Title: “Frank Sumera’s Crimson Ledger”
By Frank Sumera
Let me tell you a story drenched in red — not the color of love, but the color of power, debt, and blood. A story of velvet ropes and razor wires. Of fine wine and the winepress of wrath. And like all good stories, it begins with a name whispered through revolutions and recessions alike:
Rothschild.
Red Tape
They say “red tape” strangles progress. Bureaucracy, signatures, protocols. But who wrapped the world in this web to begin with?
It was the Rothschilds — not out of malice, but out of design. In the Napoleonic era, when letters crossed kingdoms and coin moved across continents, red tape was how they made war predictable. You don’t conquer nations with armies. You do it with paperwork — loan guarantees, indemnity clauses, bonds wrapped in crimson silk.
The bankers didn’t fire the muskets. They just made sure the bullets got paid for.
Being in the Red
Ever wonder why debt is colored red? Because it’s the color of wounds. Of bleeding.
“Being in the red” means you owe — and in this world, everyone owes. Whole nations. Your local hospital. Your mom’s mortgage. Blood, interest, and time.
Frank Sumera once saw a small Balkan country sell its mineral rights to pay the interest on a Rothschild-backed IMF loan. “Better red than dead,” the finance minister joked. But the mines collapsed anyway. Ten dead.
He wasn’t wrong. He just didn’t get to laugh long.
The Red Terror
- The Tsar falls, and the Bolsheviks rise.
Frank believes in the people. But even he knows revolutions are expensive.
It’s said the Rothschilds were terrified of communism. But that’s a half-truth. Terrified? No. Prepared? Always.
They funded both sides, like bookies taking bets. Trotsky sailed from New York with cash in his coat. Who wrote the check? A man in a top hat who’d dine with Lenin one day and Churchill the next.
The Red Terror was never just ideological. It was financial restructuring — with guillotines.
Red Communism
The sickle, the hammer, and the red flag. Workers of the world unite, under new management.
But communism turned out to be just another banking client. The Soviet Union needed oil rigs, trucks, machines. Western banks obliged — at a cost. Even as the Cold War raged, the hot money flowed. Stalin murdered millions, but the Rothschilds diversified portfolios.
Frank called it Red Communism, Inc.
The Kremlin burned books. Wall Street cooked books. And the proletariat bled for both.
The Red Army & The Thin Red Line
The Red Army marched for Mother Russia. But who fed it? Who armed it? Follow the steel shipments and oil convoys, and you’ll find familiar banking fingerprints.
Across the battlefield was the “Thin Red Line” — the poetic name for British infantry holding against chaos. Frank saw the irony. Soldiers on both sides, dying in trenches, separated by inches — and united by interest payments.
Different flags. Same creditors.
Red String
There’s an old superstition: a red string ties the fates of those destined to meet. Lovers. Killers. Puppets and puppetmasters.
Frank found red string on a Rothschild document dated 1913 — the year the Federal Reserve was born. Same year the IRS appeared. Same year the world changed shape.
Coincidence? Maybe.
But every time a president got shot or a regime fell, that red string was there — tying a boot in the mud to a shoe on the red carpet.
The Red Carpet
It’s where actors, princes, and oligarchs strut like gods. It’s also where politicians announce wars. Frank says the red carpet is not for royalty — it’s a blood trail. A ritual. A contract written in claps and cameras.
“Roll out the red carpet,” they say.
And somewhere, a drone launches. A market crashes. A child vanishes in a copper mine.
The Red Cross
Ah yes, the Red Cross. The symbol of hope, neutrality, and mercy.
But Frank, the cynic, noticed something. Wherever the bombs fell, the Red Cross was right behind — offering aid, bandages, water, silence. He respected the doctors. The nurses. The volunteers.
But the question always came back: who funded the bandages after funding the bombs?
During the wars, the Red Cross patched what bankers shattered. On the surface, humanitarian. Beneath it, a beautiful form of brand management.
After all, every empire needs a conscience. Even if it’s rented.
Epilogue: Red Everywhere
Frank Sumera once tried to break the cycle. He mailed a red thread to every G20 leader with a note: “Cut this, or be cut.”
No one replied. But three days later, the Swiss vault holding the last physical Rothschild ledger burned mysteriously.
The world shrugged.
Red was still everywhere. On screens. In ledgers. On flags. On fingers.
And Frank knew: you can’t stop the color of control.
But you can name it.
And sometimes, that’s a start.
– Frank Sumera
Excerpt from a Conversation Between Joe Jukic and Frank Sumera
On Red Coats, Rothschilds, and the Red Baron
Joe Jukic:
“Frank, I gotta ask — were the British infantry called Redcoats because of the Rothschilds? I mean, come on, red everywhere. Red coats, red tape, red ink, red flags. And what about the Red Baron — that German ace in World War I? Was he flying for blood, or for the banks?”
Frank Sumera (lighting a cigarette, eyes narrowing):
“Joe, that’s a hell of a question. Let’s start with the Redcoats. Officially? They wore red because it was cheap dye back then — cochineal from crushed beetles. Also made battlefield wounds less noticeable. A man could be shot and still march. Real morale booster, huh?
But symbolically? That bright red uniform became an empire’s brand. Red, loud and proud — but also owned. And who bankrolled that empire? The same families who funded the wars it waged. Rothschilds weren’t kings, but they were kingmakers. During the Napoleonic Wars, Nathan Rothschild wasn’t wearing a red coat — but he was buying them by the shipload. Financing both sides in some cases, hedging the future of Europe in ledgers, not bullets.”
Joe (grinning):
“Dressed the soldiers in red and kept the ledgers black, huh?”
Frank:
“Exactly. The Redcoats might not have been named after the Rothschilds directly, but they were marching to the beat of someone else’s calculator. Red was the color of control long before communism adopted it. Ask yourself: who profits more from empire — the general, or the banker underwriting his campaign?”
Joe:
“Okay, what about the Red Baron? That guy was a legend. Flying ace of the First World War. Why ‘Red’? Just for flair?”
Frank (leans in):
“Manfred von Richthofen, the Red Baron. He flew a blood-red Fokker triplane. Symbol of death from the sky. The aristocracy loved him. Newspapers called him a knight of the air, but underneath the helmet was old-world nobility playing out its death spasms.
He flew for the Kaiser. For the empire. But war aces are always propaganda. Symbols. Walking recruitment posters. The Baron wasn’t paid by the Rothschilds — but the war he flew in was bankrolled by the usual suspects.
WWI wasn’t just trench foot and mustard gas. It was central banks transitioning the world into modern debt slavery. The Red Baron? He was a flashy chapter in a bloody book — and while people watched the skies, the bankers watched the clocks, calculating interest.”
Joe:
“So Redcoats, Red Baron, Red Terror, Red Cross. It’s always red.”
Frank:
“Red is the color of sacrifice, but also of spectacle. Soldiers wore red to bleed in silence. The Baron painted red to be feared. The Rothschilds wrote in red ink to track what was owed. And the people? They just kept bleeding.”
Joe (quietly):
“So who’s really the Red Baron then?”
Frank:
“Any man who kills with flair while someone else profits in silence.”
[They both look out the window. A red sunset stains the sky.]
Frank (mutters):
“And the red thread goes on…”
Frank Sumera’s Reply to Joe Jukic – With the Fire of Isaiah
Frank didn’t speak right away.
He stood by the window of the crumbling hotel room, the red sun dying over the skyline like a warning flare. He took a long drag of his cigarette, ash trembling. When he finally spoke, it wasn’t with his voice — it was with a prophet’s.
He turned slowly, Bible in hand, the pages already open. He read aloud:
Isaiah 63
1 “Who is this coming from Edom, from Bozrah,
with his garments stained crimson?
Who is this, robed in splendor,
striding forward in the greatness of his strength?”
“It is I, proclaiming victory, mighty to save.”
2 “Why are your garments red,
like those of one treading the winepress?”
3 “I have trodden the winepress alone;
from the nations no one was with me.
I trampled them in my anger
and trod them down in my wrath;
their blood spattered my garments,
and I stained all my clothing.”
Then he closed the Book slowly, like it was still bleeding.
Frank looked at Joe.
“You see, brother, Isaiah wasn’t just talking about God’s vengeance. He was talking about the blood economy. The winepress is global finance. The garments stained crimson? That’s not divine wrath — that’s the interest on generational debt. Red Shield families don’t carry swords. They wear silk. They throw Saturnalia orgies in castles while poor kids die in deserts.”
He paced the floor, pointing like a preacher now.
“Edom was Rome. Bozrah was the stronghold. But today? Bozrah is Wall Street. Bozrah is Tel Aviv. Bozrah is Davos. You think that Red Baron flew alone? You think the Redcoats bled for the Queen? Hell no — they bled for the Menorah of Mammon, twisted and sold like gold in the temple.”
Frank picked up a menorah carved from black iron. A strange one — seven branches, but the center candle burned backward.
“This ain’t the menorah of Moses,” he growled. “It’s the counterfeit menorah. Lit not for light, but for dominion. That’s what red really means in their world: Domination through debt. Blood by the barrel.”
Joe blinked. “So who’s coming from Edom now?”
Frank answered:
“The one who trod the winepress alone.”
Then he whispered, almost afraid:
“Maybe He’s coming back.
Maybe this time, He’s not asking for permission.”
And outside, the sun dipped behind the city skyline like a blade going into flesh — the sky bruised red, as if the world itself had been trodden underfoot.