I had nothing personal against Lyons and Sanderson. They were targeted for what they did, not who they were as individuals.
I really do not understand the psychological process that goes into the making of an abortion mill worker. To participate up close in the daily murder and dismemberment of children takes an extremely calloused soul. The very dregs of modernity raised on a culture of selfishness and death find their ways to the abortion mills. Some are there just for money being indifferent to the moral questions involved or the politics surrounding the issue of abortion. Many of these are mediocre mercenary doctors wanting to receive as much money as possible for performing a relatively simple procedure. Then there are the ideologue abortionists. They are the lowest common denominator of extreme egalitarianism, the off scouring of liberalism. These people hate life, and they see maternity as a disability, placed upon women by nature and used by men to keep women in subjection. They see themselves as liberators breaking the chains of patriarchal slavery.
Nothing is more demonstrative of the degenerate nature of American society than the portrayal of the abortionist Lyons as an heroic victim. Abortion is the vomitorium of modernity, and the abortionist is the attendant who helps the bloated partiers disgorge themselves so they can return to the rotten feast of materialism and self-indulgence. And here the celebrants lionize, their wounded attendant.
But I have compassion for the environmental factors that go into the psychological makeup of these lost souls, and see them more as the products of a rotten society poisoned by bad ideals. Many Pro-Life people have understandably advocated the prosecution of these dregs once abortion is outlawed. I, on the other hand, would be willing to forgive and would be glad to see the day when they recognize the horrors which they have wrought and perhaps once again aquire some level of humanity.
Sanderson, like most Americans, probably was not acquainted with abortion up close and personal. And because society has hidden this monstrosity behind closed doors, and sanctified this process by its approval, people like Sanderson are largely indifferent to abortion. They see it as a live and let live issue, or rather in this case, a kill and let kill issue. Nevertheless, despite his purported ambivalence about abortion, and despite the fact that he may have been a good guy, he volunteered to work at a place that murders 50 people a week. He chose to wield a weapon in defense of these murderers as they went about their grisly work, and that makes him just as culpable as the murderers themselves. I have no regrets or remorse for my actions that day in January, and consider what happened morally justified.
Washington was lucky that day in Birmingham, they had a witness who happened into a fortuitous position, and my truck was identified. I knew something was amiss based upon the early reports coming out of Birmingham so I prepared to make a move as I debated within myself whether or not to run or fight them in court. I chose the woods.
The next year was a starving time. Hunted and haggard, I struggled to survive. But I am a quick study, and so I learned to adapt to my situation. I adapted so well, I decided to take the fight to my enemies.
I then planned to strike the FBI headquarters in Andrews in the summer of 1999. But after a summer devoting most of my time to gathering food, I was never able to put together the necessary equipment to accomplish my plan. It had to be put off. In the meantime the FBI presence shrunk from a large headquarters with helicopters and hundreds of agents, down to a tiny office in the national guard armory in Murphy.
The new plan called for an attack in the fall of 2000. I had stockpiled a large supply of food that would sustain me for many years in the mountains, and I was now ready to concentrate my energies exclusively on the plan. The equipment was located many miles away on the border of Tennessee. After some effort I had managed to cobble together an effective device and move it to the ridge overlooking the FBI headquarters in Murphy.
The initial plan was to steal a truck, transport the device to Asheville, and attack an abortion mill before the presidential election. This plan fell through when the truck used was not capable of driving two miles let alone 200. The election slipped away and I fell back upon my original target — the agents at the armory.
A circuitous getaway was then laid out. Two secondary booby traps were placed on the trail to discourage and delay any possible pursuers. The agents were pigeon-holed, their schedules noted to the minute. Finally, the device was moved into place and as the agents approached the door that morning, the final decision had to be made. The agents didn't die that day. Perhaps after watching them for so many months their individual humanity shown through the hated uniform. It was not that I had lost my resolve to fight in the defense of the unborn, but rather an individual decision about these individual agents. I had worn the uniform of their legions, served in their ranks, I had no hatred for them as individuals. Even though they served a morally bankrupt government, underneath their FBI rags, they were essentially fellow countrymen.
The next three years were spent living a fairly comfortable routine, which involved mostly hunting and camp life. After so many years ducking and hiding and eating crappy foods you tend to let your guard down, and this is what led to my capture in Murphy in 2003. It has been a long journey up to this point, but I still have a ways to go.
The device was removed the next day and buried upon the ridge across the interstate where it has recently been unearthed by these same agents. The booby traps were highly sensitive, and a render safe line was built into the system when they were put into place. Not wanting to approach them again, I detonated them and removed the remaining debris.
When I was in the woods I used a small dugout underneath a rock to avoid helicopters and their heat sensitive equipment. One cold day in December of 1998 I huddled underneath the rock for half an hour as the chopper slowly hovered overhead scanning the ridge. The whir of his blades became less audible and finally he was over the ridge, and then there was silence. I climbed out of my hide brushing off the icy dirt and remembered thinking about the words of the Psalmist who wrote about seeing his enemies in "great power, spreading his branches and roots like a large tree," but after a little while he looked and beheld his enemies were "nowhere to be found." In defiance I looked toward the ridge over which the chopper had just gone and said, "I am still here."
And now after the agreement has been signed the talking heads on the news opine that I am "finished," that I will "languish broken and unloved in the bowels of some supermax," but I say to you people that by the grace of God I am still here—a little bloodied, but emphatically unbowed.
