Brockhoeft Report Chapter 1

I really feel bad about this for a couple of reasons. For one thing I really feel guilty about having
neglected for so long to write back to so many friends in the pro-life movement. The other thing
is it's embarrassing to be sending everyone a cold, impersonal form letter like this. I have over
200 correspondents, and the problem is I let my need to reply back up until I owed letters to the
vast majority. It's hard for me to write short letters because I'm a little eccentric, a sort of
complicated man, and I have to explain things. This is especially true in writing to folks who don't
know me very well. I'm a convicted abortion chamber bomber. See what I mean? You can't
just write a letter and say, "I'm a 42 year old, divorced bomber, and father of five."
You have to explain yourself.

So that's what I'm going to begin to do in this first letter. All of the newsletters will contain excerpts
from the book, so if you'd rather not buy the book, you'll probably be able to hear my whole story
this way, though it would take a few years to tell, in letters, a few pages at a time. For those who want
the whole thing sooner, the book should be available before the end of '93. This probably sounds like
a commercial, but it ain't. I'm well aware that "ain't" ain't a word in some states, but I was born and
raised in Kenton County, Kentucky, and my teachers even said it. It was okie dokie with them as long
as the students spelled correctly. When it got cold out Mom let me wear shoes to school, 'cause I had
to walk three miles, back and forth, through the snow, and it was uphill both ways....

We don't hardly allow abortions in Kentucky. In a 40,000 square mile state they're only done in two towns:
Louisville and Lexington. Louisville is where the University of Louisville is and, also, where they run the
Kentucky Derby in the month of May. You wouldn't laugh at Kentucky on that Saturday in May. The Queen
of England comes here. Also U.S. Presidents, movie stars, senators, Arabian sheiks, kings, even the Shah of Iran.
I kid you not. Mom said she hasn't seen the Shah for a few years, though. The thing is, though, if a Kentuckian
wants to go to an abortion chamber during the day and aggravate 'em from the sidewalk, or go there at night, in a
covert operation, under cover of darkness, with gasoline or explosives and really close that place, he pretty well
has to go to another state. Louisville and Lexington were both at least a hundred miles from my home, so it was
more convenient to go to Cincinnati, Ohio, only about 15 miles away; or about 10 miles, as the crow flies,
as my pa used to say, God rest his soul.

About the time I'd been an activist a little over a year, there was a demonstration where I became deeply
distressed. On Saturday, Dec. 28, 1985, Melody Green and a couple other prolife leaders held a demonstration
which included over 200 local prolifers on the sidewalk across the street from Planned Parenthood, and which also
spilled across the street to the sidewalk directly in front of the death chamber. They were crossing the country
and stopping in major cities to motivate people to act against abortion. On their tour they were carrying
with them the bodies of seven slain babies in little caskets. These were third trimester babies whose mothers
had carried them into the seventh month or longer. They were all intact (not dismembered) because they'd all
been killed by saline burning/poisoning. There they all lay, naked, in their little caskets. At the times of their
deaths, of course, their bodies had long since been completely developed with perfect little arms, hands,
fingers, feet, toes, facial features and full heads of fine baby hair. Those little fingers bore prints no one had
ever borne before, nor ever shall again. All of their little eyes were closed in death. As I was saying, all
of their bodies were perfectly formed, including the limbs, but their skin was terrible to look upon because
of how they'd been burned alive by the terrible solution. The skin was discolored, black, where it had been
completely burned off, in some cases, over 50% of the child's body
.

It was a bitterly cold day with the temperature down around 0° F with 30 m.p.h. winds, and I had an urge to
cover up their bodies against the terrible cold even though I knew they were dead and could feel nothing.
Still it was terrible and gut-wrenching to see them lying there like that, naked, but I forced myself to look
at them long to motivate myself to do what I believed I should do in order to demonstrate that I loved my
little neighbor as myself and would do unto others as I would want others to do for me. My heart was
broken not only from the knowledge that these innocent, helpless, precious, little babies had been slain for
no good reason, but I was also crushed by imagining the horror and physical agony they had surely
experienced during the long hours that these unspeakable crimes were being committed. My heart
was full, not only of grief, but rage as well. And yet, my fury was to intensify a little later on that morning.

There were about 60 pro-abortion counter-demonstrators lined up on the edge of P.P.'s property. At
one point seven of our people took the open caskets across the street and walked slowly along the line
of pro-aborts to show them the results of their evil. When my friends first began to cross the street I
thought to myself: "Most of these creeps are only demonstrators and have never seen an aborted baby's
body, but now they'll clearly recognize these bodies as dead human beings and won't be able to deceive
themselves into thinking the unborn are mere formless blobs of tissue. Recognizing this fact and seeing
the heartless brutality of the crime will make them ashamed of their position so that some, surely, at least
two or three, will quit their positions and walk over to our side."

Besides the tragic loss of life, I couldn't think of the babies alone; I had to think of God. I'd thought
about this before and had considered how He sees everything with x-ray vision and how, otherwise,
on Monday morning, He'd see right through the mothers' abdominal walls and into their uteri, and how
He'd have to watch as His own little children, whom He had loved for so long, whom He loved more
than I loved, would have their arms torn out of the sockets with a sickening suction sound and
their heads crushed into pieces small enough to be vacuumed out with the aspiration machine. I thought
about how, while the babies were still alive and going through the process of mutilation and
dismemberment, they would be experiencing tremendous pain, great physical agony, and unimaginable
terror would race through their hearts and minds, and they would silently cry out: "Ohhhh!" But then I
thought about God, Who would be watching, and Who knows everything in our hearts and
minds, Who knows all the suffering we experience, and goes through it with you and me and the little
baby, about how when the baby, in agony, cries out, "Ohhhhh!"that God, too, Who loves them so much,
also would cry out, "Ohhhhh!" when He heard the scream that is silent to our carnal ears but so familiar to
His. Even now, just thinking about it, sitting here and telling you about it, and remembering, makes me cry.

And it's not easy to make me cry. Since the Vietnam War, over 20 years ago,this is only the third time
I've cried. The only other two times were when my father passed away in '82 and my uncle a few years later.
This is the first time I've cried during my (about) five years of imprisonment, and it feels good. I don't know
why I didn't cry the first time I thought these things.

This might sound odd, insofar as you've probably never heard anyone say this before, but I felt sorry for God.
I hated for Him to have to go through all that pain with the babies and wanted to keep a little heart-ache
from Him, if possible. Oh, sure, I knew that on Monday thousands of other babies would be killed in many
major cities across the country, so I couldn't save them all; I'm only one man, and the best I can do is all I
can do. But I thought, well, maybe if I could save even a few lives it might cheer Him up somewhat. And
yet, I thought there might be another factor in the matter that might cheer Him up a little more. We know
that God likes to see zeal and passion and is little impressed by half-hearted, lukewarm service, so I wanted
to show Him by my actions that I loved Him, passionately, and that I loved my little neighbors passionately.

And so it seemed that fire bombings of Planned Parenthood and a late-term pregnancy abortuary about a
quarter mile away would be both appropriate under the circumstances of such extraordinary desperation,
and, also, approximately proportionate to the level of urgency. As I stood on a sidewalk that morning taking a
final look at the bodies of those poor little babies, and listening to the hateful taunts and jeers from the other side,
I knew what I'd be doing after midnight on Monday morning. I was going to bring those satanic altars of human
sacrifice down before they got a chance to open the doors and swallow up any more children. I recognized
the extremely high, statistical improbability that any of the other prolifers there on the sidewalk were thinking all
of the things I was; so if I didn't do it the job wouldn't get done; and baby human beings, created in the image
of God, would die horrible deaths. They would die! They would die!!

My calculation of the unlikelihood of any other prolifer striking proved to be correct because when I looked
at Planned Parenthood's abortion chamber at 2:35 a.m. on Monday morning the building was not in flames.
So I had to be honest and ask myself: "If not me, who? If not now, when?" Only a few hours remained until
the killers were planning on opening the doors and performing the highest possible service to Satan.

It is a well-known fact that some people who deliberately and knowingly worship Satan take jobs in abortion
chambers. If we had not made this factual discover we could safely assume it was so, couldn't we? How could
a real satanist resist an opportunity to participate in human sacrifice with immunity from prosecution? And we
have discovered that to be accepted in some satanic covens a young woman must submit to the initiation of getting
pregnant and aborting the baby. Maybe the killers in Cincinnati in '85 were not actually Satan worshippers. Maybe
they did not invoke Lucifer's name or chant occult liturgies during the crime. Would it make much difference
on way or the other? The baby is equally dead, either way. While the child is being killed he or she will suffer to
the same degree, either way. Certainly, if a baby is slain ceremoniously in an abortuary as a matter of satanic
worship this would make the crime even uglier. But if the crime is committed "merely" in fulfillment of left-wing
ideology would that make it a little more tolerable? Absolutely not. Even then the level of tolerability is absolutely
zero, and zero equals zero (0=0) any way you look at it.

I'll end the story (for the time being) by saying that when Planned Parenthood's killing squad showed up for
"work" they found their facility in smoldering ruins. They eventually bulldozed the structure and rebuilt, finishing
the new place a couple years later. The late-term target, a quarter mile away, was only damaged extensively
enough to be shut down for six months, but they had been killing babies who were far enough along to be born
within three months, so I'll let you apply your own arithmetic to that scenario.

Well, folks, that's it for this issue. If ever you drive through the Blue Grass State go slow and enjoy the scenery,
and bear in mind that blue grass music was named after the state, not the state after the music. Be sure to watch
out for the kids 'cause we have plenty of 'em. We don't hardly allow abortion here.

Yours-In-Christ,

Johnny Brockhoeft