Category: Brigade (novel)

by Harold Covington

“Send Off The Clowns”

Hillary concluded by announcing that “the patience of the American people with racism and terrorism is at an end, and we are going to crush these evil men like the insects they are.” She announced that a new paramilitary force, the Federal Anti-Terrorist Police Organization (FATPO) would be immediately deployed into the Pacific Northwest and that they would operate under “special rules of engagement” that would allow for the “complete eradication of terror, and at long last mete out the condign punishment that should long ago have been applied to every manifestation of racism, anti-Semitism, homophobia, nativism, and sexism.”

♣

An obviously twitchy and nervous Arnold Blaustein, who had taken over Paradigm on the demise of Sid Glick, announced the establishment of a special private “justice fund” by the movie industry, which offered a reward of five million dollars per head for information leading to the apprehension alive of any terrorist who could be shown to have participated in the events of Oscar Night in any way.

Movie stars and B actors, rappers and rock stars, television personalities and newscasters, studio moguls, directors and producers, screenwriters, executives and attorneys, and all manner of lesser fry began to flee the city.

“I wouldn’t have believed it,” Brewer reported back. “Hollywood has become a ghost town in a week! Most of the major enemy assets on our hit list are gone now, scattered all across hell’s creation. You guys may run out of targets.”

“Oh, they’ll be back,” said Hill with a shrug.

The hits continued, despite the paucity of targets:

* A massive car bomb was smuggled onto the DreamWorks-Disney back lot and leveled an entire Santa’s Village set, totally derailing a major Christmas movie and costing DW-D about 40 million dollars in losses.

* Foul-mouthed standup comic Marta Moskowitz, whose shtick consisted almost entirely of obscenities, references to excrement and snooty flaunting of her Jewish heritage, was found tied with duct tape to a chair in her apartment’s kitchen, strangled with a garrote, and a bar of soap jammed into her mouth.

Within thirty days, the Northwest Volunteer Army had effectively shut down the entire American movie-making industry and over half of the television production. Studio budgets were snapping like sticks. Ratings were in the toilet because the whole country was glued 24/7 to the cable news waiting to see which Hollywood celebrity was next on the hit parade, in a runaway reality show from hell.

 

Chechar’s note:

Please, compare Covington’s views about Hollywood to Greg Johnson’s opposite views and leave a comment: either below, or in a recent thread.

Thank you!

by Harold Covington

“Into The Lion’s Den”

“They’re goyim, David,” said Shulman. “What’s the first lesson you and I both learned in yeshiva school? Never, ever trust a goy, for they are beasts without souls. All of the sons of Esau hate us unto death, because our blessed forefather Jacob stole their birthright and left them with nothing but a mess of pottage. They’ve never really resigned themselves and accepted that as a done deal. No matter how often we keep filling up their bowls with pottage, they secretly want their birthright back. I’m convinced I’m right. One of the people on that list betrayed our friends and our elders to their death, and they’re still doing it as we speak, still helping these animals to kill us.”

“Yeah,” said Danziger bitterly. “Tell me about it. Before I came down, I heard on the news that the sons of bitches murdered Herschel Rabinowitz from MGM this morning. They got past his cameras, the guards, everything, and they shot him through the window at his own breakfast table in Malibu.”

“Fuck me, Hesh is dead?” exclaimed Shulman.

“Deader than a dog turd in the road, mine friend,” confirmed Danziger with a grim nod. “The day before that they rammed a car bomb into the main office of Fox News and damned near leveled the building, killed everybody in the lobby. The day before that, somehow they found where Shelley Klein was hiding in Santa Barbara. They tied her up in a chair and then took her out back and dropped her into the swimming pool and watched her drown. As of this week it’s official, the movie industry and the television business are paying more for security costs than they’re paying in salaries for working employees, which isn’t hard since almost no one is working anymore. They’re all in hiding and wondering who will be the next to die? This can’t go on, Marty!”

♣

“After the bloodbath in the Kodak on Awards night, and then all these murders, and finally this incredible revelation about Erica Collingwood, the Big Boys are going completely batshit paranoid about everybody with a pale skin. They don’t know who they can trust. Neither does the FBI. They’re seeing Jerry Rebs under every bed. They’re lashing out in all directions. Hell, they were in here the other day giving me and all my white staff the third degree, not as bad as you because I’ve got a name in this town. Or had one, anyway. The rumor mill is roaring like a blast furnace. After Erica the bosses are supposed to be considering a complete ban on anyone of European descent working in movies or in TV who can’t document at least one gay or interracial sexual relationship.”

by Harold Covington

“One If By Land, Two If By Sea”

“Back when there were still Mexicans along that stretch of 101, he used to chop them up and go fishing using the bits and pieces as bait. No more Mexicans around, though. Once it all started up they got the message real fast. You won’t hear any Spanish outside Portland now.”

“Well, that will be a change from L.A.,” said Julia.

“I imagine so,” agreed Post. “Every mother’s son and daughter of the NVA [Northwest Volunteer Army] has a basic $50,000 DT on his or her head, that’s domestic terrorist bounty, and from there it goes up depending on how naughty the individual Volunteer has been. I think Hatfield’s up to over half a million now. Astoria has become almost a kind of liberated zone, where white people can live safely and peacefully among their own kind. The United States can’t allow that.”

♣

Eric Sellars and Annette Ridgeway were seated together in a lecture hall on the Portland State University campus when Jackson’s call came in. Eric had his NVA special throwaway phone on vibrate, so it didn’t ring out loud and he was able to conduct a sotto voce conversation without anyone other than his immediate neighbors knowing he was on the phone, and without disturbing the desiccated professor who was droning on about the vital importance of the Native American tradition in American history…

Jackson sighed. “Okay, guys have a seat,” he said. “Tom [a code name for Eric], you will be part of the extraction team, and after the pickup your job will be getting Becky out of the area. Becky [a code name for Annette], you are going to be risking your life and your freedom tonight for our new country in the most dangerous task you have yet undertaken. You both have a right to know why this is necessary, and why it’s such a rush. We will have two vehicles, a van for the extraction and a second car for backup and interference if necessary. You and Tom will have to exit the area on foot, and make it to a third vehicle, your own, during which time you must remove your disguise and resume your own identity, with some suitable reason for being downtown in case you’re stopped and questioned. Do not be caught with Stiggsy’s false ID on you; possession of false identification is now a Class A terrorism offense and can expose you to the death penalty”…

Jackson walked around the table and grabbed Zucchino by the collar. He leaned down to the wounded man’s right ear. “You need that mouth to speak with, but you only need one ear to hear with. Now you listen to me. Our female Volunteers are the jewels in the crown of the Aryan race. We never speak disrespectfully of them, and garbage like you damned sure never does! Zack Hatfield is another jewel in our crown, one of the finest and bravest men I’ve ever known, and the Volunteers with him are our Flowers of the Forest. They are men. You are not. You are a rodent. I will not allow you to harm them by withholding information about this evil tyranny’s plots against them. You are going to tell me now, tell it all.”

♣

“We did that, Julia,” said Hatfield with grim satisfaction. “Congress didn’t do it. Elections didn’t do it. Democracy didn’t do it. Signing petitions and marching in the streets and babbling on the internet didn’t do it. We did it, with bullets, not ballots. And everyone in this town is better off for it. Ask Ted.”

“In what way?” asked Julia suspiciously.

“The Hollywood entertainment industry, including television, is arguably the most potent weapon in the hands of ZOG,” [Zionist Occupied Government] said Morehouse. “To be blunt, it is possibly the only one that might defeat us in the end. The NVA has already demonstrated that we can survive anything Amurrica throws at us by way of police, military, or other armed force. We’re already killing these FATPO [Federal Anti-Terrorist Police Organization] thugs Hillary sent, and it’s pretty obvious they won’t be able to beat us either. But if we allow the Jews who control Hollywood and the media to shape the minds and attitudes and perceptions of the American people about us, especially young white people—well, we can’t allow that. We won’t allow it. Our primary condition is basically that Hollywood adopts a position of neutrality and balance regarding The Trouble here in the Northwest.”

“How exactly would this work?” asked Julia, fascinated in spite of the fact that she knew Morehouse wasn’t joking about the Jew head reference. “How will the industry know what will get them killed and what will slip under the wire?”

“I think they’ll know,” said Morehouse. “As I said, a large part of this hate-whitey shtick out of Hollywood has always been far more deliberate than most people realize. The Jews inadvertently stumbled upon the most perfect vehicle imaginable for expressing their ancient hatred of all non-Jewish life and all non-Talmudic values, and taking their revenge on the hated goyim by destroying everything we hold sacred and valuable, including our own children. There was indeed once much that was good in America, Ms. Lear, the Old America before the Jews got their hands on Hollywood. But get hold of it they did, and for almost a hundred years they have used it as a weapon to spit on that Old America, and the race that for thousands of years has refused to accept their self-proclaimed status as the Chosen People of God.”

Zack’s wireless phone bleeped. He opened it and listened for almost a minute, then closed it. A grim expression was on his face. “Damn,” he said softly. He looked up at Lear. “Ted, you and I need to talk. It looks like our luck has run out.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Lear.

“That was brigade,” Hatfield told them. “They’ve confirmed that we’re about to get some unwelcome tourists here in Astoria. Fattie’s [the Feds] coming, in force.”

Sheriff Ted Lear was the first to speak. “I didn’t hear anything about that!” he protested.

“I know you didn’t, Ted, or you wouldn’t have let Julia come up here,” replied Hatfield.

Morehouse spoke up. “That means that you weren’t told anything by either the Oregon State Attorney General, or by the feds or anyone else, which is bad news for you. That means that the federals consider your department to be compromised, which of course it is, from their point of view. That in turn means that the FATPO aren’t coming just for us. They’re coming for you, and most likely for your family as well, and for anyone they consider to be on your team. FATPO always enters an area with two lists in their pockets, Sheriff. One is a list of alleged Nationalist or NVA sympathizers. Sometimes those lists are accurate, sometimes they’re not. I think you can assume that you’re on that list, and maybe your mom and Julia here if the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing, which is the case more often than not with this government. The second list is one of potential Unionist collaborators, or loyal Americans as they would say, people who can be relied on to rat out any of their neighbors with Nationalist inclinations, anybody with NVA-connected family members, so forth and so on. Above all, insofar as it is at all humanly possible, save the children.”

http://northwestfront.org/

by Harold Covington

“ Comes The Dawn”

“The Battle Hymn I can see,” responded Posner. “Congressman Rollins, er, General Rollins I mean, is trying to expand his base beyond the South Side of Chicago, and that means appealing to the blue-haired country club set in both parties. Very symbolic and American and all that, and of course the fact that Roland is the descendant of slaves who were freed in the war the song was written to glorify will add a bit of poignancy. Okay, that part I get. But has anyone seriously tried to talk him out of the MacArthur impersonation with the hat and the shades and the corncob pipe? Does he really not understand that he will be making himself look damned ridiculous? Anyway, it’s been done before.”

“Like most Americans will even remember who Douglas MacArthur was,” snorted Hastings. “Most of our wonderful viewers have difficulty remembering what they had for breakfast yesterday.”

“That’s Rolly’s whole life,” said Sue with a shrug. “He’s always been out to prove that anything a white man can do, a black man can do better and Rolly Rollins can do better still. It’s gotten him re-elected for six terms in Chicago, until he resigned to take over FATPO [Federal Anti-Terrorist Police Organization]. Now he wants to add anti-racist war hero to his resumé.”

“This is not a war, Ms. Loomis,” Posner corrected her. “This is a law enforcement action against hate criminals.”

♣

“No, those assholes have no idea we know they’re coming.” Zack made it a point to sound a lot more confident than he felt. “I was in Iraq, God damn it all, and I’ve seen what happens when anybody tries that shit! We’re guerrillas, remember? If we go head on against the Americans we’ll be wiped out and lose everything we’ve spent years building here! We’re trying to free our people and create a new country, not go to Paradise with seventy virgins, and not play Rambo! One driver per team who knows where the vehicle is parked, and he or she stays with that team and guides them back to the vehicle when we disperse, which we’ll have to do fast, because we’re going to have helicopter gunships chasing us.”

“They think this is Iraq in 2003,” said Len.

“Why should they?” asked Washburn flatly. “Until three years ago, white men never resisted before. I still don’t think they can wrap their minds around it. When the shit hits the fan, kill those media lice. All of them.” He got a brief chorus of “Roger that.”

♣

The sea wind tousled his hair, he looked rugged and relaxed, and his voice was deep and authoritative. “I am standing here on a deserted beach somewhere on the Oregon coast, where in a few minutes General Roland Rollins, officer commanding of the Federal Anti-Terrorist Police Organization, will be landing with a large force of highly trained and motivated men and women who are determined to take a big bite out of racist terror today. In a stunning and daring move, General Rollins has taken to the high seas in a brilliant flanking movement in order to insert some major American muscle right into the heart of NVA [Northwest Volunteer Army] bandit country, a part of the United States that has seen little law and less order for the past several years. It’s a part of our country where people of color, Latino people, gay people, and anyone whose heart isn’t filled with hate have been afraid to set foot for a long time.”

While the media party waited idly for the fast approaching Ventura, Seth Goldstein was growing increasingly uncomfortable. “Hey man, I got to drain the snake,” he said to Hastings. “If I take a whizz in the surf here will you promise not to film it?”

“No promises,” laughed Hastings. “We are already working on our outtakes and bloopers reel for this shoot. Go up behind the dunes.”

On the bridge of the Higby Lieutenant JG Day told Executive Officer Lieutenant Hacker, “One of the shore party is leaving the group, sir.”

Goldstein trudged up the apparently empty beach toward the roadway, looking for a nice concealed spot to urinate where his merry colleagues wouldn’t film him and preserve it for the ages. He saw a low rise of sand and sea oats at the base of the right-hand berm that looked promising. He reached the mound, unzipped his trousers and unlimbered his circumcised schwanze, and stepped around the mound of sea oats preparatory to emptying his bladder.

One of the men slapped his hand over Seth’s mouth and the third grabbed and pinioned his arms. Goldstein tried to shriek in pain and terror. He recognized Hatfield, who leaned over him, studying Goldstein’s camel face, his acned skin and fleshy nose and frizzy hair. “A Jew,” Hatfield said. Hatfield leaned over and cupped Goldstein’s roundhead in his hands, and whispered the single word “Dresden!” in his ear before snapping his necklike a pretzel.

“Great, now we have to stand on a dead Jew with shit in his pants,” groused Charlie.

♣

Charlie Washburn stared at this apparition through his binoculars. “What on earth? Is that Idi Amin or Douglas MacArthur?” he asked, fascinated.

Rollins strode forth energetically through the surf, which reached up to his knees as he stepped off the ramp. His FATPO escorts slogged soggily along with him on either side. The rousing chorus of The Battle Hymn of the Republic thundered overhead. “Ready!” snapped Hatfield into the radio. To the surprise of both Ekstrom and Washburn, Hatfield stepped up out of the dug out and walked several paces toward the beach, upright, totally visible.

Higher up on Sunset Beach, Zack Hatfield raised his radio to his lips and shouted into the handset the command to fire. “Freedom!”

200 million viewers around the globe saw the body of Roland Rollins torn to pieces as five .50-caliber slugs smashed into him, and sent him twirling and whirling head over heels high into the air like a popped balloon, knocking him into the sea where he floated like a sack of gaudy, dirty laundry.

♣

Roland Rollins died at 5:45 a.m. exactly, or 0545 hours to use military time, just as the golden sunrise flooded the beach with glowing amber light. Among the 200 million viewers who saw him die were Captain Meryl Sandoval and Lieutenant Donald Hacker, who were monitoring the raw feed transmission on the bridge of the Higby. Both of them stared at the screen as Rollins whirled away into the air flapping like a scarecrow in the wind.

0548 hours: On the beach most of the media party had gone down in the first hail of NVA bullets, as per Hatfield’s orders, and were now either lying very still on the sand in sodden red puddles or crawling along blindly like squashed and bleeding beetles.

Leonard Posner, to give him fair due, died while trying to do his job. He jerked the camera back up into a standing position on its tripod, leveled it and made sure it was on, and then stepped in front of it with a microphone, his face ghastly. “This is Leonard Posner on Sunset Beach in Oregon. Just now the world was shocked and horrified to witness the death of General Roland Rollins at the hand of the fascist beasts, who are now firing at the men and women of the FATPO and the S. S. Ventura from entrenched positions along the beach here. Somehow or other we have been lured into a bloody ambush. There are bullets flying all around me, but the brave men and women of FATPO are resisting and preparing to…” The world would never know what Posner claimed the brave men and women of FATPO were about to do, because at that moment a .50-caliber BMG slug decapitated him, and his headless blood-gushing corpse slid down out of the camera’s view like a special effect from a zombie movie.

0550:30 hours: “Madre de Dios, what’s that?” screamed Meryl Sandoval on the bridge of the Higby.

Hacker for once was at a loss for a snappy retort. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But something big as hell just went up on board Ventura.”

“Captain Mulvaney, do you read?” Hacker spoke urgently into his radio. “Are you all right? What the hell happened, Derek?”

“Damned if I know,” came Mulvaney’s reply, his voice shaky and dazed. “If I didn’t know better I’d say we were torpedoed, or hit a mine. Whatever it was blew the ship’s bow into the air and we landed on our side. We’re listing to port, almost twenty degrees, God damn it!”

♣

“What the hell happened with that gun turret of yours blowing up?” asked Zack curiously. “I don’t think that was us.”

Hacker scowled. “Our bird-brained excuse for a captain was an affirmative action quota promotion, a mami who couldn’t sail a rubber duck in a bathtub.”

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by Harold Covington

“ Two On The Bounce” (*)

It was difficult to believe that not thirty miles to the west one entered the Third Battalion’s Bandit Country, a liberated zone where not a dark skin or a federal badge was to be seen. But Portland itself remained a left-liberal stronghold, one of the few real bastions of government support remaining in the Northwest, and Portland State University was a hotbed of political correctness and anti-racist hysteria.

♣

“Boy, that was quick. They must be after us hot and heavy to get it on the air so fast. Us First Brigade boys are really photogenic,” said Eric dryly. “First those guys on Flanders Street, then Cat leading the band on Oscar night, then Cap Hatfield and the Wild Bunch on Sunset Beach, now us. We’re giving the media all kinds of exciting footage.”

“Hopefully these new threads will disguise us until we can get picked up,” said Annette. They turned and walked on. “Well, this is it. Our old lives are gone now. Any regrets?”

“Not a one,” Eric told her.

“Me neither.”

“Annette, I want you to listen to me and not give me any feminist bullshit or backtalk,” Eric continued, quietly but firmly. “If things break bad, I will hold off whoever it is and draw them off onto me. I want you to run, run like hell, and don’t look back.”

“You did pretty good with nothing but this laptop back there in the student union,” she reminded him.

“I was lucky, and there was only one of them. We won’t have that kind of luck again. I mean it, Annette. You’re a woman, and your life is more important to the future of the race than mine, as pompous as that sounds. You can give life to those who will come after. Like you said, we’re supposed to split up anyway. If anything goes down I want you to run.”

______________

(*) “On the Bounce” — Northwest Volunteer Army slang term for being on the run from the American police and military.

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