, and felt a warm, tingling numbness once again enveloping his body—dissolving him like dry ice—as images of people and experiences began slowly descending from the heavens and passing through him…or perhaps he was floating upwards and passing through them? He wondered.  He began remembering all the activities, feelings, sounds, and déjà vu moments before the ambush, before the deceit and violence by federal agents and their puppet politicians’ snagged and ripped him with resentment. 

He began witnessing the laying out of his life memories like a solitaire deck:  the first moments he arrived at the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge; the talks to the townspeople at the High School auditorium; the solemn icy nights around the fire, wrapped in sleeping bags and silence; the last evening at the refuge, celebrating an apparent political victory; then the journey to meet the Grant County Sheriff; and then how this nightmare started with flashing red and blue lights, an illegal stop, and then a surprise gunshot at Ryan Bundy—narrowly missing his face and ricocheting off the mirror.  That was the shot heard round the world, he thought, for, after that bullet, Finicum knew they were targeted for assassination, and it was his duty to run for their lives and get to the protection of Grant County as fast as they could.

To be continued…
 

[1] Goethe, quoted in Johann Peter Eckermann’s Conversations with Goethe, Jan. 4, 1824. “A great revolution is never the fault of the people, but of the government.”

[1]  Brooks Atkinson, “September 9,” Once Around the Sun (1951).

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