How could I have forgotten Irmin Vinson’s book in my lists (see e.g., here)? Perhaps because I only have read Vinson online, including all the articles eventually gathered by Counter-Currents Publishing for a book.
Now there are twelve books of my must-reads, including also Roger Devlin’s already published articles in scholarly journals that merit a single cover.
Denise, one of the commenters at Occidental Dissent today, addressing another commenter said:
Dammler: Jews created World War II. They created that mess. Hitler tried to prevent Jews doing to Germany what they did to Russia. Screw off. The problem with Adolf and the National Socialists is that they were too liberal. When one pulls up the rock on the real history of the kikenvermin one marvels at the fact that they weren’t all hunted down and killed off completely.
My sister and I were discussing this error of judgment at Easter Dinner. I’ve concluded that Jews escaped their well-deserved fate because we did not possess mass communications before. The Juden Tuefel would go to one place—wreck that, get the boot, then go somewhere else. The new Host knew nothing about what happened in “the last place.” The whole effing world is pretty much on to the Hebes, now. America is the Last Bastion of Cluelessness—but that miasma is rapidly dwindling. As the economy implodes, due the systematic, eternal malevolent machination of the Spawn of Satan, I see more and more folks wising up. When the USA is Cypressed hell will breaketh loose, and the Spawn of Satan will be sent back to their Daddy in Hell. Expulsion #110 will be global, and final—and they’ve brought it all on themselves.
Can’t wait. I’m stocking up on lots of popcorn.
Ditto: sooner or later the USA will get Cypressed. Those who have been following the entries of this blog under the category “currency crash” know that there is no question that the dollar will collapse and probably hyperinflate.
Germany: pay attention please!
Most of the thousands of tonnes of your gold in the Federal Reserve Bank of New York, located beside the gold that belongs to other countries, should be instead in Frankfurt or Berlin.
The economist James Rickards has been predicting for some time that, after the dollar hyperinflates, the thousands of tonnes of gold in New York will be confiscated from the Europeans, Japanese and the IMF by the US government: a nation that already is the main perpetrator of the crime of the century when we were born.
If the dollar crashes under the watch of Ben Bernanke, and some Austrian economists are predicting that it will crash under this Obama administration, the US government will probably combine all of its gold with the confiscated gold of the nations that naively deposited it overseas and have 17,000 tonnes or upwards of 20,000 tonnes: 70 percent of all the official gold in the world.
That would be enough to “reboot” the crashed economic system after the dollar hyperinflates! To boot, with that amount of gold the nation that led the crime of the century will be able to continue to dictate the international monetary system along with still more Americanism: exactly the sort of Yankee Americanism that has been leading the white race to extinction throughout the western world!
I would recommend Germany and other countries to withdraw all of your gold reservoirs from Yankeedom, exactly what Hugo Chávez did before he died.
Take heed, you have been warned…
Ex Gladio Libertas!
68 Anno Hitleris
Africa for the Africans, Asia for the Asians, Mexico for the Mexicans, White countries… for everybody.
Whenever you hear the words “social injustice,” “prejudice,” or “inequality,” substitute these with the words “white culture.” People who want to eliminate “social injustice,” “prejudice,” or “inequality” really want to eliminate white culture.
Whenever you hear the words “white privilege,” substitute these with the words “white civilization.” People who want to eliminate “white privilege” really want to eliminate white civilization.
Whenever you hear the words “racist” or “racism,” substitute these with the words “white person.” People who want to end the existence of “racists” and “racism” really want to end the existence of white people.
The anti-racists say they are against white racists, white racism, and white privilege.
What they are really against is white culture, white civilization, and white people.
They say they want a world without “hate,” without “racism.”
What they really want is a world without white people, a world without you.
Anti-Racist is just a codeword for Anti-White.
When non-Whites pursue their group interests it’s called “civil rights.”
When Jews pursue their group interests it’s called “lobbying.”
When Whites pursue their interests it’s called “White Supremacy.”
Anti-racism is a codeword for anti-White.
Today during my peripatetic soliloquies in my daily walk, I realized that I have failed to transfer into textual form one of my most recurrent soliloquies about the current totalistic paradigm. But first I would like to drop a few lines about the previous totalistic paradigm for the white peoples.
The original Latin text that Catholics used to listen during the traditional Mass—:
Credo in unum Deum,
Patrem omnipoténtem,
factorem cæli et terræ,
visibílium ómnium et invisibílium…
—is called Nicene because it was adopted in the Council of Nicaea in 325 AD (a city that changed its name after the Turkish occupation). The Nicene Creed has been normative not only for the Catholic Church but for the Orthodox Church and many Protestant denominations.
Latin was a language designed for uttermost clarity. When the tenets of Christianity became under direct attack by the end of the 18th century, the Enlightenment philosophers, some of them recently emancipated from the Jesuits’ indoctrination, knew exactly the doctrinaire content of the principles they were taking to task.
The situation today is exactly the opposite, I have told myself during so many soliloquies. One of the reasons why contemporary whites have been unable to challenge the new paradigm that began to be formed after the Enlightenment, called “liberalism” by Lawrence Auster and which reached its peak in our times with the American hegemony over Europe, is that the liberal axiom has never been stated explicitly by its proponents. The situation reminds me the Aristotelian concept of the enthymeme with its unstated assumption that must be true for the premises to lead to a conclusion.
The late Auster discovered that liberals were suppressing a crystal-clear, Nicaean-like statement of their major premise. Their Non-discriminatory principle is unstated and simply taken as axiomatic: something akin to the Orwellian world where the State controlled thought by means of controlling the peoples’ language. In Auster’s own words, “No one in today’s society, including conservatives, feels comfortable identifying this utterly simple idea, because that would mean opposing it.”
Unlike Latin, Newspeak is a language designed for uttermost unclarity. This means, of course, that in order to reverse the totalistic belief system that presently controls the white psyche, one must first identify the liberal axiom before the dissident, post-Enlightenment philosopher is even able to discuss it.
In other words, if we listened the liberal axiom with the same frequency that, as a child, I listened the Nicene Creed every Sunday during the Mass, the first step to disabuse whites from the paradigm that is destroying the West would have been taken.
Larry Auster died today. Although we had strong discrepancies in the past, the West’s Darkest Hour owes Auster some of its central ideas.
MacDonald’s recent article about Auster gives the impression that the good professor also forgave Auster’s gross insults against MacDonald because, just before dying, Auster seemed to disabuse his readership by making known a hidden chapter on the Jewish Question that very well could have been published at The Occidental Observer or The Occidental Quarterly.
Controversies aside, perhaps Auster’s most important discovery was the explicit enunciation of the Non-discriminatory principle that, implicitly, rules the West today: the quintessence of liberalism.
I sincerely believe that every pro-white advocate should be aware of that principle.
General Order Number Four:
“No Jew or other non-white person, no homosexual, and no white person engaged in interracial sexual activity shall reside within the boundaries of the Northwest American Republic, or within any area of NVA operations. NVA field commanders shall deal with violators of this General Order at their discretion…”
For the context of General Order #4 see here; for obtaining a copy of the book or joining the Northwest Front, visit the webpage (see first comment below).
“I’ve Had Enough of What Ain’t Right!”
“I’ll do it,” said Zack Hatfield.
“Do what?” asked his friend Charlie Washburn.
“Kill them,” said Hatfield. “I’m going to kill both of those bitches.”
The two of them were sitting on plastic-upholstered armchairs in the musty living room of Zack’s cheap furnished apartment in Astoria, Oregon. Hatfield was a tall and rangy blond man in his late 20s. His muscles were lean and ropy, and his often scowling face was prematurely seamed from working outside in the cold and the wind, at whatever temporary labor jobs he could find in his home town that hadn’t been snapped up by Mexicans.
♣
“Yah, apparently that’s the big thing in all the feminist self-help and psychobabble books now. They call it life scheduling or some such shit,” explained Hatfield. “The first marriage is for kids, which of course she always takes with her in the divorce settlement after soaking hubby number one for every penny she can. Apparently the lesbian thing is also something every truly liberated woman is supposed to schedule now. I think all Ms. Proudfoot has to her name is a welfare check and a line of noble Native American Womyn crap.”
“Woe-men?” repeated King.
Hatfield nodded. “That’s the way fems write it. I think that’s how it’s pronounced. It’s one of those PC shibboleths the media and the intelligentsia are trying to introduce into the language and make into an accepted and then mandatory term, like the word Ms. George Orwell wrote about it in 1984. Newspeak. Mind control. Just like we have to say African-American instead of nigger. When a totalitarian society controls the language, controls the words that people use in speech, and punishes them for using any word or terminology other than the prescribed ones, eventually the whole population will be so afraid they’ll start using the politically correct terms in their very thoughts, to make sure they don’t blurt out some word that will make them lose their jobs or get them arrested for hatespeech. Anyway, your life has to be destroyed because it fits into Liddy’s life schedule, apparently. It’s all about her, of course. You’re a used component and now she’s throwing you away.”
“But if she wanted a divorce she didn’t have to do—this!” King waved his hand around at the surrounding walls and Plexiglass. “Why this?”
“To make absolutely sure that she gets Caitlin and Judy,” Hatfield replied patiently. He had explained the situation to King several times before, and so had his court-appointed attorney, but it was obvious that King simply could not yet wrap his mind around what was being done to him. “Under both the federal hatecrime laws and the Oregon Diversity and Tolerance Act, any conviction for hatecrime or hatespeech automatically terminates a convicted offender’s parental rights.”
“All for one single word?” screamed King in horror. The walls were closing in on him and he was clearly beginning to go insane. “Just because I said dyke?”
“Hey, buddy, settle down!” snapped the guard behind him. “You’re in enough trouble already! I’m a pretty laid back kind of guy, but it’s my job to make sure you don’t talk any more hateful stuff.”
Hatfield ignored him, and when King got the phone back to his ear he went on. “Martha Proudfoot claims that you made her feel threatened because of her gender, her sexual orientation, and her race. I think she claims you said dyke squaw, actually. You’re lucky the D.A. kept it in state court and so you’re only looking at five years for the speech. If they’d gone federal with it they might claim that making the Proudfoot woman feel apprehensive was an act of hatefully-motivated assault, which they can do under the statute, and then they could hit you with actual hate crime, which is mandatory life, maybe without parole if the judge thinks you actually intended to strike her.”
“Strike her?” laughed King bitterly. “My God, have you seen that creature? She’s built like a bulldozer!”
“Steve, you know that the FBI had some child psychologist and a couple of agents in the other day and they grilled the girls for four or five hours?”
“Yeah, Pritkin, my lawyer, told me about that. Caitlin is six years old! Judy is four! What in God’s name could they expect to get from children?” demanded King incredulously.
“They asked the girls if you’d ever said any bad things about black people or Hispanic people as well as gay people, that kind of crap. This thing up in Idaho last month has them really freaked out and maximum paranoid. The Marines just recaptured Coeur d’Alene a few days ago, and the feds are seeing white supremacist rebels under every bed now. They asked your girls if they’d ever seen any flags in your house. Green, white, and blue ones.”
♣
“We can just stand by and wring our hands while Steve King’s life is destroyed, and the lives of two little girls are poisoned. We can write a letter to the editor, or maybe get drunk and call up a right-wing talk show, although we’d damned well better not say what we really think, or we’ll be up on hatespeech charges too. And it won’t save Caitlin and Judy King from being raised to hate all men of their own race.”
“Suppose we all club together whatever money we’ve got and try to hire a decent lawyer for Steve?” suggested Ekstrom.
“There’s no such thing as a decent lawyer, and even if there were, they wouldn’t stand a chance in these courts on a hatespeech case,” Zack told them. “No lawyer with enough clout to beat a hatespeech case will touch one, because of the repercussions to his own career if he does win. There is only one way. Those two bitches can’t be around to get up on a witness stand and swear his life away.”
“It’s not just about Steve,” said Washburn heavily. “It’s about Caitlin and Judy as well.”
“It’s not even about them, Charlie, not in the final analysis,” said Hatfield, shaking his head. “It’s about us. About whether we’re men or dogs.” Zack suddenly clenched his fist and roared aloud, a lifetime of rage and humiliation and contempt for the world around him welling up from his heart and his belly and his brain and bursting out of his body in an explosion.
Washburn looked at the other two men. “Me, too. I’m in. Len, I think Zack’s right. You’d best take a powder. Zack’s single and I’m divorced, and we both have crappy jobs and nothing to lose. You have a family and a business and you’ve got everything to lose. I wasn’t a Ranger like Zack, I was just a truck driver, but I remember enough of my military stint to fire a weapon. I’m sure two of us can do this. There’s no need for you to be involved.”
“I am tired of living in hell,” said Ekstrom. “I never thought that I would be ready in my own mind to kill someone. But I’m ready. At some point in time, this madness and this cruelty has to stop. For me, it stops with Steve King. They’re not going to get him. No.”
“That’s the real thing, all right,” said Zack with a sigh and a smile. “It’s taken how many years between us to reach this point? Sometimes I thought white men never would.”
“We have,” said Charlie. “Okay, Zack, you’re the ex-Ranger. You should know how to plan a double assassination. How do we go about this? What do you want Len and me to do?”
“I’ll do the planning and the actual killing. I need you two to provide an alibi, nothing more,” said Zack.
“You do realize the shit is going to hit the fan big time when two lesbians with a hatespeech case pending against a white male are murdered?” asked Charlie. “You also realize that yours is the first door Sheriff Ted Lear is going to come knocking on? He knows you and Steve have been tight since high school, plus you visited him in jail.”
“Yeah, well, that’s why I need you two guys as my alibi,” said Hatfield with a grin. “But I’ve also got a little trick up my sleeve to muddy the waters like hell. I’m going to take a magic marker with me, and I’m going to write the letters NVA [Northwest Volunteer Army] on the wall. Maybe in their blood.”
“Jesus, Zack, that will be sure to bring in the FBI!” exclaimed Washburn. “After what’s happened in Coeur d’Alene, they’re descending on the Northwest like a swarm of angry bees!”
“We see all over CNN and Fox News that the uprising in Coeur d’Alene has been crushed and it’s all over. I don’t buy that. My guess is what’s left of the real NVA is going to keep on fighting and hitting these bastards.”
♣
He walked calmly down the empty street and turned in at the Kings’ driveway. Inside the sweat shirt, stuck into his belt was a truncated double-barreled 12-gauge shotgun. There was a battered military-surplus Hummer in the driveway sporting a number of feminist and pro-abortion bumper stickers, which Zack had learned belonged to Martha Proudfoot. There were no other cars in the driveway, which was a good sign. He had no way of knowing if Liddy King or the Proudfoot woman had become sufficiently paranoid to install an alarm system. Steve King had never used one, since this part of the Northwest was still sufficiently crime-free so it had not seemed necessary, as long as the family had Spuds the terrier to sound the alarm in case of intrusion. But with the media full of hysterical raving about evil racist terrorist conspiracies in the wake of the October rebellion in Idaho, the two lesbians might have gotten jumpy.
He pushed the door open. The chain was off, so he would not need the small pair of bolt cutters in his left back pocket. That’s a stroke of luck, he thought. They’re careless. Careless and arrogant. I’ll bet it simply never occurred to them that despite what they’re doing, anyone would dare to lift a finger to stop them. Why would it occur to them? Until a few weeks ago, no one’s ever fought back.
The little beds were empty. Thank God, he thought to himself. Caity and Judy at least won’t have nightmares about terrible sounds and boogey men in masks from this night’s work. I wonder if they will ever be able to understand why, when they grow up?
Now Hatfield stood outside the master bedroom door. He could hear low, drowsy female voices from within, talking softly and casually. There was no sign of alarm; he had been as silent as the grave. Zack pulled two rubber ear plugs out of his pocket, lifted his mask and inserted them into his ears so the noise and concussion of the heavy bore gun going off in a closed room would not damage or rupture his ear drums. He slid the hammerless shotgun out and eased the safety off; it was ready to fire. He took a long deep breath…
♣
“You wrote those letters on the wall?” Ekstrom persisted curiously.
“I did. Don’t know when they’ll find the bodies, but when they do I promise you’ll be able to hear the Daily Astorian scream in horror all the way down to Coos Bay.”
“What happened in Coeur d’Alene has changed things. Now we know it can be done. We failed in Coeur d’Alene, but the Party hasn’t been destroyed. I know because I have been in contact with some people who escaped from Coeur d’Alene and who are still fighting, carrying on a guerrilla war to establish our own white country here in the Northwest. It’s going to be long and bloody and horrible, but we’re going to win.”
“How do you figure that?” asked Washburn curiously.
“Short answer? God is on our side,” said Zack simply. “Oooo-kaaay…” said Washburn. “And you know this, how?”
“Because of what happened in Coeur d’Alene and what happened with me tonight,” Zack explained. “These things are God’s sign to us. Not whether we won or lost, or whether I screwed up somehow and I’m in jail looking at a double murder charge this time tomorrow night. That’s not what matters. What matters is that these things happened. That we did them. God has given the white man back his courage. The courage to stand up and defy our oppressors’ laws. The courage to fight back with weapons in our hands, instead of a computer keyboard. The courage to be men again, real courage that comes from our hearts and not from a can of cheap domestic beer or a whiskey bottle. We never had that before, up until now, and that’s why white men always lost. We were ashamed of who we were. We were ashamed to be who we are.
“No more. Guys like me and the Old Man and so many others have spent all our lives begging God on our knees to just do this one little thing for us, to give us back the courage that our ancestors had, even if it’s only for one last glorious defeat, so that we can die on our feet instead of live on our knees, and exit the stage of history with our heads held high. God has answered our prayers. We have our courage back now. I don’t know how it happened, but we’ve got it back. We got ours back when we did this thing tonight, because even though I was the trigger man, you guys stepped up to the plate just as much as I did. Anyway, I’m going to meet with some people about joining the Northwest Volunteer Army.”
“The Trouble Trio”
“Like we’re not marked already?” snorted Washburn. “I think Lear knows damned well who did Liddy King and that plug-ugly dyke Proudfoot. He gave me a funny look when he talked to me about your night of gainful employment at the store. It’s common knowledge we’re Steve’s closest friends, and Zack’s military record isn’t exactly a secret.”
“Yah, same with me. I think he knows, all right. He just can’t prove anything,” said Len Ekstrom.
“I don’t think he wants to prove anything,” said Hatfield. “What I don’t understand is why no FBI involvement? Why no mention in the media of the letters NVA [Northwest Volunteer Army] I scrawled on the bedroom wall in dyke squaw blood?”
♣
“Right on time. A good sign in a revolutionary.”
“How was the traffic on the bridge?” asked Hatfield. “We came down the scenic route, from Ilwaco,” replied the newcomer. “Homeland Security is starting to put closed-circuit TV cameras on bridges.”
“You know our names now, but all we know about you is you’re called Mr. Chips,” said Charlie. “Do we get code names too?”
“Eventually you’ll each have a whole collection of your own, yes,” said the Party’s man with a smile. “Mr. Chips isn’t so much a code name as it is a nickname. I used to be a schoolteacher up in Dundee, and I taught a kind of unofficial history course to certain selected white students after school, strictly extracurricular. The feds know who I am, and there’s no reason you shouldn’t. My name is Henry Morehouse, but back in the days when I had more hair, I ended up being called Red. You guys acted, on your own, and that impresses us. Zack has told me about the incident that took place here with the King woman and her beast of pleasure.”
“Uh, we gonna have to take some blood oath or something?” asked Ekstrom.
“No, not at this time,” said Morehouse. “Later the Army may find it expedient to formalize. For now, if you’re good men and true then an oath is unnecessary, and if you’re not, no oath will make you so. If I say you’re in, then you’re in.” Morehouse paused and took a sip of coffee. “The first question that I need to ask is the obvious one. Are all of you up for this? Do you fully understand just what the hell you’re doing? This isn’t a video game or a made-for-TV movie. This is the real thing. You see what’s going on in the Northwest, every time you turn on CNN. People are dying, and not just white people this time. The Beast is in a blind rage. It has been defied and it has been wounded, and it’s lashing out in all directions. You do understand that if you proceed, there is every chance that you men will end up either dead or living out the remainder of your lives in a federal prison, under conditions that don’t bear thinking about?”
“Mister, the way they’re hollering in the news media about racism and domestic terrorism, if we were even caught sitting here with you, we’d go to prison for the rest of our lives,” said Ekstrom. “We know this, and we’re still here.”
“Yeah, official paranoia is rampaging, all right,” replied Morehouse with a chuckle. “They’re starting to wake up to the fact that they didn’t get us all when they stormed into Coeur d’Alene last month, and some of us are still fighting. Fair enough. But before we get down to cases, I’d like each of you to tell me in your own words what has brought you here tonight.”
“I guess I’ll start,” said Hatfield. “I knew that time had to come, if any of us in this country had one spark of manhood left in us. We have tried everything else,” Hatfield went on grimly. “For generations we have dutifully trooped to the polls like sheep and voted in elections where we were given no meaningful choice, and where not one single candidate or party represented the white man’s racial interests. Nothing changed except the politicians grew more and more coarse and corrupt, more cynical and contemptible. We tried the internet and spent years tapping to one another on keyboards, because we bought into the idea that ‘education’ was the answer, and if we could just get the truth to people, then things would change. Well, education without action isn’t worth a bucket of warm spit. We got the truth to people, all right, and it turned out to be nothing but a bunch of noise that was simply ignored, because the internet was where it stayed. Nobody ever did anything except tap on keyboards. That was fine with the bosses. Tapping on keyboards was no threat to them, we just let off steam and nothing changed. It is now crystal clear to any white man with two brain cells to rub together that the only thing that will make these dogs in power hear the word no is the sound of gunfire.
“But I didn’t make up my mind finally until that night when I took care of Steve King’s problem for him,” Hatfield continued heavily. “I never realized just how damned good it would feel to strike back! It wasn’t like Iraq at all.”
“I know what you mean,” said Charlie Washburn with a smile. “For once, just once, the bad people didn’t win. I am just so damned sick and tired of bad people always winning all the time. But not this time. For once, just once, there was true justice and a good man and two good children will now have some kind of a chance together in life. A horrible deed committed by wicked perverts has been undone. The scales were balanced just a tiny bit back in the right direction. I feel it too, and it’s indescribable.
“But it’s more than that with me,” he went on carefully. “You know, Americans see a lot of movies and TV shows where some ordinary Joe like me is called upon to step up to the plate, so to speak, and be a hero in some way, usually fighting against the Arabs or Serbs or French or evil white racists or whoever the Jews’ main enemy of the moment is. Most of those flicks are just hokum, but in the past few months, ever since Coeur d’Alene, I’ve been feeling like that. Like I’ve gotten a call from destiny.”
“Things must change,” said Lennart Ekstrom slowly. “Every white man and woman in America knows it, deep down inside of themselves. This isn’t America anymore.”
“And that, Mr. Ekstrom, is what the white race has been waiting to hear from men like you for a hundred years,” said Morehouse with a nod. “You know that we were in a very similar situation, back before the Party was formed? The Old Man himself Came Home in 2002, but for years he simply sat all alone in a series of cracker box apartments or trailers or boarding houses, pounding on a computer that grew older and crankier as time passed. For years he looked for those out-of-state license plates to come over the hill, begging and pleading on his knees with his fellow white people to come to his side and help him, and for year after year, no one came. He asked only for a hundred good men, or women. One hundred people who were willing to place the future of their blood and their civilization over their own personal welfare. And for year after year, no one came.”
“And then what happened?” asked Ekstrom.
“Then they came,” replied Morehouse simply. “We refer to this among ourselves as The Awakening, and we still don’t understand it fully. Don’t get me wrong when I say this, because we’re not a religious movement, rather the reverse in fact. But the best and most comprehensible way that I can put this, is that it had to be some kind of divine intervention. God decided to give His most wonderful and yet wayward children one final break before He threw the white race onto the scrap heap of history. He reached into the hearts of one hundred people and moved them, changed them, so that they let the scales fall from their eyes and they knew they had to put something above their own well-being; that they had to live for something besides a job and a paycheck and a shopping spree at the mall. One day it just kind of began, and one hundred people stopped worrying about themselves and went out and began packing the moving van. The Old Man had his first hundred, and they became the nucleus of the Party that was formed when they came to the Homeland and were in place. Without that first hundred people, there could have been no Party, because it was they who set up the infrastructure and the safety net so the rest of the migrants would have something to Come Home to.”
“We’re going to need more than a hundred men now,” said Washburn gloomily.
“They will come,” said Morehouse with quiet confidence. “They came before. Damned late, but they came. Very well. Let’s get on with it.” He knocked back the rest of his coffee, put down the mug, and leaned forward to speak to them. “We are here to make history, gentlemen. We are here to plan and execute the first organized, armed insurrection against the United States of America since 1861.”
“I’m in,” said Hatfield.
“I’m in,” said Washburn.
“And I,” said Ekstrom.
“Gentlemen, you just swore your blood oath. Make sure you honor it all the days of your lives,” said Red softly.
“I look back at all the crap our people have put up with over the past century and I am still astonished that we never picked up a gun before,” said Washburn plaintively. “Why the hell has the white man never fought?”
“Oh, God,” said Morehouse with a sigh. “Some of us have spent our entire lifetimes studying that one simple question, Charlie, and I have to say we’re no closer to an answer than we were at the beginning. There are a few standard, canned answers, of course. Up until the past couple of decades, most white people simply had it too good. Life was just too damned sweet, and all the bullshit caused by liberal democracy and political correctness didn’t seem to be really life-threatening, just more and more annoying as time wore on. When men are merely annoyed, they write letters to the editor, or phone a radio talk show, or bitch and gripe drunkenly in bars about how the world is going to hell. They don’t pick up a rifle or start making bombs in their basement. And of course, up until about twenty years ago, if things got too bad where you were living, then you could just up stakes and move to the suburbs, or some other state that was a little whiter.
“Liberals are always the first to flee from the messes they make. Usually, they’re the only ones who can afford to do so. Anyway, liberalism and political correctness have gone beyond the merely annoying phase for a long time now. Things have been getting colder and crueler for white people. Medicare. The drawbacks of our wonderful democracy have become quite apparent to those of us who find ourselves living in the northernmost province of Mexico. They can’t sweep all the problems under the rug anymore. They’re too visible and obvious, and no one has any money left to run to the suburbs.”
“But that still hasn’t produced anything other than an army of white people hollering on talk radio and then trooping in to the polls on election day to vote Republican,” complained Ekstrom. “What the hell was wrong with us back in the 60s and 70s? Or even earlier? Why didn’t we fight?”
“Perhaps the more pertinent question, Len, would be why are we fighting now?” asked Morehouse. But it’s more complicated than that. White American males are still capable of being physically brave, sure they are. They prove it every day on the battlefield. Every week you can see some story on the tube about a white cop who faces down a pack of gang-bangers or a white fireman who pulls kids out of a burning building, and then you get these extreme sports kooks who jump out of airplanes with snowboards and try to surf down Mount Everest, or snorkel butt naked in a school of sharks, that kind of nonsense.”
“God knows I saw enough Aryan heroism every day in Iraq,” said Hatfield. “White men will still be as brave as lions, granted, but only for the Jews or for their money, Red. When it comes to standing up and fighting for ourselves, against the Jews and the government that’s tyrannizing us, all of a sudden we wuss out.”
“Mmmmm, here’s where it gets complex, Zack,” said Red contemplatively. What we can’t seem to do is to be brave on our own, for our own interests, without the Jewish seal of approval. We have developed a poisonous symbiosis with the system. We can be brave in a structured environment, so long as it is an officially approved form of courage.
You might say the Jew has succeeded in domesticating the Aryan. We can be brave and good dogs so long as we hear the reassuring sound of our master’s voice and get the occasional doggie treat from his hands, but we can’t be lone wolves anymore. We didn’t fight, Charlie, up until now, because for a century or so we have no longer been wolves, but dogs. The Jew domesticated us. But now we must hear the call of the wild again. We have to find that spirit of the wolf once more within us, and bite the hand that feeds us. And I suppose I’d better abandon that simile before I stretch it into a pretzel. But you get what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, I do,” said Zack with a sigh. “And that poisonous symbiosis between the American white male and the system is still very much with us, an ingrained part of us. How many guys are going to be able to break out of it? Those are going to be pretty rare birds.”
“Well, maybe not so rare,” said Red with a smile and a swirl of smoke. “Once that first hundred stepped forward, it wasn’t so hard for others to do so, because more and more, when they came here they found a crowd to hide in. It was getting that first hundred to go first that was the real bitch. We will be the tiny lion against the enormous snake, but the serpent is old and sick and dying, poisoned with its own crapulence.”
“The movement has always had to deal with this defeatist and paranoid belief that if we ever really tried anything, the might of the Army and the Marines would simply crush us,” said Hatfield.
“You would think that maintaining the territorial integrity of the United States would be the régime’s first priority, but it won’t be,” agreed Morehouse. “With the growing world fuel shortage, oil is frankly more important than land, and will become more so. After all, the Northwest has no oil, other than Alaska, which is a separate problem. The Army Council’s strategic assessment is that initially, at least, there will be only a small actual military commitment against us, if any. They won’t take us seriously. Wishful thinking on their part: they desperately won’t want to take us seriously. The idea that white boys would actually revolt against them boggles their minds too much. They’re not going to be sending B-52s to bomb Seattle or landing the Third Marine Division in Astoria. What would that accomplish against small bands of guerrillas who will simply melt away in the face of overwhelming force, and then strike where the underbelly is soft? I think they’ve learned at least that much in Iraq and Iran. It won’t be that type of war.
“No, they’ll try to treat us as a crime problem at first,” Morehouse went on, the three of them leaning forward intently to listen. “Our enemies on the ground will consist of a hodge-podge of local police, National Guard reservists, FBI and BATFE, Homeland Security and other enemy paramilitaries, and eventually probably some SWAT-type special units. Of course, ideally speaking, it should never come to a full-blown shootout. We live light, we move light, we hit hard, and then we vanish before they can bring their superior force to bear. Classic guerrilla tactics.”
“So how many men do you think we will need in the NVA to get the job done?” asked Ekstrom again.
Morehouse puffed his pipe meditatively. “We should be able effectively to terminate federal control over three Northwestern states and maybe more territory as well, if we can maintain a force in the field of approximately one thousand men.”
“Overthrow the United States government with a thousand men?” demanded Washburn in skeptical amazement. “Bullshit!”
“I didn’t say overthrow the United States government,” Morehouse corrected him. “I said effectively terminate federal control and authority in three large Northwestern states, which is not the same thing.”
“How?” asked Ekstrom.
“By hitting the enemy hard and often, in teams or crews of two to five or six people max. Let’s assume an average of five Volunteers per squad or crew. Our thousand effectives will make up two hundred such crews. Assume half of them are involved in support duties, supply, intelligence, medical services, propaganda, whatnot. That’s one hundred combat teams of five guys each remaining, who are actually pulling triggers and making things go boom. Imagine each of those crews striking the enemy on an average of once per day, all across the Northwest. Remember, one of the main reasons we migrated and we’re restricting our campaign to this corner of the country is to reduce the problem to manageable proportions. Let’s assume an average of a single dead enemy of one kind or another per attack. That’s 100 people per day being killed in one three-state area, with concomitant damage to enemy property, infrastructure, and damage to his morale, his public image, and thereby his capacity to govern. Their armies are designed to fight Star Wars, but we won’t be fighting Star Wars. We’ll be fighting Godfather style.” Morehouse knocked out his pipe onto the concrete floor, and then went on.
“In Vietnam, in Iraq, in Iran and Afghanistan, ZOG had every gadget and deadly toy human ingenuity could devise, computerized and covered with bright shiny lights. But they never found a way to beat the little barefoot brown man, dressed in rags and armed with an AK- 47 and a couple of magazines of ammo, and a heart that would never surrender. The human heart and the human spirit can beat their machines, gentlemen. The human heart and the human spirit can beat their money. The human heart can beat their lying media.”
“That’s if we can find the kind of political soldiers necessary for that kind of warfare,” Hatfield reminded them. “The guys with the cool head and the iron nerve and the ice water in their veins.”
“You got it,” agreed Morehouse with a nod. “I can outline for you a structure for a revolutionary armed force. I cannot turn mere white males into white men once again, men that our ancestors would have recognized. That we must somehow do for ourselves, by finding within ourselves that last dying spark of pride and honor and courage that has always distinguished us for thousands of years.”
“You think these bastards will give in no matter how many people we kill?” asked Washburn. “Iraq and Afghanistan are very far away, something people read about over their morning coffee or watch on CNN. We will be striking at the very core of their power, right here on what they consider their home turf. Can they psychologically bring themselves to admit defeat even if we beat them?”
“This is another reason why we are not being so foolish as to try this in all 50 states. What we’re going to be doing, Charlie, is we’re going to be fighting a classical colonial war,” Morehouse told him. “There are rules for fighting a successful colonial war, and they have come into play dozens of times over the last century, from Ireland to Africa. We’re not trying to take their whole loaf from ZOG. Of course, they’d resist that to the death. Such a guerrilla war across all of America would last for generations, and anything we could salvage after such a conflict probably wouldn’t be worth living in anyway. Nor could we win it. For one thing, we’d have to slaughter over one hundred million non-whites, or drive them back south of the Rio Grande in the most massive refugee wave ever seen, and that simply isn’t feasible with what we have or what we are likely to get.
“With our thousand or so people—and by the way, there will almost certainly be more than that as our insurgency grows—anyway, what we can do is to make these three states of Washington, Oregon, and Idaho and maybe parts of Montana and northern California completely ungovernable. We can stop the United States from reaping any profit or income from this territory, and we can turn it into one gigantic black hole sucking in men, resources, time, effort, and above all money. Gentlemen, there is a truth to fighting and winning a colonial war that I want all of you to burn into your brains, because it is the key to our victory. In a colonial war, the generals never surrender! The accountants surrender! What we have to do is to confront the United States with a situation where as bad and as humiliating as it will be to let the Northwest go and let white people have their own country, the continuation of the guerrilla war is no longer an option for them. We can win this, comrades,” concluded Morehouse decisively. “We can beat the God Almighty United States of America, kick their stinking rotten asses right out of here, and take this land for ourselves and our children. But only if we have the stomach for it.”
There was a long moment of silence. “Let’s get started, then,” said Hatfield.
“Right,” said Morehouse, filling his pipe again. “Okay, you’ve already got the basics here. You’ve got three men. In this room you’ve already got your first Trouble Trio.”
“Say what?” asked Charlie.
“The basic building block of the NVA company,” said Morehouse. “A three-man team. When we were planning all this out, studying and analyzing how previous successful revolutionary movements worked in Western political and social environments similar to ours, we came up with a kind of hybrid anatomy combining the IRA and the Cosa Nostra, two highly successful subversive outfits who to this day have never been completely repressed by their governments. You’d be amazed how much hell three men can raise in a society this complex, this racially volatile and unstable.
“Go ahead,” Hatfield urged him.
Morehouse lit his pipe again. “You start with three people as I said, all of whom must have the requisite qualities of courage, resourcefulness, loyalty, and fanatic dedication. That’s the hard part, finding the right men and women for this. Each of these threes will be the nucleus of a company. I know it sounds ridiculous to call three people a company, but there will be more of you, and what we want is a structure that we can maintain right up until the end, when we will make the transformation from a guerrilla insurgency to become a proper national army. During our initial underground phase, the NVA is not an ordinary army where units are supposed to have some kind of set strength or function. We are as fluid as a lava lamp, always changing shape and bobbing around. Each company needs to be free floating, capable of conducting operations indefinitely on its own, even if it is totally cut off from the rest of the movement, and eventually regenerating itself and growing, adding more cells, like an amoeba.
“Each company will be part of a larger unit called a brigade,” Mr. Chips continued. “The next unit up from a company in most armies is actually the battalion, but we’re not going to create any of those until necessary and until we’ve got the bodies. The brigade will be the main operational combat unit of the Northwest Volunteer Army, responsible for taking on ZOG within a roughly defined operational area. Each brigade will report to and be directed by the Army Council in the person of one or more political officers.”
“So the political officer actually commands the brigade?” asked Charlie.
“No. He’s strictly a liaison who acts as a communications conduit between the brigade commander and the central organization.”
“Got it,” said Charlie. “I’m a state forestry employee and I have an official truck and uniform and ID, so I can be seen pretty much anywhere and have a good reason for being there that won’t cause comment.”
“That’s ideal,” said Morehouse with a nod. “Now, one of the first things you will need to do is recruit more Volunteers. This will be the most potentially dangerous of all the things you do. Make a mistake and try to bring in the wrong man, and you’ve compromised the whole company. Make a bigger mistake and actually bring the wrong man in, and you will either die or spend the rest of your lives being sodomized by niggers in the prison shower. Your first duty will of course be to clear this North Shore area of all enemy forces and non-whites.”
“Define enemy forces,” requested Hatfield.
“Anyone who is part of the federal apparatus of control and enforcement, or who assists in maintaining the Zionist occupation, or who gives aid and comfort to the régime,” Morehouse explained. “Military personnel, of course. FBI and Homeland Security agents, obviously. Certain local police but not all; that’s a special problem I’ll go over with you later. Some of the cops will be on our side, or at least willing to stand aside and let us get on with it. State and federal judges and anyone to do with the court system, and all lawyers. Federal bureaucrats of any kind, but especially anyone to do with the IRS or revenue collection. One of the keystones of our strategy is that from now on, not one more dime we can prevent goes to Washington, D.C. from the Pacific Northwest. Elements in the media and the civilian population who actively support the régime or propagandize for it. And of course, anyone with skin the color of shit is henceforth persona non grata in the Northwest. Believe me, Zack, you won’t lack for targets. Basically, your job is to make sure that from Beaverton on down the river to the sea, ZOG’s writ doesn’t run anymore.”
“That’s a mighty big stretch of territory,” commented Ekstrom with a frown.
“Yes, but the potential is immense,” replied Morehouse with a smile. “I don’t know if it’s hit you guys yet, but you’re sitting right in the middle of perfect guerrilla country here. Huge expanses of heavy forest, mountains and ravines where you could hide an army. The whole area a backwater that the feds won’t want to expend much on in the way of effort or manpower, because their main fight will be in the cities.”
“In Shadow”
“It always helps to have allies and exterior sources of aid, true,” agreed Morehouse. “A lot of people across the world want to see the United States go down, and they’ll be willing to help once they observe that our men have the right stuff and we are seriously pinning down American forces which would otherwise be used against their own countries. The Russians in particular won’t have any objection to stepping back up to superpower status while we mangle ZOG from within. Bear in mind that there are certain advantages in fighting from within the belly of the beast. For all the incipient collapse and waste of the past three generations, this is still the richest country on the face of the earth. Everything we need to fight and win is right here; we just have to take it.”
Coyle nodded. “You’re right, Red. It’s all there just waiting for us to stiffen our spines and take it. We need weapons and ammunition? We don’t need gun-runners from outside. There are enough guns left in private hands in this country to get us started, guns we can beg or buy, or just take. The Old Man always said that gun control was never really that important an issue. There was no point in having a right to keep and bear arms if we were never going to use it. How many right wing cranks have we all known down through the years who had a whole rec room full of guns, all gathering dust and rust, not one of them ever used to fire a single shot in anger at the real racial enemy?
“We need safe houses, training and staging areas?” Coyle continued. “The Pacific Northwest is huge; the Feds simply won’t have the manpower to put a soldier behind every Douglas fir tree… The NVA [Northwest Volunteer Army] does not fight on the defensive. They do. They don’t hunt us. We hunt them… This is a spiritual problem, not a material one. What we need are men and women with enough balls to pull the triggers and live the life.”
“The size and terrain of our new country is in our favor,” pointed out Morehouse. “A completely self-contained revolt might have small chance of success in some small and overcrowded country like England or Belgium, or some tiny state like Vermont or New Hampshire here, where the occupation forces can monitor pretty much everything and bring their superior forces to bear on any point quickly. This is the problem the Palestinians have always faced. They’re trying to fight in a strip of land the size of a postage stamp, crowded in like sardines with their own people. But here in the Northwest we’ve got room to maneuver.”
“Maneuver exactly how?” asked Hatfield.
“What the Army Council finally decided on is a series of small crews raising as much hell as possible in the cities. For the first year or so, in addition to direct operations against all federal authority and personnel in general, we want the combat crews to concentrate on gofers.”
“On what?” asked Zack, puzzled.
“General Order Number Four,” said Coyle. “GO-4 enforcement actions. Gofers. Get it?”
“Uh, refresh my memory,” said Zack.
“Oh, that’s right, you haven’t yet seen the NVA General Orders. General Order Number Four orders all non-whites and homosexuals to leave the three basic Homeland states and anywhere else we’re operating. Henceforth all non-whites, especially Jews, are considered to be legitimate military targets and are to be destroyed on sight, in theory. In practice, your job will not be to run around slaughtering blacks and Mexicans en masse. Your task is to drive them out, if you see the difference.”
“Oh, they’ll get gone,” said Tommy Coyle grimly.
“It is absolutely vital that we whiten up the Northwest, and fast,” said Morehouse. “Every non-white, every Jew, and every bugger boy is a potential enemy asset, a pair of eyes and ears for the Feds, a potential enemy soldier who by the very nature of who and what they are can only seek to do harm to us and to our people. That’s in addition to all the problems they cause with their usual crime, violence, drugs, and monkey music. Right now the federal government has a vast pool of millions of willing assets, activists, and soldiers, living right here among us. We have to drain that swamp. But what’s more important, the white people of the Northwest need to see a difference, a visible improvement in their lives. Fewer Mexicans especially. They need to no longer hear the babble of Spanish or ching ling ding in the local Safeway. They must no longer be confronted with sullen clerks and attendants in business places who don’t speak English. They have to notice that all of a sudden there are jobs available once again. They should be able to open their windows on a summer evening and not hear jangling salsa music from a boom box or a passing low ride.”
“They have to understand that we are doing with the gun what the American politicians promised for 50 years and never delivered,” concluded Zack. “How do we go about it exactly?”
“Blacks are simple,” said Morehouse with a shrug. “You shoot a few and make it clear to the rest of them that remaining in the Pacific Northwest is hazardous to their health. Let them know the Boss Man is back, as the Old Man said in his nationwide address on October 22nd. You’ll get some who’ll go on television and swagger and beat their chests like King Kong and go booga booga booga about how brave they are, and how no cracker woodchuck racists gonna run dere black asses outa nowhere, all that happy horse shit. You shoot them, too. It won’t take long for the message to sink in.
“Mexicans are a more complex problem,” Morehouse went on. “There’s an economic factor there. Mexicans are here because capitalists employ them. Some of those employers are rich white people who want their pools cleaned, and their lawns trimmed, and their children nannied while they go out every day dressed for success, sure, but mostly it’s the big corporations who have brought in all this mud, everything labor-intensive from flipping burgers to stacking pallets to mass farming in agribusiness.”
“Which is one reason why whites are so poor these days,” pointed out Coyle. “Whites aren’t eligible for affirmative action.”
“The employers are the key” said Morehouse. “To get rid of the beaners we don’t just go around blasting them on the corner, although there needs to be some of that, of course, to get them motivated. We go for the employers, without whom there would never have been any problem to begin with. We need to deprive capitalism of this vast pool of cheap Third World labor they’ve imported into this country and force them to start investing in real human resources again. They’ll try all the usual crap, outsourcing and eventually shutting down their companies and trying to flee the Northwest for Guatemala or someplace rather than employ white people at a living wage. They’ll think we can’t find them and wire something to their car ignitions in New York or St. Louis.
“That’s for the future, though,” Morehouse went on. “Right now, what you guys on the ground need to do is deal locally with direct managers. You just go into a place that employs Mexicans or Chinese or whatever, wearing your ski masks at first, then later you won’t need to because no one will dare to try and stop you. You politely explain to the boss or the manager that come Monday morning there had better not be a single brown face in his establishment, or else there will be all kinds of physical experimentation done upon his carcass. If he tries to pass the buck to the head office or something like that, explain to him that the head office isn’t going to go upside his head with a baseball bat if he doesn’t do what he’s told. Do not burn down or blow up the factory or the business unless it seems really necessary to make your point. Remember, white people need those jobs the illegals will be vacating, and there will be some white employees there whom we don’t need blaming the NVA for losing their jobs. No need to get too heavy about it. We’ve already littered the landscape with enough corpses so they’ll know we’re serious. There’s nothing like killing people to convince others that they’d damned well better listen to what you have to say.”
♣
“It won’t last,” said Hatfield grimly. “What little is left of the Constitution will go right out the window and the iron heel is going to come down hard, and soon. Okay, now, my favorite and most anticipated part of the evening. What about our local lefties and anti-fascist scum?”
Washburn grinned and pulled out a list. “That was easy, thanks to the public library and a stroll through our four or five lefty bookstores and coffee bars in Astoria. These 55 names are just about everybody in our three counties who has ever written an anti-racist letter to the editor, organized some left-wing demonstration or event, run some lefty activism group, or worked for the Hillary Clinton campaign.”
“Surely there’s more than that?” asked Ekstrom. “In Astoria alone there’s some liberal airhead under every rock.”
“I removed overlaps from the other lists,” said Washburn. He pulled out a second paper. “This one is bugger boys and dykes, 112 names. I won’t say that’s all of them, but damned near. And finally,” out came a third list, “119 Jews. May I make a suggestion? We don’t burn these lists. We should find some way to blow them up poster-sized, and then when we’ve popped a couple of Reds or sodomites or hebes, we start posting them around town in the dead of night with the appropriate names crossed off. Psychological warfare.”
“Bet you by the time we’ve killed half a dozen of them, the rest will scatter like quail,” said Ekstrom.
“But first I need to go over the Army Council’s policy on target selection with you,” said Donner. I’m sure Red and Tommy have already mentioned to you that we don’t just want to run around slaughtering everybody with a dark face.
“That said, a lot of your work will still be gofers, GO-4s, General Order Four enforcement. It may look to outsiders like we’re just gunning down non-whites at random, but actually the whole issue of target selection is very complex. The selection of targets will primarily be the duty of the company commander, with the assistance of the XO [Executive Officer] in his intelligence gathering capacity, but anyone can propose an enemy target for the CO’s [company commander] consideration. Every target that we destroy, human or material, needs to have some kind of clear and visible value to the Zionist occupation government. The public needs to be able to see and understand why we shot so and so or blew up or burned down such and such a place.
“The NVA tactical philosophy is that the minute hostilities commence in any operational area, we need to start hitting those targets, not sit there admiring our lists for the neat typing. The NVA must always hit, hit, hit! We must keep the feds off balance, never knowing when and where we will strike next, but knowing it will be damned soon. Right now they’re still trying to maintain business as usual, trying to pretend that we’re just ordinary criminals. They’re doing full CSI workups, forensics, and legal documentation on each incident. We must present them with so many incidents that their ordinary procedures of criminal investigation and apprehension will be stretched to the breaking point and then snap under the strain, thus forcing them to fall back on brute force and institutionalized terrorism. Remember, normal law enforcement in America is already so swamped with ordinary crime, drug-related messes and the thousand-and-one problems that come from massive numbers of Third World people living in a Western society, that in many areas the system can barely function as things are. We need to tip the system over the edge. We have to hit them so hard and often that they can’t keep up, so that all they can do is just follow along behind us and keep on picking up the dead bodies we leave for them.”
“Sounds good to me,” growled Hatfield.
“But still, there are some guidelines. Some very important guidelines,” warned Donner. “First and foremost, no kids!
“If they’re old enough to have a shitty little moustache or visible tits, they’re old enough to do harm to white people and they’re fair game, although personally I’d say play it safe by concentrating on adults. One obvious exception would be blacks or Mexicans in high school that can’t seem to lay off chasing white girls. We need to get the word out: that shit comes to a screeching halt, now!”
“Mmmm, Larry, what about bombs?” asked Hatfield. “I recall that the one thing that probably screwed the pooch for the Provisional IRA more than anything else was their seeming inability to pop the top in Belfast without blowing up some poor mother and baby in a stroller passing by.”
“Yeah, and those dumb Paddies would also do crap like shooting a man down in front of his children, shooting teachers in front of a class full of kiddies, so forth and so on,” said Donner in disgust. “What the hell were they thinking? I admit, one of our big nightmares is that some white child is going to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and get killed by one of our detonations. The white people they accidentally kill will disappear. Any witnesses will be silenced, their families will be bought off, and the media will make those incidents drop off the radar like they did in Iraq. The United States can afford collateral damage, but we can’t.”
“Got it,” said Hatfield.
“Okay, second no-no in target selection,” Donner went on. “Christian ministers, priests, and for the moment, church buildings themselves. This one may change later, depending on how serious a threat the evangelicals and others become to us. Remember, we have to get the silent support of a majority of the white population here at least to the extent that they do not inform or actively collaborate with the occupation.”
“Understood,” said Hatfield.
Donner continued, “Obvious targets like racially mixed couples and faggots. That shit stops! It stops now! No more! If you know where any live, waste them and burn them out, just make sure you don’t kill any cute little mulatto kiddies.”
“They’ll be on the 6 o’clock news crying for their mommy and daddy,” rumbled Ekstrom with a scowl.
“Who else is on the hit parade?” asked Washburn.
“Basically, we hit anyone who is part and parcel of maintaining federal authority in the Northwest. Start with lawyers, judges, and anyone to do with the courts. It is absolutely essential that the enemy court and judicial system come to a grinding halt. From now on courts do not sit, unless it’s behind a Bremer wall, and not for long even then, until we get at them somehow. These courts do not judge us, or anybody else. They are no longer lawful and the government they serve no longer rules in this land. We do. If someone in the community is causing a real problem with drugs or genuinely anti-social behavior, the NVA will deal with them, not the American law and not the American courts. All attorneys are considered officers of the court, and the court is an alien and enemy power occupying our land. All attorneys are therefore legitimate military targets. All judges will immediately resign and leave the Homeland, or die. We thus force the enemy to fall back on military tribunals or simple arbitrary internment.”
“That’s coming anyway,” remarked Hatfield. “Let me hear some more about the goddamned lefty media.”
“Media personnel are much more delicate,” said Donner. “We not only need to neutralize them as enemies, we need to make use of them for our own purposes, no matter how reluctant they may be. We can do this by punishing a few of their more excessive individual personnel, but letting the rest continue to function so long as they provide balance in their coverage. For example, if they have to report federal government press releases and statements, fine. But they also report statements by the NVA, verbatim, and they do it with a straight face and no unseemly comments. They give us the same air time and they refrain from any snide side remarks or manipulation of the news. Oh, and by the way, they don’t use the term ‘terrorists.’ They call us the NVA, or Northwest Volunteers, or white separatists, or even insurgents is fine, but terrorist is the ZOG word for us, and the media will not use it.”
“You mentioned something you called floats?” asked Hatfield.
“Floats are the most dangerous of all NVA operations, because they’re more or less spontaneous and unplanned,” said Donner. “That’s when some of the boys lock and load, pile into a couple of cars, and go out cruising to try and find somebody to shoot. The drawbacks are obvious; there’s a possibility you will run into something you can’t handle or get jammed up in traffic with the cops after you, something like that. But they’re a valuable tactic for the same reason.
“There’s no real hard and fast rule here,” Donner continued. “You guys are going to have a more independent command out here in the great north woods than our urban units, and you’re going to have to play a lot of it by ear. The basic operating principle for now is this: we cannot allow the enemy to maintain any pretense of business as usual, any pretense that they are still the law and we are criminals of some kind. From the moment of the Declaration of Northwest Independence in Coeur d’Alene, from the night the Old Man gave that address to the world on TV, we are the law and we are legitimate. They are the criminals and the interlopers. Be good cops for the Republic and take ‘em out, boys.”
♣
“No, you don’t understand, I’m not proposing to hit the monkoids themselves,” said Hatfield. “Read on.”
“Hmmm….” Donner said, pursing his lips. “Says here that Mr. and Mrs. Jacob Goldman donated their own personal beach house indefinitely to these poor Affikin-Amurkin refugees from racist fascist terror, and Mrs. Irene Goldman tells us she thinks that Oregon needs more diversity in the face of this growing threat from us evil white boys. Do they live around here?”
“Big Victorian mansion up on the hill in Astoria,” said Hatfield. “He’s retired from some New York merchant bank, he’s a wheel in the local Democratic Party and a known ADL asset, and she runs the most upscale art gallery in town. Big contributors to every known Jewish and liberal charity, including hosting our annual Israel Bonds dinner at the Elliot House. Both of them really tight with the local evangelicals who of course fall down and adore them as God’s Chosen People. I can’t think of any opening target that will send our message louder or more clearly. The Goldmans, their kind, and their day are done in the Northwest.” Donner looked up, his lip curled in a sardonic smile, and he raised his hand and quickly drew his finger across his throat in a slashing motion.
“It’s done,” said Hatfield grimly.
“When?” asked Donner.
“Give us another few weeks. I’d kind of like to give the Goldmans a very special Valentine,” said Hatfield with a chuckle.
“Okay, this fits in really well with something else,” said Donner. “Brigade has a strategic objective we need your help with. If you watch the news, I’m sure you’re aware that both First and Second Portland Brigades are both starting to strike on a regular basis. We’ve taken out some blacks and gooks and Mexicans, and the city is already beginning to get noticeably whiter. We’ve also taken down a few Portland cops, mostly of the black and brown persuasion, and we’ve popped the top on a couple targets, mostly Korean stores, the Holocaust memorial, petty shit like that. But the one thing we haven’t been able to do yet is to take out any FBI or Homeland Security. Our friends in the silk suits are getting antsy, and they’ve gone cautious as hell on us. They know they’re being hunted. They’ve fortified the federal building on Southwest Third Street and all the offices and facilities they use. They’ve created a whole huge Green Zone in the Justice Center surrounded with Bremer walls and razor wire and every electronic security device known to man as well as an army of police and federal security guards. It now takes a triple-threat security clearance even to get upstairs. Most of them have sent their families out of the city and in most cases out of the Northwest. They’ve taken over the downtown Holiday Inn for most of their staff, and they take armored shuttle buses to and from work. Those who still live in their own homes now drive bulletproofed cars and vary their routes to and from the office, etc. etc. I guess these assholes did learn something in Iraq. We’ve come close enough to pop a few rounds at them from a distance, but no hits. That’s given them something to think about and made them even more nervous, but we haven’t been able to nail any of them yet. The fact is that in the city, they’re hard to detect and follow. We know who some of them are but not all, and they’ve started to shift their agents around every couple of months so there are a lot of new people we don’t know. What we want to do is flush the FBI or U.S. Marshals out, get some of them out in the open, out here in one of these small towns or on some rural road where they’ll stand out like statues and we can get a clear shot at them.”
“The assassination of two very prominent left-liberal Jews in Astoria sure sounds like a hatecrime to me,” said Hatfield. “The FBI would pretty much have to investigate something like that, would they not? Especially with the Blue State establishment in this county howling like banshees demanding immediate action?”
“I think the FBI would understand that their absence from the scene would be a very bad message to send, politically, especially after they sloughed off your killing of those two lesbo bitches. Their absence from the scene of a second double hit would look very much like they’re scared of us,” agreed Donner. “They are, of course, but they don’t want to be seen to be scared of us. Anyway, when you do get a fix on them, this will probably have to be done as a float. You won’t have the chance to rig a bomb or booby trap, you’ll have to take them on the wing, tail them and nail them as targets of opportunity. Are you going to be able to handle that?”
“I think this will be a good opportunity for Cat-Eyes Lockhart to make his NVA debut,” said Hatfield. “I’ll be his driver and spotter myself.”
“I agree,” said Donner with an enthusiastic nod. Most of our jobs are done like a Mob hit. Get in close, two in the head to make sure they’re dead. Make sure you see the brains, as gross as that sounds. Then beat feet out of there and get rid of the weapon.”
“Shoot and scoot,” said Washburn.
“You’ve got it.” Donner leaned over to them. “Gentlemen, there’s something else I need to mention here, and I suppose this is as good a time as any for it. Now, what we have been talking about this evening sounds very bad and brutal. It is bad and brutal, but let’s be very clear: this is the only way that this society and this foul world we grew up in is ever going to change.
“We live in a system that is specifically designed to prevent change. ZOG has turned this country into one great steel cage to keep us and our children penned like livestock all our lives. America has robbed white people of any hope, any future. They drag our sons away to be slaughtered in Iraq and Iran. They poison our children’s minds and turn our kids into stupid white niggers, grown fat and lazy on fast food and computer games, trashed out on drugs and hip hop, while our daughters present us with mulatto grandchildren.
“The tyranny under which we live may still wear a velvet glove on occasion, but it is unspeakably evil and brutal, and only greater violence and brutality will bring it down. This was their choice. They made it this way, not us. You guys have to understand that in order to win through to freedom, we Northwest Volunteers are going to have to become hard, hard men. The hardest history has ever known, because that hardness of soul is one of the few weapons we can muster against an incredibly powerful enemy who holds all the cards. Compassion and mercy are all very well, but they are luxuries that are possible only in a basically decent world, and that world is not this one. You are embarking on a journey that will become horrible beyond measure, but our fathers and grandfathers sloughed it off onto us. We dare not pass it on to our own children, because we are the last generation that will have a chance to do anything about all of this.”
“Valentine’s Night”
“This is going to be a doozy of an opening number for D Company, and we’ve got one week to work out all the details,” Hatfield told them all in a cheerful voice. “We’re going to try for two major takedowns within 24 hours, the second one flowing from the first. This means we’ve got to plan and carry out the Goldman hit in such a way as to leave us windows of opportunity for the FBI attack. I’ve thought about this, and I think the best place to hit the feebs would be at the same place we do Jake and Irene. I am basing this on the assumption that the FBI, when they do show up to investigate this nasty horrible hatecrime, will be constrained to at least put in a token appearance at the actual crime scene and pretend they’re Sherlock Holmes looking for clues and dogs that didn’t bark in the night.
“I want to do the Goldmans up close and personal, with handguns, so that the FBI and the cops don’t get an inkling that we have somebody of Volunteer Lockhart’s skill and stature on our side. We’ll introduce ’em to the boy on bigger targets than a couple of Jews.”
♣
“I was in there once,” said Ekstrom. “Took Eva there for dinner, and unfortunately we’d already sat down before I saw the prices on the menu. I had to max out my one remaining Visa just for salad and a couple of sandwiches.”
“It’s a trés chic watering hole for our Blue State élite, all right,” agreed Hatfield. “One of those places where if you have to ask the price of something, you can’t afford it.”
“Yeah,” continued Charlie. “Wapner isn’t officially on our Jew list, although with that name I’m suspicious, but he’s on the liberal scumbag list. He toadies to the Goldmans and their ilk, probably because he makes his living off of them.
“It seems Wapner doesn’t speak Spanish, so he asked Conchita to run down his Valentine’s night program with his kitchen and wait staff. The Goldmans were a big part of it. They’ve got a special private dining room reserved, but get this—they’re not going to be eating off the regular menu. Goldman has ordered in a special ten-course glatt kosher dinner for two, flown in from, get this, some high-toned restaurant in Jerusalem. This special nosh is going to be coming in from Israel by chartered Lear jet and helicoptered in from Portland to our little airport, and then rushed to the Beanery by taxi, where Wapner will give it a quick warm in his ovens and microwave, specially rabbincally kosherized for the occasion, and serve it up to the happy hebes. Plus all the trimmings, kosher wine and hors d’oeuvres and whatnot, and the whole dining room covered in sheaves of roses. Total cost for this evening of conspicuous consumption, including a handsome backhander to Wapner himself for using his restaurant while not deigning to eat the same food as the rich goyim eat, will be over $60,000.”
“Mother of God!” gasped Campisi. “I’ve never even seen $60,000 in one place. My family has to make do with meat twice a week, and that’s with me and my wife both working.”
“If we do this right there shouldn’t be any shooting except the holes we put in Jake and Irene,” said Hatfield. “Charlie, once you see the targets leave the house, you call us and give us the signal. Tony and I will then pull the Yukon out onto the platform and into the parking area, get into position, and wait.”
“Do we take them before or after their big imported kosher banquet?” asked Tony.
“Before, on their way into the restaurant. We don’t need to be waiting around for a couple of hours with guns in our pockets. Besides,” Hatfield continued in a grim voice, “I don’t want one single sixty thousand-dollar kosher morsel flown in all the way from Jerusalem to go down those kikes’ gullets. I want that vile slap in the face to my people to sit there on the table getting cold and gooey while the roses fade and the petals fall to the floor. Call it a symbolic act. The Goldmans’ day is done, in every sense of the term.”
“Lieutenant, you have the soul of a poet!” laughed Lee. “What if there are people around who might see the whole thing?”
“Then they see the whole thing,” said Zack with a shrug. “We’ll be masked. We shoot them both, triple tap, first bullet dead center to put them down and two more into the head to complete the execution. We walk at a quick pace, but do not run, back to the Yukon and we drive at a normal speed off the pier, and then we rendezvous at Shangri-La.” Shangri-La was a code name for a vacation-rental RV on a scenic bluff overlooking the river in the nearby crossroads village of Knappa.
“Sounds simple enough,” said Len.
“Yah, but the simplest plan can go haywire because of the smallest missed detail or unexpected occurrence,” said Hatfield. “We need to get into the habit of going over these things two dozen times, extrapolating anything that might cause a hitch or go wrong. Now for hit number two, the one that will put D Company on the rebellion’s map. Those dead FBI agents we promised Brigade. That’s where you come in, Cat.”
“Christ Almighty!” he exclaimed. “An M-21!”
“Sniper version of the old M-14, semi-auto, with complete cleaning kit and accessories,” said Ekstrom proudly.
“We had a familiarization course on these at sniper school at Fort Benning, and I think I remember most of it, but I never thought I’d get to use one in action!” said Cat-Eyes Lockhart, balancing and presenting the rifle. “The older guys in the sniper school swore by them. They were all pretty much out of service by the time I went through. Where the hell did they get this beauty?”
“No idea, and I didn’t ask,” Ekstrom told him. “The Commandant just said our brigade’s best sharpshooter needed our best weapon.”
Cat was examining the barrel. “You know, they trained us for kills up to 800 yards at Benning with the M-24, but if I recollect correctly some of the old guys in ‘Nam claimed they killed at a thousand yards with this. In a good covered position, with enough ammo, I could hold off an infantry company. They’d have to bring up copters or artillery.”
“You won’t be standing anyone off, Cat,” said Hatfield. “Shoot and scoot, remember. Don’t risk yourself. If ever it looks like it might be too dangerous, I want you to fade. Remember General Order Number Eight.”
“Well, that’s one thing I wanted to talk to you about, sir,” said Lockhart. “When I was in Iraq, we all had cards or some kind of mark we used to put on or near our kills. Signing our work, so the hadjis would know who was on their tail, a psychological warfare thing. I was the Jack of Diamonds. I was wondering if it would be allowable for me to do the same here? When I can do so safely, of course? Maybe leave the card in my firing position for them to find?”
“Wouldn’t that be just broadcasting your identity to the enemy?” asked Hatfield.
“Look, they’re not dumb. I’ve already got a record for horrible evil racism and male chauvinism and God knows what else,” reasoned Lockhart.
“You realize that will make you one of the most hunted men in the Pacific Northwest?” demanded Hatfield.
“They’ve already hunted me out of everything,” said Lockhart bitterly. “This filthy society has hunted me out of my wife, my children, my future, my dignity, and my hope. Good honest bullets will make a nice change.”
“Then we’ll start you off with each one of us buying a Bicycle deck and giving you the Jack of Diamonds, only let’s all make sure we wear gloves when we handle the cards. No sense in deliberately leaving the enemy a fingerprint. Now, once again assuming the feebs will show at Rigoletto’s, what about firing positions? Cat, you know that big hill overlooking 39th Street, the heavy woods?”
♣
On Valentine’s night, Zack Hatfield and Tony Campisi sat in the front of a battered old GMC Yukon, parked behind a loading dock just off 39th Street. The night was dark and cloudy, and there was a light drizzling rain, a perfect cover for the Volunteers. The cell phone on the dashboard rang. Zack answered it. “Hello?”
“Is this Luigi’s Pizza?” asked Charlie Washburn on the other end.
“No, I’m sorry, you have the wrong number,” said Zack in an exasperated voice, in case anyone was listening in. He folded the phone. “Okay, they’ve left the house. Charlie and Lee will be behind them. He’ll let us know if there’s any delay or change in their destination he detects, but we need to get into position.” Hatfield started the Yukon and turned on the lights, and a moment later he rolled onto the long, curved 39th Street Pier. He pulled up into the parking lot on the former cannery platform and found the one available remaining space, which he carefully backed into. The restaurant was crowded, no doubt with Valentining couples. They could hear the noise and clinking of dishes and voices even through the rain.
“Where the hell are the Goldmans going to park?” asked Tony, looking around. “They’re chock-a-block in there, it looks like.”
“We will kindly give up our space, of course,” said Hatfield with a chuckle. “Okay, we’ve got a few minutes. Check your weapon, once, and then leave it alone until it’s time to use it.” Tony took out a .38 snub and broke the cylinder, and saw the five .38 Special Black Talon rounds. He closed the cylinder. Zack did the same with his old police-issue Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum. They were both using revolvers so as not to have to go scrambling around looking for ejected cartridge casings.”
“How you holding up, Tony?” asked Hatfield, noticing a slight shake in Campisi’s hands.
Campisi understood what he was talking about.
“You’ll do fine,” said Zack with a smile. “Just remember, let me fire first. I’ll take the yenta, you take Jake. Call it psychology. I’ve killed women before, here and in Iraq, and so has Cat-Eyes, and it doesn’t bother us, but for their own self-image and emotional strength I think every Volunteer’s first kill needs to be a man, and a clear racial enemy, a Jew or a nigger or a fed of some kind. God knows all the horrible ambiguities of war will set in for us all, in time.” The phone rang again. Zack opened it. A silly child-like voice said, “Is your refrigerator running?”
“Dickhead,” said Zack, and closed the phone. “They’ve just turned onto 39th Street.” Zack started the Yukon’s engine but kept the lights off. “Gun in your left hand, keep your right to open the door.” Campisi took out the .38 and complied. They could see the lights of the Lincoln rolling slowly across the pier toward them.
“Oy, honey, look, that nice man is leaving us his parking space!” mocked Campisi in a girlish voice. The Lincoln slid into the vacated space, and the lights turned off. Zack hit his windshield wipers; the rain was light but steady. He stopped the Yukon at the edge of the bridge. “No one is coming. Couldn’t be more perfect. All right, let’s do it. Masks.”
When they were five feet behind the two expensively dressed people, some sound or sense made the Goldmans both turn. They stared at two men coming out of the darkness just beyond the pool of friendly light and laughter, masked so that only the black of their eyes could be seen, and leveling revolvers at them. The two gunmen said nothing, but Jacob Goldman gasped out in a strangled cry, “You!”
A timeless drama was once again about to be played out, an ancient debt was once more to be paid, and blood was about to be spilled once more in humanity’s longest war.