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April 18, 2012

Exclusive Report: Occupy Movement’s ‘Black Bloc’ Anarchists Demand Government Handouts

by Kyle Becker

Exclusive field reporting by Blaine Dabbley, embedded guerrilla journalist in the Occupy movement’s twelfth brigade and sophomore student in Film Studies at Emerson College, writing for the Vagrant Voice.

Fire blazed across the screen of my Mactop pro early Friday evening as black-masked hooligans marched into lower Manhattan carrying torches and wielding Molotov cocktails. Calling themselves the “99% Spring” in honor of communist truther Van Jones, the Black Bloc anarchists were putting some stiffness into the al dente spines of those who had lost their previous stand-off with the 1%. The resurgence of Occupy was on, and I wasn’t going to miss it for the world.

I packed my gear into a second-hand rucksack to return to my parent’s house on Long Island, not the coziest of pads but considerably adorned with accoutrements to warrant getting away from the stale liberal arts college campus. A big screen in the basement, all you can eat Combos — what more could a bachelor want? Besides, who wants to watch his loser roommate suck face with his hot girlfriend all weekend? The lovebirds always watched the most idiotic rom-coms and never allowed me any privacy. All the more reason to jet out of that cramped hell-hole for the weekend and stop by the city for a little anarcho-socialist action.

Street cred was vital. My “Twelfth Brigade – Occupy Wall Street” shoulder patch was clearly visible on my good will store attained Army field jacket, and underneath, a classic Che tee shirt blazed with the slogan “If you want to make a capitalist omelet, you’ve got to break a few eggs.” I jumped into my Chevy Volt without so much as texting any of my Facebook friends on my iPhone, and headed into that vast unknown beast called New York City.

The danger in the air was palpable. The blacktop roads slinked ahead into the darkness like a slick, shiny snake whose raised head was poised to inject her lethal venom into the one-percenters. Crossing over the George Washington Bridge into the city, my stomach was filled with a sick anticipation that tonight could be my last. I was ready to die for my cause, I resolved while listening to Cold Play’s “Paradise.”

Continued on Conservative Daily News.

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