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posted by janrinok on Sunday March 11 2018, @10:45PM   Printer-friendly
from the justice dept.

RawStory, originally from Agence France-Presse.

Eight members of a German far-right group were sentenced to jail Wednesday on terrorism and attempted murder charges for a series of explosives attacks targeting refugees and anti-fascist activists.

Based in Germany's ex-communist east, the so-called "Freital group" had sought to create "a climate of fear" at the height of Germany's refugee and migrant influx in 2015, the court was told.

Its leaders Timo Schulz and Patrick Festing were sentenced to 10 and nine-and-a-half years prison respectively. The other six received custodial terms of between four and eight-and-a-half years.


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  • (Score: 1) by cocaine overdose on Monday March 12 2018, @05:20PM (2 children)

    Very well. Recently I was doing research on a niche topic. Under normal circumstances I would have gone to Butler Library, and been in and out quickly using an alumni reading card. However, the recent storm had caused a bunch of fuss around the campus, and there was no way to get in and out without an awful lot of effort and time. So, I called up a bunch of libraries in the area and searched through their catalogs for what I needed. Unfortunately, no one had anything. Butler was the only library within 10 miles that had exactly what I needed. So, I continued to call all of the other libraries outside the area and seed if they had anything. The vast majority didn't have any licensed librarians and I was left with trying to explain to failed baristas what an "Eye ess bee en" is. What made it worse, was that there weren't any catalogs for these libraries. The few that did, were practically unusable by virtue of not being updated since 2007. This continued for a while, until I finally got hold of someone who graduated high school. The man sounded old and worn out, but he assured me he had the texts I was looking for. "Ulmer Park Library in Brooklyn." In my search, all the names had become blurred on my list, I only saw phone numbers, but I was brought back from insanity by that phrase. My first thought was "yuck, I'll probably get robbed, raped, and 'iced'" if I set foot into Brooklyn, let alone its deep into the south-side library. Well, I wasn't left with much choice. Time was a ticking and I didn't have much left. I made up my mind and ordered an Uber to "2602 Bath Ave, Brooklyn." Even my public-school-attendee driver agreed that I was going to be gang raped in broad daylight. Anyway, after shooting the shit with this 28 ACT-scoring pubbie, I finally heard "alright, here we are." And again, in my focus -- rather conscious distraction -- on the conversation, I had barely paid attention to my surroundings. It hit me like a .45ACP from some negroe's upside-downly held high point. Except it wasn't .45, and you realize it's probably a 9mm because negroes have never been able to steal from gun shops. Even though it certainly feels like you're gonna die, you get over it quickly and move on. What I saw was chainlinks fences for miles, sidewalks that haven't been mowed in weeks, and asians. I knew if I was going to be assaulted here, my death would be a quick pocket knife to the gut, instead of the humiliation chimps many times do. My worries, while not completely gone, were calmed. Albeit, I was lucky my uber parked right in front of the library, saving me from having to walk the wretched streets of Brooklyn and having to use Google Translate to communicate with the locals. When I walked in, I was, unexpectedly, greeted by the man with whom I spoke to on the phone. I expected such a place to not have civil niceties such as this, but it may have been because I was likely the only English-speaking person he's had contact with in years. He was like a ray of light in the darkness, shining bright. Yet, it faded as quickly as it begun. What I thought was blinding light, was but a dim ray in the abyss of the library's interior. Some of the things I saw, there are no ways in English to express them. The carpet was uncannily completely wet -- I would find out later from slipping on it, that it was urine -- the cardboard ceiling tiles were varying shades of brown, what was left of them anyway. And, there was a negroid female face-deep into a negroid male's anus, hidden away near the bubblers. Thank daddy, that I had the old man's voice to keep me centered. I could tune out all the chaos around me, until I had made it to the promised land. When I finally did, we had arrived at a very tiny non-fiction section. It was about one Barnes and Nobles of a shelf, sparse, but well kept. I assume it must because they don't have pictures, that they were let be and never visited by the locals. The handful of books I needed were the same. Old, but preserved in a usable condition. It was kind of like the old man that had escorted me to them, except he had visibly been mentally scarred by the proles he had to deal with. The shelf was like a way for him to keep sane. He may no longer be able to be whole, but he can still live so long as his sacred garden is kept safe. Well, I felt bad for him. A man that hadn't given in into the "ideologies" -- if you want to even call it that -- of the lower class, and now he had a taste of what could have been, from his civilized visitor. I decided against leaving, and picked his brain for a little bit. Why would he lock himself away with the savages? Why is this the gate to hell? Why, why, why did such an injustice exist? To my dismay, I never got to find out, as I was rudely interrupted by a haggard and ragged "man." I don't believe you could all this thing a man. It looked more like a ship wreck castaway, that had given into the madness of his island. Thin, crowing, white hair ran down the back of head. His beard protruding only from below his chin and jaw. It would be also be white, if it hadn't been strangely earthy. From afar it may look like dirt, but up close the smell told me differently. And the smell, I had never gagged over awful smells and consider myself hardy enough for even rotting tuna, but this smell would not yield. It was what I imagine a still-born fetus being taped to the inside of the colon, and allowed to ferment would smell like. And his teeth, he had none! His face had numerous open wounds, so I concluded he was a meth head. He certainly rambled like one. He spoke of himself highly, believing to be a philosopher king and last pillar against the onslaught that has becomst some sort of lentil and soybean hybrid. He raved about how there were people trying to keep him down, censoring his writings (I do not believe this man was literate, nor able to hold a pencil long enough without the muscle memory of shooting heroin kicking in), and keeping him from attaining divine "karma." He called himself something ridiculous, but it escapes me at the moment. I think it was arpatheiditis? Maybe aristocrats-R-us? Come to think about, his name was, it was you. Damn.
  • (Score: 3, Insightful) by aristarchus on Monday March 12 2018, @06:32PM

    by aristarchus (2645) on Monday March 12 2018, @06:32PM (#651467) Journal

    Cocaine will do this to you, particularly if you have latent Trump-supporting tendencies.

  • (Score: 3, Insightful) by Pslytely Psycho on Tuesday March 13 2018, @12:16AM

    by Pslytely Psycho (1218) on Tuesday March 13 2018, @12:16AM (#651592)

    Less Cocaine, more paragraphs.....

    --
    Alex Jones lawyer inspires new TV series: CSI Moron Division.