“Love cannot remain silent – when it sees
Injustice, Abuse, Deception or Hypocrisy
‘Real Love’ will always stand-up and speak-out
Even at the expense of one’s own life.”
– mg –
Published by X Factor Publishing
“Sticky Finger Books”
3 9 7 5 10 2 1 8 4 6
Australia/New Zealand/Great Britain
The Plot to Overthrow Copyright © Mohammad Goldstein, 2011
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise, with the written
permission of the Publisher.
ISBN: 978 0 92 757267 9
www.mohammadgoldstein.com
1
“When the power of love
Overcomes the love of power
The world will know peace.”
– Jimi Hendrix–
The 50s were the decade where the conception took place; the embryo
incubated in the womb, growing and kicking, for the entire ten years. Finally,
the pregnancy ended, and with violent labor pains, the water broke on
January 1, 1960. After inhaling the first breath of life, what exhaled was a
very loud, non-stop screaming, colic baby; a byproduct perhaps, of the stifled
emotions from its parents trapped in a generation of war. After the violent
birth, the umbilical cord cut, the life-giving 50s placenta was discarded as
useless afterbirth.
It was out with the 50s doo-wop music … “Good night, sweetheart, well,
it’s time to go” … had to go. None of that would be the new baby’s style.
There would be no more short haircuts, butch wax, teased hair, greasy Elvis
hair, poodle skirts, fake rock and roll, or black and white television. The
baby turned off Father Knows Best, Sky King, and Leave It to Beaver as he
tuned in and tripped out.
“Gimme a head with hair – Long beautiful hair – Shining, gleaming,
streaming, flaxen, waxen – Give me down to there – Shoulder length or
longer – Here baby, there mama – Everywhere daddy, daddy, hair.”
This colic baby was going to keep everyone up night and day for more than
a decade, screaming all the way into the early 70s against every established
rule of order. Spitting out its pacifier in protest against everything
governmental, the colic baby took to the streets in rebellion against war,
abusive law enforcement, denial of civil rights, parental restrictions, and the
need for organized religion. Schizophrenic in personality, the colic baby held
peaceful love-ins and sit-ins, followed by campus protests, civil rights
marches, and the burning of cities in riotous rebellion. Change was coming
to America, by any and every means necessary, making this a decade that
was electrifying and full of life.
To understand the colic baby’s screams, and why those screams were so
full of life, ask anyone living in the 60s; they will tell you what an awesome
and troubled time it was to be alive. The air was saturated with an energy so
rich and full of life, you could almost touch it, or, at the very least, inhale it
with every breath you took. It was as if, somewhere in the heavens, the world
clock of time and history had suddenly clicked into a new era, intoxicating
everything with change.
New expressions and views on every moral issue of life surfaced each day.
For generations, society had previously considered it morally taboo to openly
discuss the secret side of human sexuality. Such topics were supposed to
remain locked away in the private, individual closet of life.
1
This curious, colic baby opened the door to the private closet of life, took
out every hidden taboo, and played with them openly as toys, to the shock
of the world. The generation of free love played with every sexual toy,
openly discussed human sexuality and multiple orgasms, while watching the
movie I Am Curious (Yellow). Free love, sex, drugs, race relations, pop art,
poetry, pornography, abortion, and the politics of an illegal war all
“mushroomed” into a newfound freedom of speech. Communal living, group
sex, and the Summer of Love in Haight-Ashbury became a festival of
love-ins, psychedelic drugs, and sex.
In the midst of love and turmoil,
The colic, pacifier-spitting baby became a dancing machine.
Music reverberated from all over the world, rolling in waves onto every
shoreline. Each new wave introduced never-before-heard lyrics, beats, and
rhythms. Many came with new dances from artists unknown just the day
before. The Twist, Mashed Potato, Hully Gully, the Watusi, the Swim, the
Jerk, the Monkey, Pony Time, and the Locomotion; the new songs and
dances were endless. The music shouted to everyone breathing the air of
change. “Hey, you, come out here on the floor; let’s rock some more.” The
colic baby was “Dancing in the Streets” all over the nation as white kids
were finding their rhythm on American Bandstand. Soul music and black
kids already had rhythm from the red-hot, record-producing Motown. Free
love, peace signs, tie-and dyed clothing – it was game time for the generation
of sex, drugs, and real rock and roll. Not the Elvis shake, rattle, and roll.
Elvis was not invited to perform at Woodstock. Say hello to acid rock, hard
rock, and just good ol’ rock from The Rolling Stones, The Doors, Jimmy
Hendrix, Jefferson Airplane, Creedence, and Janis Joplin.
Church leaders joined hands with law enforcement in a show of
unprecedented and unconstitutional unity to stop this new music, reportedly
made by the devil himself. In several vain attempts to stop the music,
churches held their own protests, burning records while claiming, “The devil
himself is in the music, I tell you.”
“This is RJ, your favorite DJ, with a special song to all of the pastors
burning records today. I say halleluiah, brother; figure out the words to this
one, if you can, preacher – Here’s ‘Louie Louie’ by The Kingsmen.” Through
it all, the colic babies rocked on, dancing in the streets.
How these five radical colic babies ever connected is still a bit of a mystery.
None of them understood how much their lives and career choices would
impact one another until many years later.
2
Scott, Jerry, and Steve were from wealthy families with doctors, lawyers,
and morticians as parents. Roger and Larry were a pair of poor white trash
bad boys, from the wrong side of town.
Scott Riley was the upper-crust snot of the school, quarterback, debater,
and a natural leader. His rich parents used their social influence to place
Scott in every important school office. Grooming a son’s career begins early
in life by well-heeled parents, who, in turn, had been groomed by their
parents. Scott’s position as quarterback was clearly the work of his parents’
social influence. He fumbled frequently and ended the season with a record
number of fumbles. Scott experienced his largest failure when he ran for
class president. Even though his parents provided him with professionally
made posters bearing the slogan Scott “Can Do” Riley, the long-haired colic
babies rejected his parental influence, scratching out “Can Do” and replacing
it with “Can Fumble.” Scott never got over the political loss or his
record-setting number of fumbles that year.
His mom was so hot, that every teenager with raging testosterone
immediately wanted to bone her. Steve was the first to crack her panties and
brag about how good an older woman was. After that, everyone in the group
boned her on a regular basis. If anyone brought a joint after school, she
would take on two or more. Say hello to sex class and free love.
Scott’s dad was one of the top doctors in the city and the administrator of
a hospital. He always tried to appear cool by offering us a beer. When he
would catch anyone looking at, or up, his wife’s short skirt, he would look
that person in the eye, wink, and smile. No one was ever sure what the wink
or smile actually meant.
Their home was one of the most expensive in the city, mainly because of
the basement that connected to a new underground fallout shelter. To the
group, the shelter was party time; bring a case of beer, a bag of Mary Jane,
throw in the hot mom or a few girls, and shut the nuclear door.
Encouraged by his father, Scott often attended civil rights marches or
worked at voter registration booths. His white skin often got him face time
on the local news, as he was usually seen locking arms with blacks in civil
rights marches. Behind his back, most whites called him a nigger lover, and
most blacks called him a rich white honky with a guilty conscience.
Jerry Duncan was the son of parents who were both morticians. Having
heard every joke about stiffs and undertakers, Jerry defended the profession
as a great business model. “It has an endless supply of customers who do
not complain, and families that shop emotionally. What else could you
possibly ask for?” Jerry was all business all the time. He was expected to
become an undertaker or take over the family business.
3
Mannequin in appearance, Jerry was a fanatical dresser, every hair perfect
and never a wrinkle. The common joke about Jerry was that his parents had
trained him from a little boy by having him dress the dead bodies. He always
looked fresh off the ironing board; you could have popped him into a coffin
at any moment.
Steve Whitman was the county prosecutor’s son. His grandfather was a
judge, and his uncle the county sheriff. All of his relatives were on a crusade
to catch the pot-smoking, protesting hippies and lock them up. Steve became
our main source for acquiring weed. He was a big pothead who often joked
about expanding the minds of his legal relatives. His uncle’s deputies were
often on television using clubs and dogs on civil rights protesters.
Roger Majors and Larry Thomas were the polar opposites of Scott, Jerry,
and Steve. They came from poor white families, living in shotgun houses
near the railroad tracks, and grew up in tough, racially mixed neighborhoods.
Close friends since grade school, they liked to fight and were the
stereotypical bad boys in the 60s from the wrong side of the tracks. By the
age of fifteen, due to family problems in both homes, Roger and Larry
moved into their own place.
The old house they rented was party central seven days a week, and
completely furnished with every bad boy’s dream – an endless stream of
girls, pot, and booze. A year earlier, at the age of fourteen, they had started
their own band. After moving into party central, the band began playing
events around the city and grew in popularity. At one point, the band won a
citywide battle of the bands competition at the local community center. The
winning prize was an appearance as the opening act in the amphitheater on
Dick Clark’s Caravan of Stars. The band was red hot when Larry walked on
stage and performed a song he had written, “The Dirty Dog.” The crowd
went absolutely wild with excitement. As he stood center stage, singing
“Come on girls, let me show you how to do the dirty dog” while humping
the microphone in a slow rhythm, Larry sent over ten thousand girls
screaming into the aisles. After that performance, the crowds were huge
wherever the band played, and the money was good.
Roger and Larry had a natural “cool,” a commodity that Scott, Jerry, and
Steve loved to be seen hanging with. Scott, Jerry, and Steve, on the other
hand, had status, nice cars, and expensive homes, a commodity that Roger
and Larry liked to be seen hanging with. Besides, at Scott’s home, the
pretty-little-rich-girls were all looking for the bad boy deflowering
experience, making it a living dream for Larry and Roger.
Baiting the group with a road trip to Florida, Scott convinced everyone to
join him in a civil rights march in St. Augustine.
4
What everyone else envisioned was beaches, bikinis, and booze. As the five
boys got into the VW bus, ready to party hard in Florida, none of them
realized this trip would change their lives individually and as a group.
Unwittingly, Scott’s dad had booked a room at the Monson Motel in St.
Augustine, Florida. Little did they know that this motel would become
battleground central for Martin Luther King, Jr.’s fight for the rights of blacks
to sleep, swim, and eat in all motels. High on pot, Jerry and Steve met some
blacks in the parking lot early one morning. After talking for half an hour,
they led ten blacks on a full run through the lobby, and everyone jumped
into the pool together. The motel owner watched and smiled as they ran past
the registration desk. No one knew the owner had dumped large amounts of
muriatic acid in the pool to keep blacks from jumping in like they had the
previous day. Consequently, Jerry and Steve received several burns from
muriatic acid, and after a shower, the owner kicked the five of them out of
the motel. During a nighttime protest march, the cops beat them, cracking
several ribs and a few bones in the face and hands. Once arrested, the jails
were so crowded they were locked in a fenced area with exposure to full sun
for several days. Harassed as nigger lovers, the cops often spit – or threw
urine on them. Bail was excessive at three thousand dollars, but leave it to
Scott’s dad to get all five boys released on one condition: that we leave
immediately. By the time we headed home, the police had beaten each of us
severely, and Roger had received numerous dog bites. The ride home was
silent for the most part. Roger and Larry seethed with anger, swearing they
would get even.
After they returned home, Roger and Larry took protesting to a completely
new level. Scott freaked out as they elevated their fight by throwing Molotov
cocktails from the roofs of buildings during race riots. Several times, as a
group, the cops almost caught them as they set cop cars on fire. Roger and
Larry began stalking cops patrolling alone and beating them.
In the first official group meeting as activists, they swore allegiance to one
another, and Steve made a motion to stop joining the riots and protest
movements. “I think there is a smarter way to do this. Why don’t we watch
the news, pick out the unfair bastards, and pay them a personal visit?” As a
group, that made everyone smile. They voted to go after every unfair
individual seen on the news. It did not matter who you were; if you beat up
on protestors, harassed people, discriminated against anyone, arrested a pot
smoker, or preached your moral religion against another group – you became
a target. Because of Steve’s politically connected law enforcement family,
he proved to be the greatest asset for finding out the names of cops who beat
people or turned dogs on protesters.
5
They became private vigilantes of justice for the people unfairly harassed
by the government.
Officer Don Sprinkle was the biggest white racist in the sheriff’s office.
He had a reputation for needlessly beating people with a club, as well as
turning dogs loose on them. Watching Sprinkle the news, it was easy to see
that he never called the dog off and seemed to enjoy watching them chew
on the victim. Leaving a bar one night, Sprinkle had one too many under his
belt. As he was about to enter his car, Roger walked up behind him with a
pair of brass knuckles and said, “Hey, Officer Sprinkle.” When he turned to
look, Roger’s right hook dropped him like a bag of rocks.
Tied up, with a hood on his head, standing on a stool with a rope around
his neck, the boys so traumatized the man that he shit and pissed his pants.
At one point, Roger said, “Fuck this,” kicking the stool out from under
Sprinkle. “Look, it’s a cop dangling like a pig for slaughter.” After a good
laugh, Larry put the stool back under his feet and shouted, “Let’s cut his dick
off!” As Roger’s knife began cutting his pants, big shot bigot filled his pants
again. Pushing the blade against Sprinkle, Roger spoke in a chilling,
melodramatic tone directly into his ear. “Listen to me, asshole. If you ever
use your club or turn your dog loose on people again, I will cut it off, Don.
If we see you on the news talking about tonight, we will all gangbang your
wife in front of you after we cut your dick off, baby Don.” Shouting into his
ear, Roger said, “DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?” Crying like a baby as the
knife continued cutting his pants, baby Don answered, “Yes.” Sprinkle never
beat or turned dogs on people after that night.
For the next few years, the group introduced cops, preachers, judges, and
lawyers to a new level of justice. Catching off-duty drunken cops leaving a
bar became Roger’s favorite stalking method. With the brass knuckles, he
was a one-hit wonder, dropping most of them on the first hit. In two years,
Roger and Larry had hooded and beaten up over 20 cops throughout the
tri-state area.
Larry loved to get even with the outspoken, hypocritical preachers. Many
congregations found a Sunday morning surprise, the pulpit buried under a
pile of manure. The devil’s pentagram and 666 were his signature
trademarks, spray-painted inside and outside of the church as well as the
homes of the preachers. Every preacher bold enough to complain got a
follow-up private ass whipping. Roger, Larry, and Steve eventually returned
to St. Augustine for some long-overdue vengeance. A certain motel owner,
along with several rednecks and cops, all shit and pissed their pants while
dangling at the end of a rope.
6
Life happens this fast; one day you walk the halls as a freshman, and the
next day you are a graduating senior. Four years later, the group gathered in
Scott’s nuclear fallout basement sharing a beer after graduation. No one
realized that this would be the last time they would all be together as a group
for many years. Scott’s dad came down and joined them for a beer,
commenting, “You boys have been politically active for several years. I’d
like to hear what you would like to do in life and how you would work to
change the country.” It was a planned father/son event because Scott spoke
up right away.
“I am going to change the country, and the only way to do that is to be a
part of making and passing laws. So, for me, it’s politics as soon as I get out
of college.” No one said anything; everyone expected him to give it a shot.
To the group, he was nothing but a poor little rich boy out to save the world
while living in daddy’s shadow. Somehow, he had miraculously escaped
serious injury in St. Augustine, and no one understood how.
“What about you, Jerry?” Scott’s dad asked.
“I really don’t know for sure, but I think I’m getting out of the family
business. I will try to work with the living rather than the dead,” he said,
laughing. “I have always wanted to build, so maybe I could build some
quality low-income housing that would actually elevate the poor and
lower-middle class.”
“Never saw those ambitions coming from you, Jerry,” Scott’s dad said. “I
really hope you try it, and feel free to call on me if you need any help.”
Steve spoke up. “It’s a no-brainer for me. Superman, the lawyer defender
of the downcast!” he shouted. “I’m off to law school. After that, I either join
the family empire or do my own thing. I would like to expose people like
my racist uncle, but then my own family might elect to lynch me,” he said,
gesturing with his hand as if he were hanging by a rope around his neck as
he stuck out his tongue. Everyone burst out laughing at his imitation of the
people we had strung up, while Scott’s dad remained clueless. “All joking
aside, I am pretty sure I am going in the opposite direction of my family. I
will defend the guys they try to put away on petty bullshit. That should make
the family reunions very interesting.”
Smiling, Scott’s dad replied, “Sounds fascinating, Steve. I’m looking
forward to some great television interviews and newspaper articles to read
about your successful cases against your family.”
Larry said, “I have no clue at this point, Mr. Riley. I think I’ll just continue
with my music, hang out, and party for a while longer. The band is doing
pretty well, and I like the lifestyle. I will probably stay active in some
movements, hoping to effect some change.
7
Roger and I do not have families like yours. I come from a home of
correction with no direction, so your questions are not part of my upbringing.
My family never talks about a future or matters like this; no one in my family
even gives a shit that I graduated from high school today.
Smiling at Scott’s clueless father, Roger spoke up. “Family, what is that?
My family raised children as if we were a litter of dogs. When you stopped
sucking tit, you were on your own. Future … here’s my future,” he said,
holding up a draft notice. Everyone sat in silence at his revelation sipping a
last beer. The times they were about to change, for the boys.
______________________________________
Somewhere there has to be a horizon where the sun rises on young lives as
they begin pursuing life’s dreams, and ambitions. As the five young boys,
sat sharing a last beer together with their feet dangling over the edge of the
early morning horizon, they were unaware of the profound destiny of their
lives. As they rose and went their separate ways, destiny put a mark on each
boy’s back, marking them for purpose in the future. “Each of these shall
drink deeply from the bittersweet cup of life’s experiences.”
Many years later, their pathetic excuses for lives would meet again. As old
friends, destiny would reunite them; only this time, it would be as the sun
was setting on their exhausted lives. Sharing a drink together, they would
soon discover their divine appointment with world history. A destiny so
profound, their actions would change America and the world in a way no
one ever contemplated possible. Their purpose would have the power to
change the world, as well as preempt a world tragedy. In order to fulfill their
purpose, it would require the solving of a biblical mystery …
The 4Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
One of them would suffer a violent death, and when that death occurs, the
water will break for the birth of the next colic baby. This putrid “loss of life”
embryo had been brewing in the womb of time for over 50 years. Filled with
the pus of shattered dreams and wasted lives, the womb will spew the baby
forth in such a violent birthing rage that the baby will sadistically rip the
womb. The birth will be so violent and painfully purifying, it will drop the
entire nation to its knees in stunned silence, and the world will stand in awe.
Landing on both feet with 50 years of incubated rage, this baby will arrive
in the world with such a vengeance, its scream will make the first colic baby
of the 60s sound like a whisper in the night. This baby will finish what the
first colic baby failed to complete by ushering a new era into the world.
The little boys are all grown up now.
8
“An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.”
2
– Gandhi –
After an invigorating afternoon with Monica, Professor Samuel Walker,
PhD in world history and religion, retired to his study late Sunday evening.
Sipping scotch, he began putting the final touches on the last two essays of<