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America Deceived: Homeland Security Warning: Possession of This Novel May Result in Unlimited Detention.

America Deceived: Homeland Security Warning: Possession of This Novel May Result in Unlimited Detention.

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America Deceived: Homeland Security Warning: Possession of This Novel May Result in Unlimited Detention.

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188 pagine
4 ore
Feb 6, 2006



America Deceived II ..... by E.A. Blayre III

Click on Other Books by this author, and read the Free Preview of the infamous 9/11 chapter

Overview of America Deceived

Technological breakthrough allows US government to provide free, unlimited energy to the nation.
The cost? Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Holocaust in America begins.

Controversy of America Deceived by E.A. Blayre III

Regarding the controversy about America Deceived, Wikipedia, based solely on this novel, changed their inclusion guidelines then outright banned it. Ebay removed the book for a week from all listings then allowed it to be sold.

The author, E.A. Blayre III, has been banned permanently from Facebook in full view of the public (over 1,000 fans/friends witnessed the Facebook censorship). Despite these setbacks, the book America Deceived continues to sell and the author E.A. Blayre III maintains a profile on MySpace which contains screenshots of the aforesaid censorship.

Feb 6, 2006

Informazioni sull'autore

(Continued from the Free Preview section. Scroll down for information “About the Author”)      “Hit the plunger.”      General Barker pressed the red button.      Freight elevators, stationed near underground support columns, exploded. Trapped energy tore up through the basement levels, demolishing chunks of the main lobby area as prominent, thick marble tiling dislodged from walls and crashed to the floor, shattering into jagged pieces.      The earpiece transponder commanded, “Hold steady, the next plane incoming, e.t.a. 15 minutes.”      Back in New Jersey...      “Holy shit. Did you get that on film?”      “I did. It was better than I thought.”      UMS employees broke into another dance. An elderly lady, who history soon remembered as single-handedly solving 9/11, watched from her bedroom window while dialing the police.      Inside the adjacent tower, cubical office workers, security personnel, cleaning ladies, secretaries, maintenance men, janitors, assistants, and bellhops pried their faces away from the windows, lined up and started marching orderly down stairs, assisting the handicapped and lifting the feeble as they evacuated the South Tower.      The South Tower Public Address system blared several times and announced, “Do not evacuate. Fires in the North Tower are under control. Remain in the South Tower as there may be falling debris outside. Please return to your offices.”      People looked up at the anonymous voice emanating from dimpled metal boxes and kept walking. The trusting ones turned around and returned to their high rise offices.      One of the trusting ones, while walking back upstairs, thought about the evacuees, ‘Fools, hope a steel beam drops on your heads.’      The South Tower PA system blared and announced again, “Do not evacuate, return to your offices at once. This is for your own safety. Fires in the North Tower are under control. The South Tower is not in danger. Return to your offices at once.”      Just as the trusting one sat at his desk on the 80th floor, he glanced at the walnut clock his daughter gave him, 9:02:54 a.m...      United Airlines Flight 175 disappeared like a cartoon-cutout, swallowed whole by the South Tower, between the 78th and 84th floors. Enormous titanium airplane engines tore from their wings, sailed through offices, bathrooms, gyms, doors, hallways, safes, beams, walls, kitchens and crashed to the street, blocks away. Office paper birds flew out of the gaping hole and gently floated to the ground carrying names of the dead.      On the clearest day of the year, New York City clouded up.      Nestled snugly inside the Emma E. Booker Elementary schoolhouse in Sarasota Florida, the President of the United States kept reading the mesmerizing, magical book to the second grade class, “... ‘Yes,’ her dad said. ‘That goat saved my car.’...”      As per the script, Andy Card entered the room from stage left and delivered his lines.       “We are under attack.”      The President raised his eyebrows, turned the page and continued, “... ‘The car robber said, ‘something hit me when I was trying to steal that car’. The girl said, ‘My goat hit you’...”      CNN interrupted the President’s Book Club and broadcasted footage of Palestinians celebrating Saddam Hussein’s 1991 invasion of Kuwait with the headline, ‘Palestinians celebrate 9/11.’ Reuters and AP picked up the news and plastered it across the World.      Behind the hardened area of the Pentagon, a board meeting took place...       “Does everyone have their laptops? Open up the section regarding the Pentagon’s Budget. Use your installed hardware, internet’s down again.”      A century-old civilian accountant raised his hand and interrupted, “I was just over in D.O.D. and the internet’s running fine over there. Perhaps you should check it again.”      The Pentagon’s Budget Analyst tried to connect his computer.       “No dice, no signal. Without further interruptions, scroll down the page to a folder labeled Department of Defense spending, fiscal years 1999-2001. That is where we were told to search.”       “Search for what,” asked a lifelong bookkeeper who sat on a folding chair in the corner of the room.       “Missing money, a whole shit load of it.”      The medal-less Pentagon employees laughed. They asked all at once, “How much is a shit load?”       “2.3 trillion. Obviously none of you watched C-Span yesterday as I instructed.”      Civilian workers of Resource Services Washington sheepishly looked to the ground, a few laughed.       “I’ll fill you in. Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld testified on Capital Hill yesterday and he talked about money missing from the Pentagon’s budget. Over two trillion dollars.”       “And…”       “And he called me yesterday. First time in my career, he called personally. He instructed me to schedule this early meeting and said that it is the task of everyone in this room to find it. Find the trillions. His exact words.”      A quota-hired receptionist creaked open the door and slid into a seat in the back row. The Senior Budget Analyst snapped, “You’re late.”       “Sorry, it’s just that as I was arriving, I heard on the radio that a plane hit the World Trade Center. Possibly even two planes.”      He grabbed a remote and pressed the power button, the wall-mounted television flickered.       “Tv’s out too. No Internet, busy phones and no television. This is a real first rate outfit we’re running here.”      He clicked off the television and said, “Let’s get back to business, Secretary Rumsfeld told me these trillions of dollars missing from the Pentagon budget are our number one priority.”      Deep below multiple levels of heavy metal blast doors, bolted inside the cold, steel White House bunker, the Vice-President slithered into his tall black leather chair, gnawing on Beef Jerky. He sat hunched, more like coiled, in a corner. Saliva pooled in his mouth. Scotch was the order of the day. Nobody does this sober. DISCLAIMER: IUniverse does not endorse, support, promote or condone any of the thoughts, ideas, or language presented in the novel “America Deceived II” by E.A. Blayre III. Read at your own risk. About the Author E.A. Blayre III, wrote his own death warrant on the eve of the Revolution.

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America Deceived - E.A. Blayre III


Copyright © 2006 by E.A. Blayre III

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:


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1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-38523-2

ISBN-10: 0-595-38523-0

ISBN: 978-1-4697-5877-0 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America













August 2, 2011

Oprah Winfrey. Michael Jordan. Maya Angelou. Tiger Woods. Derek Jeter. Kanye West. Al Sharpton. Ron Artest. Denzel Washington. Jesse Jackson. Spike Lee. Barry Bonds. Jayson Williams. Chris Darden. Tyra Banks. Bryant Gumbel. Dave Chappelle. Halle Berry. Jayson Blair. Jamie Foxx. Sean Puffy Diddy Combs. Chris Rock. Eminem. Stephen A. Smith. Harry Belafonte. Stuart Scott. Venus Williams. Eddie Murphy. Kobe Bryant. OJ Simpson…OJ Simpson…OJ Simpson…

‘Fucking niggers,’ thought Anthony Bruschuto as he used an American Express card to cut up another line of cocaine on the bathroom counter. He rolled up a crisp hundred-dollar bill and inhaled.


He snorted another line as thick as a rope.

Anthony Bruschuto a.k.a. Tony Ducks a.k.a. Fingers a.k.a. Ant diced the gram of powder. Tagged Tony Ducks because when he entered rooms blazing, every motherfucker ducked. Fingers because he once satisfied three naked women in his bed at the same time and still had his clothes on. Ant because every whop named Anthony must be called Ant.

His light olive complexion harmonized dark swarthy hair. Anthony donned a pinstriped Armani suit tailored to every inch of his muscular frame. A raised scar ran parallel to his left eyebrow, crossed the cheekbone and ended at his ear. The blemish occurred in his hometown Boston when an obnoxious, repugnant, detestable Yankees fan smashed a Budweiser bottle across his face after the Red Sox excised Babe Ruth’s curse.

Anthony met Maximilian years ago during their time as operatives for an extreme right wing sect of the neo-con Republican party. Maximilian excelled as a professional propagandist repeatedly hired by US government agencies to sway groupthink of the masses. Officially, his title read Image Consultant.

Maximilian’s flare for deception peaked shortly after 9/11 when he orchestrated the government’s broken tail theory to cover up that terrorists bombed American Airlines flight 587 over Queens, Long Island. Much of the blast evidence regarding AA flight 587 disappeared as did a drunk Irish fireman who appeared days before the bombing on a nationally televised Concert for New York and publically challenged terrorists to hit Queens. Maximilian’s exploits never lived up to his father who helped fake moon landings in the 1960’s.

Anthony, too, descended from a long line of conspirators. His Father fired the fatal bullet from a grassy knoll at President John F. Kennedy. His Grandfather buried advanced intelligence warnings of Japanese ships approaching Pearl Harbor. His Great-Grandfather colluded with John Wilkes Booth to assassinate President Lincoln and the cabinet. Anthony, himself, earned his reputation by piloting the fateful planes of Democrat Senators Mel Carnahan and years later, Paul Wellstone. He sent both aircrafts into irrevocable tailspin descents and parachuted out before the crashes.

Maximilian knocked on the bathroom door.

Time to go. President expects us.

One second, I am getting my head together.

Anthony sniffed one more line, wiped his nose then the counter. He ran both bathroom faucets, washed his face and walked out.

Let’s roll.

Maximilian and Anthony left for the White House.

President Andrew Humphrey, Vice President Jack Fremont III and Attorney General Robert Graham gathered in an Oval Office screening room discussing strategy for the approaching re-election campaign.

Maximilian and Anthony arrived, wired in a laptop computer projector and handed out packets to President Humphrey and his cabinet. The President took cursory glances at Anthony as he handed him a thick manila folder. President Humphrey opened the beige envelope, removed binders and leafed through packets. He looked up at Anthony again, longer this time then returned to reading reports. President Humphrey flipped pages quickly, snapped his fingers and jerked his head up.

I never forget a face.

He studied the features carefully, raised his arm and proclaimed, Anthony Bruschuto, that’s who you are.

You remember me, Mr. President?

I certainly do.

It was awhile ago.

Three years is not long enough for me to forget. Country appreciated your efforts while you served, Agent Bruschuto.

Thank you, Mr. President.

President Humphrey peeked over at his cabinet. They huddled around Maximilian conversing about the upcoming presentation. President Humphrey beckoned Anthony with his index finger.

Come here.

Anthony walked over to President Humphrey. They gripped hands in a tight, casual handshake then the President pulled Anthony closer.

He said lightly, Have you been keeping out of trouble, Agent Brushcuto?


You’re not going to spout any of that racist crap in here again, are you?

Losing my position cured me.

No one will stand behind you next time.

I’m in the private sector now.

It does not matter. Consider this like you’re working for me personally.

Lacked self-control back then.

Only reason you’re even stepping foot in this White House again is a favor I owe your father.

I know, sir.

President Humphrey released Anthony from his grip, patted him on the back, and they separated.

As long as I’m clear, then welcome back. We missed you around here.

President Humphrey and Anthony rejoined the group. President’s photographic memory raced calling up Anthony’s CIA records, demerits and achievements. He remembered firing Agent Anthony Bruschuto for insubordination but recollected him receiving classified CIA medals for one brave mission. President Humphrey struggled to recall. He closed his eyes then in a flash his mind flooded with the medal-winning mission of Agent Bruschuto before dismissal…….

During our War on Terrorism, the United States government inserted CIA agents, Anthony Fingers Bruschuto and Johnny Mike Spann into Afghanistan. Al Qaeda gunned down Johnny Spann while he searched Mazar-I-Shariff city for the terrorist leader.

Anthony left Mazar-I-Shariff and journeyed to the Afghan-Pakistan border. His olive skin, wily beard and dark turban allowed him to mix in with native Arabs. He worked undercover using his spook name ‘Abdul R. El-mmih’ as he infiltrated scattered remnants of the Al Qaeda organization.

According to CIA lore, one night while roaming the Afghanistan border, an Al Qaeda clergyman requested a meeting with Agent Anthony Bruschuto.


Cleric’s bony finger shook as he pointed to a mountain range which uncomfortably straddled the Afghan-Pakistan border.

That is where you will find him.

Anthony pulled out the binoculars.

I don’t see any caves.

Cleric peeked over his shoulder and yanked the field glasses up as Anthony peered through the lenses. He pinpointed hidden cave complexes.

I see them. How many up there with him?

He travels with a small contingent to avoid Predator drones.

How many?

That’s all I know.

More than a dozen?

You have his location. I fulfilled my end of the bargain. Rest is up to you, American.

Appreciate your help.

Cleric asked, Now will you release my wife and children?

As soon as we bring him in.

That wasn’t part of the deal.

Meet me here tomorrow and I’ll bring your wife and kids. Rest easy, they are being well taken care of. You could be a hero in the new Afghanistan.

Just my wife and children back please.

You helped your people today.

Cleric shook his head, walked down the path and vanished. Moments later, sound of a lone gunshot reverberated through the desert.

Anthony waited until the hot, arid sun descended behind mountain peaks. He suited up, turned on his night vision goggles and scaled the ridge. He reached outer perimeters of the cave complex and observed a pair of armed guards blocking the entrance. Sentries were more interested in debating martyrdom with one another than keeping lookout. They both became martyrs as they fell quickly to a succession of bullets fired from the silenced rifle. Anthony broke down the weapon, slung it over his back, and entered the cave. He pulled out a 9mm handgun and held it flatly against his rib cage. Anthony leaned back against cold, damp cave walls and crept methodically through moss-covered ground as he approached the tall, sleeping, bearded man.

Osama’s soiled white turban laid on the floor next to his body. Towering billionaire slept, zipped up to his waist, in piles of musty, discolored, down feather sleeping bags. His straggly beard danced in strong, frigid cave wind. Bin Laden rested with a slight smile etched on his face as he dreamed of encountering the seventy-two virgins that awaited him.

Anthony holstered his gun and unsheathed a gleaming fourteen-inch bow knife, ‘Arkansas toothpick’, which he had scrawled ‘N.Y.P.D.’ on the blade. The knife reflected the night’s full moon like a lantern through the cave. Anthony carefully stepped over Osama’s body and kneeled above him without touching the long hair on his chin. He held his blade rigidly inches from the neck. With his free hand, he shook Bin Laden awake. Osama’s enormous eyes opened wide nearly bulging from their sockets. His pupils enlarged and blackened.

Osama instinctively grabbed for the weapon. He grasped the sharp blade holding it firmly between both hands. Anthony spun the bow knife in circles shearing off layers of skin while drilling circular holes into Bin Laden’s palms. Osama gritted his teeth and gripped tighter. Blood poured in sheets over the knife until it slipped out of Anthony’s hand and slid across the floor.

Bin Laden forcefully pushed Anthony into a stone wall and jumped up. He snatched his white turban from the dusty floor and laughed callously as he pulled out a handgun tucked inside. Osama took a few steps back out of arm-reach. He pointed the gun toward Anthony’s head as blood streamed down his forearms.

Osama said [in perfect Arabic], This is legendary CIA? You cannot even defeat a sleeping foe.

He turned the gun slightly sideways, aimed between Anthony’s eyes and continued, I must, however, thank you for killing my guards. They obviously were unqualified for the position. Now, infidel, you die. Praise be Allah.

Bin Laden pulled the trigger. The handgun clicked. He pulled the trigger again. The gun clicked. He pulled and pulled and pulled. Click…click….click.

Anthony smiled broadly, opened his vest pocket and held out the bullet clip. Osama’s jaw dropped as he fixated on the missing puzzle piece. He watched Anthony toss it carelessly to the floor. Osama bent over, reaching for the cartridge when hair on his arms stood up. A cold chill surged through his spine. His mind figured out what his body already knew. He looked up as Anthony ran at him gripping the knife with both hands.

Anthony thrust upwardly into Bin Laden’s neck pinning him to the cave wall. He stared into black lifeless eyes and forced it in deeper. Osama’s bloodied palms feebly reached for the knife’s handle. Anthony pushed his shoulder into Osama’s chest and dug the sharp blade in until only a scrawled ‘N.Y.’ stuck out above his neck.

Osama gasped, his arms stretched out then went limp. He pursed his lips, took deep breathes and screamed out a blood curling, AAALLLLLLAAAHHH AAAKKKBBBAAARRR.

Anthony twisted the knife until he heard praises of Allah end. He wiped the blade clean and sawed off remaining neck bones. Light apparitions rose from earth and immersed the corpse. That night, Osama Bin Laden danced with seventy-two virgins.

Anthony tossed the bloodied head into a burlap bag, killed another guard and fled into the night. Haunting phantom was dead.

Marines removed Agent Brushcuto from Afghanistan. He visited Ground Zero in New York City and burned Osama’s white turban to prevent it from becoming the next Shroud of Turin.

Anthony personally delivered his trophy. US government archived photographic images, took DNA tests then cryogenically warehoused the skull.

United States of America officially denied the legendary fable

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