Red meat.

Looks like Admiral Rove is settling into his new post (job description: save Republican Congress at all costs). You can see the big juicy cultural issues being tossed out in time for November, as fat boy scrutinizes each race, each district, each county for that crucial wedge. Bush’s loopy plan to station National Guard troops at the Mexican border — in conjunction with fences, barriers, high-tech sensors, and unmanned drone aircraft — is a clear gambit to mobilize the “minuteman” vote in these crucial border districts. Congressional races are all about getting the base (and I do mean base) constituencies in action — that’s why we’ll see various draconian proposals aimed at immigration, gays, abortion, and other brain-stem targeted issues. Even with Bush’s ratings in the low to mid 30s, they can still carry the day if they capture the top-of-mind issues in enough districts and get the American Taliban to march zombie-like to the polling stations. Overall turnout in mid-term elections is usually way below even the poor numbers we see during presidential races, so the X-treme voters are far more influential. 

I can tell you, in my hometown Congressional district (the 24th in upstate New York), we are going to witness the most monumental political clash in living memory. Our 12-term Congressman is retiring this year — he’s a “moderate” Republican, though with an increasingly reactionary voting record as his party has swerved drunkenly to the right. The Democrats have an opportunity to pick up this seat for the first time in decades (the last time Utica, NY, was represented in Congress by a Democrat was 1948), and the GOP is desperate to hang onto it… so both parties will be spending like sailors this fall, bringing in the heavyweight political consultants. It’s going to get ugly, my friends, very ugly, and I can already smell the pungent aroma of the porcine Mr. Rove wafting up from the sewers. For a few brief moments, this backwater district will seem like the most important place on the planet… then, after the November vote, it will recede back into total obscurity, all promises forgotten once the hacks have packed up their tents and beat it. 

How do we stay important? Move the whole bloody district down to the Mexican border. There just aren’t enough economically desperate people of color streaming across the Canadian border for the national focus to remain fixed upon us. Not that all that attention is a positive thing — I for one would not want to live near what is increasingly becoming a militarized zone; a kind of Maginot line against immigration (it’s likely to be every bit as effective as the original, too). And another thing (ahem), how are they going to deal with ordering the National Guard to the southwest when so many of them have served multiple tours in Iraq? How are these guards people going to react to the situation at the border after having been shot at for months on end? Is there anything else we can ask of these citizen-soldiers? I mean, for chrissake, we’re giving them yet another mission? Meanwhile, Bush and company are awarding their rich constituents massive tax cuts — that’s their sacrifice. Some give up their lives, while others give up their tax burdens. They also serve who line their pockets. 

Next: the National Guard will be deployed as hood ornaments for the rich. Expect an address to the nation sometime soon.  

What the… ? (Fill in the blank.)

Fill in the blank. (My preference is “fuck”, but don’t let that influence you.) Always the “f” word in this group, eh? Not so unusual. A million and one uses for that storied old English term, and most of them apply to the music business. Nouns and modifiers… sometimes proper names. (Sometimes improper names.)

Anyway, greetings from the streets of Colombo, Sri Lanka — Big Green‘s new “virtual squat house”, now that we’ve been tossed out of the Cheney Hammer Mill. As always, morning finds us scrambling for shelter amongst the curbside artifacts and trash bins. Expect to see us huddled together? Not a chance – it’s every slug for himself in this band. At least that’s the way I felt about it while there was still a relatively congenial spot available to me beneath the flapjack vendor’s stand. Alas, I have been expelled from that sanctuary, as well. Bloody merchants! Now I’m trying to worm my way into my colleagues’ temporary digs. So that thing I said earlier about every man for himself? Not so. Not so.

Now, I don’t want to leave you with the impression that there has been no movement on our efforts towards reparations. As I mentioned last week, our (former) neighbor Gung-Ho may prove to be our ace in the hole, so to speak. So far we’ve had no luck trying to reach him at whatever remote location he’s been hired to invade, but we’ve got our best minds working on it. Marvin (my personal robot assistant) has graciously allowed his solar batteries and internal cosmium oscillator to be linked into a makeshift transmitter. (Matt’s on the key now, tapping out “C-Q, C-Q”, just like pops used to. Sometimes Marvin throws in “S.O.S.” for good measure.) Trevor James Constable is using his patented orgone generating device to send distress signals out into the ethers, even though the chances of their attracting Gung-Ho’s attention are next to nil (especially if he has his helmet on). John? I don’t know… I think he and anti-Lincoln are resorting to smoke signals. Either that, or they’re burning an awful lot of Zenite snuff.

It may seem ignoble of us to be calling in for close air support. Why, you may ask, don’t we use the legal process? Why the early resort to violent methods? Well, I’m going to tell you. We Big Green ers are simple folk. We don’t go in for all that fancy legal-schmeegal mumbo-jumbo. Most of us, at least, prefer a more direct message… like blow a big hole in their land office headquarters. (My brother is a bit more attached to the intimidation method – have some goon lean on them, know what I mean? Only goon we’ve got is Big Zamboola, and his intimidating days are definitely over.) Not that we can count on Gung-Ho to do anything particularly rash, but hey… we can ask, right? Doesn’t hurt to ask.

There’s a time limit on this street lifestyle – I’m sure some of you know what I’m talking about. As my photos indicate, I’m getting a little scruffier every day. (You should see the man-sized tuber. Couple of days out in the rain and he starts taking root… and even the pillbox-dwellers can’t take the sight of him.) Come on, Gung Ho!

Connecting the dots.

Well, well. Looks like the NSA has been checking into our phone records and keeping a big fat Orwellian eye on whom we’ve been calling, when, and for how long. Oh, damn! I shouldn’t be writing about this — the mere discussion of any topic detrimental to the Republicans gives aid and comfort to our enemies. So get that straight, people — talk = treason, okay? With the cooperation of their good friends and campaign contributors at Verizon et al, the government is opening your mail and checking out your phone bill… and it’s none of your goddamn business. They just want to know if you’ve been talking to any hardcore terrorists, like — say — the folks at the Thomas Merton Center. It’s a matter of national security, so don’t talk about it or you’ll make Senator Jeff Sessions very very angry. Don’t even think about it — the terrorists will read your mind and take comfort in our lack of discipline. There’s nothing they can’t do, nothing!   

Are you afraid yet? Good. So am I. 

God this is idiotic. I mean, does anyone seriously believe that al Qaeda operatives would never suspect their phone records are being scrutinized unless they read about it in USA Today? In this age of disposable cell phones and calling cards you can buy at your supermarket checkout counter, who the hell would plan terrorist attacks using their household phone? The Democrats are treating this like a privacy issue, but it’s more serious than that. Sure, the notion of the government checking my phone bill is annoying and invasive, but the larger question is what exactly are they looking for? When they vacuum up large volumes of calling data, what makes the NSA connect-the-dot-o-tron go ka-ching!? A call to Yemen? No… ’cause these are domestic calls. Once again, the administration is saying “trust us”, but after all we’ve seen in the last few years, that only recalls to mind the line from Animal House: “Hey… you fucked up. You trusted us.”

We know that they’ve been targeting lawful, peaceful organizing and activism. We know that they’ve been painting animal rights activists as “eco-terrorists” and the like. We know that they routinely engage in “pig-fucking” their political adversaries. What is the big picture here… the elephant in the room? Domestic spying is like a narcotic to the executive branch. Once they start using it, it’s hard to stop. Cointelpro is probably the most glaring example, but it’s not the only one. What we’re seeing may be the outlines of another massive abuse of power by an administration that’s politically on the skids, paranoid, and willing to do just about anything to advance its highly unpopular agenda. That’s not conspiracy mongering — I’m just observing that there is reason for concern. It’s similar to the detainee abuse scandal; the many disparate pieces strongly suggest a unifying policy at its base, one that reflects well established patterns of executive behavior stretching back decades. We were expected to believe that the abuses at Abu Ghraib — taken straight from the CIA torture manuals — were the work of rogue subalterns. Now we’re supposed to believe that opening our mail, listening to our phone conversations, and infiltrating our bridge clubs will make us safer, when all the while they’re failing to meet even the minimum standards for preparedness and prevention identified by the 9-11 Commission and dictated by common sense. 

I confess to being a wee bit skeptical. 

Is it morning?

Once I had a hammer mill, made it run… made it race against time. Once I had a hammer mill, now it’s gone. Brother, can you spare a… Oh, if I had a hammer mill…. I’d hammer in the mornin’ …

They say there’s a song for every occasion, every circumstance of life. Particularly the less pleasant circumstances (though most of those are country songs). Why do you suppose that is, eh? I mean, what is it about living in a small, damp, shaded area beneath a pancake-vendor’s cart that drives a person to song? Is it the persistent smell of rancid cooking oil? The muttered oaths of disgruntled customers, waiting in vain for a decent stack of jacks? The puddle of stagnant muck that is gradually leeching into my ragged clothes? Well… it’s hard to quantify the precise sources of creative inspiration. It pains me to tell you that, though the shadow of the wrecking ball is not yet upon her, our beloved Hammer Mill is not long for this world. Damn their eyes, those Madagascarian developers…. O defilers of our humble dreams! What kind of upscale tourists or well-pensioned retirees would want to make a new start upon the ruins of this sainted mill? Okay… so perhaps I’m overstating it a little bit. The place smells like a city bus. But… and this is important … it smells better than the bottom of that malodorous pancake stand! And after a few years, I’ve became used to the draftiness, the rusted machinery, the occasional cave-ins, the crumbling brick battlements. Yea, we even started to look forward to them. After all, it’s all just part of the squatter’s lot — living the dream, as it were, even if it more resembles a nightmare. (What… you can think of a better way to live? I’m listening. Speak louder!) I think the hardest part is watching Marvin (my personal robot assistant) fighting against more than five years of programming that keeps sending him up to the barricaded doorway, only to be turned back again. He’s got a number of routine Mill maintenance tasks filed away in his sophisticated electronic brain, and not being able to complete them makes his circuits smoke like a chimney. (I saw Mitch Macaphee lighting a cigar on one of Marvin’s red hot relay panels just yesterday. Matt and John sometimes warm their hands over the glow when the night air gets brisk.) Hmmm… well, maybe that’s not the hardest part. The hardest part is probably listening to Anti Lincoln make his dictatorial speeches to nobody. Even his low-rent junta generals have skipped town in search of more promising digs. All right, mister anti-president — it’s been three hours. Time to clam up. Jesus, do I miss those massive hammer mill walls! What recourse for the wrongly evicted? Well… there is one possibility, slight though it is. We’ve put a call in to Gung Ho, who’s currently deployed with his mercenaries someplace explosive (and profitable, no doubt). I figure he might know a guy who knows a guy… who’d be willing to drop a bomb on a guy before they get the wrecking ball in position. Hey, don’t look at me like that. Last chances are last chances, right? Anyway, so far no response from the Gungster. If you happen to run into him (and live to tell the tale), have him contact us at:

Just under the Flapjack Cart

Third vendor stall along

Colombo Market Square

Colombo, Sri Lanka

Or just have him dial “JOE FLAPJACK” on his cell phone- it will go right to me.

Blind justice.

The jury in the Moussaoui case handed in a life sentence; one less body on the 9/11 heap, and that’s all to the good… particularly since the government wanted so badly to burn this mad Frenchman, throwing every grisly detail of the terror attacks at the jury. Total victory has been elusive in the prosecutorial war on terror. This perhaps explains the administration’s preference for military tribunals and the legal limbo of “enemy combatant” status. All this due process nonsense really gets in the way when you want to get some decent sentencing done. Still, the news isn’t all bad for the Department of (In)Justice. They managed to put Lynne Stewart away for the heinous “crime” of violating an administrative agreement, once again stoking the jury with a stack of evidence from unrelated terror attacks and playing tapes of uncle Osama. Even more outrageously, they’ve convicted an NYU grad student — Mohammad Yousry — because he performed his normal duties as translator for the defense team. (See David Cole’s essay in last week’s Nation for more.) Don’t you feel a whole lot safer now? Okay, how about now?

Most of these cases are built on sand, wholly dependent on an extremely weak guilt-by-association component. That’s why the Lodi, California terror case is a shambles and why they failed to convict Sami Al-Arian on a single charge (though federal prosecutors pulled a fast one on this one at the last minute, agreeing to a plea bargain that would amount to time served and deportation for Al-Arian, then apparently getting Alberto Gonzales to intervene with judge Moody so that he would add 18 months to Al-Arian’s sentence on the basis of testimony thoroughly discredited in court and rejected by the jury — see John Sugg’s piece in Creative Loafing for details). Washington is looking for people to take the blame, whether or not they are demonstrably guilty. There’s a kind of circus show-trial feeling to the proceedings, like the Moussaoui case, the sentencing phase of which degenerated into an “I won,” “No, we won” dispute with a madman. How is it that the press can still report with amazement the stuff that comes out of that guy’s mouth? What do they expect him to say? Here’s a guy who exaggerated his own importance in the 9/11 plot in an effort to get himself executed — a ploy so lacking in credibility that the jury could not send him to the death chamber. It’s as if the TV reporters are saying, “Yes, Tom… he’s still crazy.” 

Meanwhile, the Bush administration is continually setting new benchmarks for its own illegal and extra-constitutional behavior. Just this week it was revealed that the president has issued “signing statements” on a large number of laws passed by Congress during his tenure — these documents essentially announcing his administration’s intention to ignore the law or apply it as they see fit. Their reading of the president’s constitutional authority as commander in chief of the military is extremely expansive, bordering on banana republic-type “strong man” powers. Russ Feingold’s censure motion is designed to call the president on this arrogation of near-dictatorial power and hold him responsible for breaking the law, but it appears the Senate Democrats haven’t got the belly for it. One would think they might want to make an issue of this for the fall elections — you know, position themselves as the party of the constitution, the party of rights and the rule of law, that sort of thing. I for one am not holding my breath. They feel, I’m sure, that if they defend the rights of the accused, it makes them look “soft on terrorism” or, in pop jargon, “gay.” 

Slogan for the Republicans this fall: We suck. Slogan for the Dems: We suck, only less hard.  

Take it away.

Okay… let’s put it another way. Take me away. That’s more like it. Has a pleasing finality, a sense of “closure” – that quintessentially American value. Yes, that’s it. Closure. Aaaaahhhhhhh. Multo mucho end-o-lissimo.

As some of you will recall, your Big Green fiends (I mean, friends… what a difference a letter makes!) were served last week with that loathsome object known as a writ of eviction. Seems there are forces at work in the land that want to keep the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill — our beloved squat — as abandoned as its name suggests. They also happen to have local codes and property law on their side, it appears. Not good. Not at all good to have police showing you the door… especially when they want you to walk through it, besides. (I’ve seen the freaking door, okay? Stop pushing me!) I mean, it’s one thing to throw people bodily out of the only home they’ve ever called their own…. but you don’t need to get nasty about it. Or do you….?

Got to tell you, this is all about money. Sure, sure, you’ve heard me jabber on about this before. But it’s true, I’m telling you. I’ve got it on the best authority — Marvin (my personal robot assistant), who has been hanging around the local public houses, Tonto like, listening in on other people’s conversations.  These real estate developers from Madagascar, it seems, have targeted the Cheney Hammer Mill as part of a larger parcel that will soon be converted into luxury condos and sold to… well… sold to people who can afford them. People like Mitch Macaphee. You know… the heavy wallet brigade. Silver and riches. Gold and jewels. That’s all that ever matters to the local planning ministry! They would sell their grandmother’s grave to developers, and send the same thugs harassing us now to see her exhumed and consigned to street beggary.

Do I seem bitter? Well, hey… I just spent the night in the flapjack vendor’s cart with Marvin running interference. My ass is killing me. Even more troubling is the fact that this consortium of developers will not stop with our humble hammer mill. I’ve heard mutterings that they are planning to pave over large sections of the Indian Ocean and start selling parcels to retirees and businesses. Mitch Macaphee’s eyes kind of lit up when he heard about this little scheme — I could almost see the diagrams being drafted in that big floppy brain of his. A veritable city on the sea. As if that isn’t bad enough, I can see the same kind of sparkle in Commandante Lincoln’s eyes, as well: vast new lands to conquer! A new horizon for the hoary junta. God be praised! 

But hey… we’re not beaten yet. No sir, not by a long shot. This is just the opening salvo in Big Green‘s continuing battle for its wholly illegitimate home. Hey – be that as it may, it is more legitimate than that bloody flapjack stand. (And a hell of a lot roomier, too.) 

Fear factor.

Remembering the Holocaust this week, a prominent New York Rabbi described Iran as an existential threat to Israel and the Jewish people. (Never to be outdone in the overstatement game, our own Senator Charles Schumer declared there to be no difference between Hamas and Nazi Germany… Hamas now being the most powerful military/industrial power in the world, hell-bent on territorial expansion.) It does astonishingly poor service to the memory of the millions killed by Hitler and his crew to use them as part of an effort to whip up war fever. Iran is years away from producing nuclear weapons, if they ever shall, and such a capability would only be useful to them as a deterrent. Ahmadenijad may obligingly employ Paleolithic anti-Israeli rhetoric, but I doubt he and the ruling elite of Persia will be ready to commit national suicide any time soon… for that is what the offensive use of nuclear weapons would mean for them, and they know it. The only nations that pose an existential threat to other nations are the major nuclear powers, including Israel (possessed of 200-300 undeclared nuclear weapons ) and, of course, the U.S. with its overwhelming arsenal of potential global destruction. 

So long as there is the threat of attack from hostile foreign powers, Iran will seek a nuclear deterrent. This is a general principle in international relations — one boldly underscored by the Bush administration’s open policy of unprovoked war. Our military forces are on both sides of them, and we have a history of interference in their internal affairs, from World War II through the CIA-sponsored 1953 coup and straight up the present day. Think they’re paranoid? Wouldn’t you be? Hard question for most Americans to answer. We don’t have a history of domination by foreign powers, nor any experience dealing with nations more powerful than we are. What’s more, we seem to have a national incapacity to put ourselves in other people’s shoes — that’s far too “gay” for us. That’s why we treat weighty topics like war with such casualness — we can sit through most of our wars like it’s pay-per view television. Our politicians reflect that distant attitude, advocating the hard line and a very early resort to violence. (See Hillary Clinton.)

With so many willing executioners among us, it doesn’t take much to get us embroiled in some overseas fiasco. Just apply the fear factor. We’re already running down the now familiar checklist with respect to Iran. Nuclear ambitions (or the hysterical accusation thereof)? Check. Semi-unshaven and very ethnic-looking leader whose name may be preceded in print by modifiers like “hard-line” and “extremist”? Check. Inspirational and or material support for groups we identify as terrorist — like the Lebanese resistance group Hezbollah — as opposed to practitioners of state terror allied to Uncle Sam? Check. Enough natural resources, such as oil, gas, gold, and other riches, to make Pat Robertson want to invest and Cheney want to rethink his “other priorities”? Double check. Iran gets special bonus points for saying nasty things about Israel and for being provocatively and unrelentingly adjacent to not one but two countries we’ve wanted to invade and many others who live on top of our oil. 

Damning evidence indeed. As our Solomon-like president famously said in the run-up to his Iraq triumph, what else do we need to know?

Pull the other one.

Hey, I meant figuratively, damn it. That smarts! I’ve only got two legs, you know. And two arms, so go easy. Ouch! Watch it, friend…. I’ve only got one of those. Accursed gendarmes!

Oh, crikey. You heard all that then, didn’t you? Geez. Welcome back to the house of pain, a.k.a. the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, now in the process of being more abandoned than ever. That is to say, our little squatting party is being forcibly broken up by thugs from the local constabulary, hired on their off hours by building contractors who have been lusting after this piece of land for some months now. Like Colombian death squads in the night, they shed their uniforms and do their dirty work. Bastards! How the hell did Marvin (my personal robot assistant) work with these fiends? 

Yeah, so anyway — the lawyer thing didn’t pan out. Nobody wanted to take the case, even with our financial advisor Geet O’Reilly’s persistent urging, egged on by a blue-spotted Mitch Macaphee. No money in it, you see? Not a good prospect. Oh… and our little impromptu protest, reported on in these pages last week, had little or no effect, other than to light a fire under the constables, who were pounding on our door just a few mornings later with the writ of eviction tucked into their baby-blue helmets. Take it from me, this is not the sort of thing you want to wake up to. I don’t know about you, but I don’t think real fast in the morning…. so my first inclination was to try to give them the slip. That was plan C from outer space, quite frankly. (My idea, I’m afraid…)

Plan C went like this: Matt, John and I snuck out the back door of the Cheney Hammer Mill, along with the Big Zamboola, who is the only other member of our entourage that gets out of bed early. None of us has any kind of motor vehicle at this point, so we had to walk past the v-formation of heavily armed police attempting to dislodge us from our lodgings (or de-mill us from our millings, to be more precise). Perhaps it was that sixth sense all constables have that tipped them off to our presence, working our way up a side street (or perhaps it was the admittedly incongruous sight of Big Zamboola — a man-sized planetoid — bouncing up the street like one of those oversized “earth” balls).  We thought we had shaken them when I felt that big, cold hand on my shoulder. Man… I should have listened to Zamboola’s rantings for once. Usually he’s talking about sandwiches, you know  

Hokey smokes – so we’ve been served. And I don’t mean somebody has shown us their killer dance moves. I mean the constables handed us the eviction notice. So it’s on. I’d have to say Marvin’s reaction has been the most dramatic so far. Panhandling. Panhandling… on the first day of our grace period. We haven’t even been tossed out yet, and he’s working the streets. Sheesh. (Hope he picks up enough for a pizza — I’m freaking
starving.)

Your war.

Iran has nuclear ambitions. We cannot allow them to develop the world’s most destructive weapons. Where have you heard this before? It seems incredible that, with the fire we started in Iraq still burning out of control, we appear to have Iran in the crosshairs. The constant drumbeat of inflammatory rhetoric and hysterical accusations makes open conflict seem more and more inevitable with each passing week. Some say the hostilities have already begun, and there can be little doubt that the more clandestine limbs of our $400+ billion-a-year military octopus are now coiling their way through the Persian hinterlands, just as they did for many years in Iraq prior to the U.S. invasion. You would think that someone in the administration would understand what a huge mistake such an adventure would be… but it pays to remember that these folks truly believe Operation Iraqi Freedom has been a screaming success. And if today’s Iraq is what “success” looks like, then a bloody, protracted regional war sparked by an attack on Iran will likely be viewed as a great triumph by Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld (the never-say-die kid) and Rice. And Hannity and Limbaugh. Did I forget anyone? Good — then we just need six helmets, six rifles, and a flight to Teheran. Let’s get this party started! 

(I’m going to miss Scotty McClellan. Sure
wish I could start missing Rumsfeld, as well.)

Seriously — is there anyone in the U.S.who’s truly convinced by this hokum about Iran? Are we cowering in the shadow ofyet another colossal threat, too enormous to be ignored? As Ross Perot used to say, this is just sad. We seem to be sleepwalking our way into yet another unnecessary war, spurred on by the same kind of transparent exaggerations that brought us to Baghdad. As I’ve mentioned in this column before, the U.S. has now established a very weak standard for invading other countries, and unless we start actively resisting on a grassroots level, this administration and its successors will just do it again and again and again. I’m personally convinced that if there were a draft, resistance to these optional wars would be overwhelming. As long as we can ignore these conflicts, we won’t feel compelled to do anything about them, aside from grumble and perhaps quietly disagree with the policymakers. Not enough to stop a juggernaut. 

Back in February-March 2003 on the eve of Bush’s “shock and awe” campaign, many thousands of Americans took part in candlelight vigils and protests, with turnouts I would have thought inconceivable just a few months before (In my little town of Utica, NY, about 200 people turned out along the main street, and passersby were overwhelmingly supportive). Many thought this might be enough to change a policy long-since decided upon and set in motion. It wasn’t, and I think a lot of people fell into a kind of disillusionment with the process of non-violent resistance. This is where the Iraq war differs most dramatically from Vietnam — during the Vietnam war, most families didn’t have the luxury of simply turning away. You, your child, your sibling, your parent…. perhaps several family members were liable to be sent over there to kill or be killed, so you would tend either to be on the “victory” bandwagon or on the barricades of the anti-war movement. It took a long time even under those circumstances for opposition to build, but eventually it reached a magnitude that deeply troubled policymakers and forced action. Today, the draft would never be tolerated. And the main engine for opposing the Iraq war is resistance by military families, who have been given the full burden to bear on their own. 

When it comes to the actual fighting, this is their war… but when it comes to the ultimate responsibility for ending it, it’s ours

F-Cell.

You’ve probably heard this, but I’m told Moussaoui is accused of conspiring with failed “shoe-bomber” Richard Reid to make up the fifth 9/11 hijacking team. Talk about the cell that couldn’t shoot straight! For chrissake, Reid was going to name Moussaoui — his fellow suicide bomber — in his will! If Moussaoui gets the death penalty, it will be like putting F-Troop in front of the firing squad for collaborating with the Hawkowis. 

Official site of the band Big Green