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What is the best Hitler biography?

by Andrew Hamilton




I’m not a National
Socialist, but…
I have read a few
books on Hitler.

Regarding Hitler,
I agree with
Irmin Vinson:



I consider Hitler less a model to be followed than an avalanche of propaganda we must dig ourselves out from under. Never in human history has a single man received such sustained vilification, the basic effect and purpose of which has been to inhibit Whites from thinking racially and from acting in their own racial self-interest, as all other racial/ethnic groups do. Learning the truth about Hitler is a liberating experience. By the truth I mean not an idealized counter-myth to the pervasive myth of Hitler as evil incarnate, but the man himself, faults and virtues, strengths and weaknesses. (“Some Thoughts on Hitler”)

Since literally thousands of worthless books have been churned out about Der Boss, how does one sift through the massive pile of crap on the hopeful assumption that, “Hey, with all this manure, there must be a pony in here somewhere!”?

A “good” biography by my definition is an objective, truthful account, not a comic book fabrication about a lunatic, one-testicled rug chewer, or a thinly-disguised religious fable in which Hitler (= Satan/Nazis/Germans/white people) crucifies 6 million Jews (= God’s chosen people, elbowing the Lord Jesus Christ aside) by fantastic and diabolical means before efficiently employing the grisly remains to manufacture bars of soap and lampshades for the amusement of Hitler and his henchmen, or to lighten the burden of wartime rationing.

Hopefully, the book would be well-written and fun to read, as well.

If there’s a reliable bibliographical essay along these lines, I am unaware of it.


Ian Kershaw’s biography

What brought this perennial question—What is the best Hitler biography?—to mind recently was an article about English historian Sir Ian Kershaw in the Guardian (UK) newspaper asserting that the author’s two-volume, 2,000-page (prolixity is the norm in Hitler studies) biography of Hitler published to wide acclaim a decade ago, “is likely to remain the standard life for a generation.”

The biography is: Volume 1, Hitler, 1889–1936: Hubris (London: 1998), and Volume 2, Hitler, 1936–1945: Nemesis (London: 2000). A single-volume abridgement, Hitler: A Biography, appeared in 2008.

This pattern of two-volume books and abridgements, plus multiple translations, editions and printings of the same book at different times, often with different titles, continually bedevils the researcher.

Kershaw, who comes from a white, working-class background, does not inspire confidence. Among other things, he’s a knight (OBE), though he claims to be “embarrassed” by the “neo-feudal title.”

During the so-called Historikerstreit (Historians’ Dispute) in Germany from 1986 to 1989, Kershaw teamed with academic mentor Martin Broszat, an anti-German German, to publicly attack other German historians—Ernst Nolte, Andreas Hillgruber, Michael Stürmer, Joachim Fest and Klaus Hildebrand—as apologists for the German past.


“Comic Book” Titles as a Screen

One heuristic I use is to reject any book with a ridiculous or patently propagandistic title.

Using that guideline, the New York Times did Kershaw no favor when it titled its shallow reviews of his two Hitler volumes “The Devil’s Miracle Man” and “When Depravity Was Contagious,” respectively.

Examples of other self-destructive titles are The Psychopathic God: Adolf Hitler (1977; 1993), Explaining Hitler: The Search for the Origins of His Evil (1998), Hitler: The Pathology of Evil (1998), Adolf Hitler: A Chilling Tale of Propaganda as Packaged by Joseph Goebbels. (1999), Adolf Hitler: A Study in Hate (2001), and Hitler and the Nazi Leaders: A Unique Insight into Evil (2001).


Books I own

I read Konrad Heiden’s critical Der Fuehrer: Hitler’s Rise to Power (1944) in high school. Its first chapter, “Protocols of the Wise Men of Zion,” was my introduction to Alfred Rosenberg. I remember being enthralled by the book. Heiden was at least half-Jewish (his mother). He eventually fled Germany and settled in the United States, where he died in 1966. In Hitler’s War David Irving warns against reliance upon Heiden’s and several other biographies “hitherto accepted as ‘standard’ sources on Hitler” without further elaboration.

Another book I read while young is journalist William Shirer’s 1,245-page The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich: A History of Nazi Germany (1960). It sold more than 2 million copies and won the National Book Award. I read the whole thing, but with nothing like the zest I read Der Fuehrer. Unfortunately, Shirer’s work is empirically and ideologically flawed.

Robert Payne, author of The Life and Death of Adolf Hitler (1973), was a freelance writer, not an academic or journalist. He was enormously prolific. I looked him up in Contemporary Authors and learned that he authored over 110 novels, biographies, and histories. If he began at age 20, he wrote (and published) more than two books per year until he died at age 72. Evidently his pace exacted a price on accuracy. Besides purveying conventional ideological and racial animus, the biography contains glaring factual errors, some very big indeed.

Two spurious memoirs frequently cited by mainstream historians are Hermann Rauschning’s Conversations with Hitler (1940) (US title: The Voice of Destruction and Fritz Thyssen’s I Paid Hitler (1943) (neither of which I own), both published by a Hungarian Jew, Churchill confidant, and world federalist named Emery Reves.

Rauschning’s fabricated Conversations with Hitler has been relied upon by William L. Shirer, Robert Payne, Jewish historians Leon Poliakov, Gerhard Weinberg, and Nora Levin, Alan Bullock’s Hitler: A Study in Tyranny (1952) (the first comprehensive biography, Bullock’s Hitler dominated scholarship for years; it also possesses the kind of title that’s a red flag to me; I do not own it), and Joachim C. Fest’s Hitler (Germ. 1973, Eng. trans. 1974), among others. For background on this see Mark Weber, “Rauschning’s Phony Conversations With Hitler: An Update,” Journal of Historical Review (Winter 1985–86), pp. 499 ff.

Nevertheless, as David Irving points out, “Historians are quite incorrigible, and will quote any apparently primary source [memoirs, diaries, autobiographies, etc.] no matter how convincingly its false pedigree is exposed.” When “serious” biographers rely upon works like Rauschning’s, their books should be approached cautiously, if at all.

Fest’s Hitler, the first major biography since Alan Bullock’s in 1952, and the first ever by a German author, became the bestselling book in Germany upon its publication; the next year it was translated into 17 languages. A prominent German journalist, broadcaster, and anti-Nazi, Fest was one of a troika of Establishment editors who re-wrote, or co-wrote, German armaments minister Albert Speer’s famous memoir, Inside the Third Reich (Germ. 1969; Eng. trans. 1970). (Speer was imprisoned at Spandau from 1946 to 1966.) The book, a worldwide bestseller, made a fortune for Speer and earned widespread praise for its disavowal of Hitler. According to David Irving, Speer had a secret agreement with his German publisher, Ullstein Verlag, to pay 25% of all royalties and proceeds to the State of Israel.

About Fest’s Hitler Irving wrote, “Stylistically, Fest’s German was good; but the old legends were trotted out afresh, polished to an impressive gleam of authority.”

As noted above, Fest fought on the conservative side of Germany’s Historian’s Dispute in the 1980s, denying the “singularity” of the Holocaust (which, however, he believed in). His Wikipedia entry provides lengthy quotations that strike a contemporary reader as heretical.

Finally, a friend kindly gave me his copy of Timothy W. Ryback’s Hitler’s Private Library: The Books That Shaped His Life (2008), which is both interesting and informative.


Recommendations of a dissident: William Pierce’s National Vanguard Books Catalog (December 1988)

I’ve often used this valuable reference over the years. It is essentially an elaborate college syllabus. Subdivisions include “European Prehistory, Archaeology, & Folkways,” “European Legend, Myth, and Religion,” “History of Western Civilization,” “Western Art,” and so on. Its 125 carefully-selected titles provide in-depth knowledge and a comprehensive overview of the white race and Western civilization.

With the exception of Mein Kampf, only three Hitler biographies are included in Pierce’s catalog, none of them standard ones. Two are: Heinz A. Heinz, Germany’s Hitler (London: 1934), and Hans Baur (Hitler’s personal pilot), Hitler at My Side (1986).

The third, Otto Wagener’s Hitler–Memoirs of a Confidant (1985), was written in 1946 when Wagener was a British prisoner. It was not published until many years after his death by the late Yale historian Henry Ashby Turner, Jr. Pierce described the book as “By far the most informative and positive memoir by a confidant of Hitler since August Kubizek’s The Young Hitler I Knew” ([German 1953, English 1955], another memoir NV had previously sold).

A notable feature of Wagener’s memoir is that, according to historian Gordon Craig’s New York Times review, it strongly emphasizes Hitler’s pro-British views and depicts the Führer as “an ‘unwitting prisoner’ of Göring, Goebbels and Himmler, powerless to prevent his true intentions from being distorted by evil associates for their own criminal purposes”—claims by an eyewitness that parallel David Irving’s controversial views.


Mein Kampf (My Struggle) and Zweites Buch (Second Book)

Though not biographies, strictly speaking, I own 1950s-era drugstore paperback copies of Hitler’s Secret Conversations, 1941–1944 (1953) and Felix Gilbert, ed. and trans., Hitler Directs His War (1950).

According to David Irving, the transcripts published as Hitler’s Secret Conversations, 1941–1944 are genuine. (Though Irving doesn’t say it, the book he discusses, Hitler’s Table Talk, 1941–1944, is the same as mine, but with a different title—I warned you it’s complicated!)

I recommend clicking on the preceding link to get a feel for how important it is to understand the provenance and reliability—the evidentiary basis—of even “mainstream” books and texts you might otherwise assume are problem-free. To his credit, Irving is keenly aware of the difficulties posed by mainstream books and official documents housed in archives. They cannot simply be accepted at face value.

I should nevertheless quote the following from Irving’s web page:

The Table Talks’ content is more important in my view than Hitler’s Mein Kampf, and possibly even more than his Zweites Buch (1928). It is unadulterated Hitler. He expatiates on virtually every subject under the sun, while his generals and private staff sit patiently and listen, or pretend to listen, to the monologues.

Along with Sir Nevile Henderson’s gripping 1940 book Failure of a Mission: Berlin, 1937-1939, this was one of the first books that I read, as a twelve year old: Table Talk makes for excellent bedtime reading, as each “meal” occupies only two or three pages of print. My original copy, purloined from my twin brother Nicholas, was seized along with the rest of my research library in May 2002.

He adds: “Ignore the 1945 ‘transcripts’ published by Hugh Trevor-Roper in the 1950s as Hitler’s Last Testament [The Testament of Adolf Hitler—Ed.]—they are fake.” That book purports to be Martin Bormann’s notes on Hitler’s final bunker conversations.

Mein Kampf was originally published in German in two volumes, the first in 1925 and the second in 1927. English translations combine both volumes into one.

I read Mein Kampf thoroughly in 1988, as my well-marked copy indicates. (The fact that it was ’88 is coincidental!) However, the book did not have an impact on me intellectually or emotionally. I wasn’t a national socialist then (much less a National Socialist) and am not one now. Nor do I view Hitler as a quasi-sacred figure.

Part of the reason for the book’s lack of effect may be due to the particular translation I purchased. In the original German the book was a runaway bestseller and the source of much of Hitler’s private fortune. Even acknowledging the political factors involved, one cannot dismiss the possibility that it reads better in German than in its English translations. The quality of a translation determines how well a book “travels” from one language to another. Both fidelity to the original (accuracy) and transmission of the spirit or feel are necessary. I have experienced translations that capture the originals marvelously, and others where even classic works appear dead on the page.

I bought my copy of Mein Kampf without prior research and ended up purchasing the 1939 Hurst and Blackett translation by James Murphy.

Murphy, a former Irish Catholic priest, was hired by the German government to make the official English translation, but the project was scuttled after a dispute. Murphy continued the translation nevertheless, and it appeared independently in Britain in 1939.

I later learned that many English-speaking National Socialists prefer Ralph Manheim’s 1943 Houghton Mifflin translation (which I have not read). It is possible that Manheim better catches the spirit of Hitler’s original, because he was also the translator of Konrad Heiden’s Der Fuehrer which so enthralled me as a boy.

In his catalog, William Pierce categorized Mein Kampf as “semi-autobiographical,” calling it “a beacon and a guide to every healthy soul in this dark age, to everyone who seeks understanding and light.” He described the differences between the English translations this way:

Manheim translation: Accurate, but marred by anti-Hitler introductions and derogatory footnotes.

Murphy translation: No hostile comments, but the translation is not as faithful to the original text.

After Mein Kampf, Hitler wrote what has become known as the Zweites Buch (Second Book) (1928), an extension and elaboration of his foreign policy aims. It also sets forth his views of the Soviet Union, France, Great Britain, and the United States. The book was written to clarify his foreign policy objectives for the German public after the 1928 elections. However, his publisher advised him that, from a sales point of view, the time was not propitious for bringing it out. By 1930 Hitler had decided that it revealed too much about his intentions, so it was never published.

In 1935 it was locked away at his order in a safe inside an air raid shelter. There it remained until the fall of Germany in 1945, when it was discovered by the American invaders. Its authenticity was reportedly vouched for by Josef Berg and Telford Taylor.

In 1958 the manuscript of the Zweites Buch, having again fallen into obscurity, was rediscovered in American archives by Jewish historian Gerhard Weinberg. Weinberg, whose family left Germany for the United States in 1938, is the author of numerous anti-German academic books and articles and a vigorous Holocaust promoter. He is Shapiro Senior Scholar in Residence at the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum. Weinberg strongly supported the ethnic cleansing of Germans from Eastern Europe after WWII, which resulted in an enormous number of white deaths.

Unable to find a US publisher for the book, Weinberg turned to a fellow Jew in Germany, Hans Rothfels; a German edition of the Second Book was issued in 1961. (A pirated copy translated into English appeared in New York the following year.) An authoritative English edition did not appear until 40 years later: Gerhard L. Weinberg, ed., Hitler’s Second Book: The Unpublished Sequel to Mein Kampf (New York: Enigma Books, 2003).

Because I had never heard of this book until 2003, I thought the whole story a bit strange. It is unclear how many scholars apart from Weinberg have examined the original manuscript, or what methods of authentication were used. However, David Irving sold the 2003 edition at one of his lectures, and has indicated at least implicitly on several occasions (some quoted here) that he accepts the book as genuine.


David Irving

David Irving’s Hitler’s War is interesting on several levels.

An independent, non-academic historian, Irving has been victimized to an unimaginable degree over many decades by the Jewish power structure, including a global panoply of government agencies, apparatchiks, courts, police, and academic and media shills eternally at its beck and call. His suffering is mind-numbing proof of the bizarre, Orwellian world we live in. Blacklisted and bankrupted, his personal prosperity and former high reputation are in ruins.

His book, as usual, is long: 985 pages (2002 ed.), and again there is the thorny problem of multiple volumes and editions of a single biography floating around. Hitler’s War was first published in 1977, and its prequel, The War Path, in 1978. In 1991 a revised 1-volume edition incorporating both books was issued as Hitler’s War. In 2002, a revised “Millennium Edition” was published under the title Hitler’s War and the War Path, incorporating the latest documents from American, British, and former Soviet archives. This is the one I own.

In an introductory Note Irving states that in the Millennium Edition he has not revised his earlier views, but merely refined the narrative and reinforced the documentary basis of his former assertions.

Famed for working almost exclusively from official archival documents, diaries, private letters, and other original source material, his method has the downside of somewhat impeding smooth narrative flow. However, this is compensated for by the rich source material. Almost incredibly, Irving admits:

I have dipped into Mein Kampf but never read it: it was written only partly by Hitler, and that is the problem. More important are Hitlers Zweites Buch, (1928) which he wrote in his own hand; and Hitler’s Table Talk, daily memoranda which first Heinrich Heim (Martin Bormann’s adjutant, whom I interviewed) and then Henry Picker wrote down at his table side, and the similar table talks recorded by Werner Koeppen (which I was the first to exploit, in Hitler’s War).

In his introduction, notes, and on his website, Irving reveals the care necessary in dealing with even supposedly reliable documentary materials, never mind historians’ work (which he typically ignores). German memoirs, for example, have been extensively tampered with by publishers, Allied authorities, and others. When using them Irving attempts to work from the original typescripts rather than published texts. Even documents contained in government archives have been altered, removed, or otherwise manipulated. His many discussions about such issues are highly instructive.

Irving is not a “Holocaust denier” as Jews claim, though he does not believe in every jot and tittle of their religious narrative as everyone else does.

One of Irving’s most controversial claims is that “antisemitism” in Germany was “a powerful vote catching force,” “an evil steed” that Hitler had no compunction in riding to the chancellorship in 1933. But once in power, “he dismounted and paid only lip service to that part of his Party’s creed.” The “evil gangsters” under him, however—Heinrich Himmler, Reinhard Heydrich, and Joseph Goebbels—continued to ride it even when Hitler dictated differently.

Although Irving maintains that a Jewish Holocaust of sorts did occur (unfortunately, he is exceedingly vague, evasive, and even contradictory about its details, and denies any interest in it), he says that Hitler’s evil henchmen dreamed it up and carried it out entirely without Hitler’s knowledge or approval. Thus, while Irving is a Hitlerphile, he is extremely harsh toward “bad guys” like Himmler (in particular), Heydrich, and Goebbels. The reader may perhaps see how Irving’s central thesis is hard to… accept.

Irving has published a critical biography of Goebbels and is currently working on one about Himmler. Himmler’s elderly daughter Gudrun has publicly expressed her fear that Irving will perform a hatchet job on her father in an attempt to salvage his (Irving’s) reputation.

In fairness to Irving, Jewish historian Felix Gilbert, editor of Hitler Directs His War (above), wrote that “during the war, Hitler cut himself off from all his former associates and interests and closed himself in at his headquarters with his military advisers. The center of Hitler’s activities became then the daily conferences on the military situation.” This suggests possible great autonomy on the part of Himmler and others, at least after the inception of the war. Irving, however, tends to emphasize disloyalty, deceit, and manipulation by Himmler and others rather than Hitler’s isolation or distraction. Still, as previously noted, Otto Wagener’s Hitler: Memoirs of a Confidant also presents a picture of Hitler’s relationship to his top lieutenants even in the early days of the regime that is similar to Irving’s.

The most important thing to note is that Hitler’s War is not a biography per se, but a military history of WWII from Hitler’s perspective. My primary interest, however, apart from biography, is the racial, political, philosophical, and social aspects of Hitler’s Germany rather than the conduct of the war.


John Toland’s Hitler

La Crosse, Wisconsin-born John W. Toland is another independent scholar who wrote a major biography of Hitler: Adolf Hitler: The Definitive Biography. Something of an intellectual renegade in his later years, he managed to stay beneath the radar screen of controversy. His books remain popular and highly regarded. His best-known book, The Rising Sun: The Decline and Fall of the Japanese Empire, 1936–1945 (1970), won the Pulitzer Prize for General Nonfiction. Based upon extensive original interviews with high Japanese officials who survived the war, it was the first book in English to tell the history of the war in the Pacific from the Japanese rather than the American point of view. (Toland married a Japanese woman.)

Toland’s mildly controversial Infamy: Pearl Harbor and Its Aftermath (1982) offered a quasi-revisionist view of the Roosevelt Administration’s scapegoating of the Pearl Harbor commanders and subsequent cover-up. The Pearl Harbor book led to Toland’s association with the Holocaust revisionist Institute for Historical Review (IHR), at whose meeting he spoke.

After Jewish terrorists firebombed the Institute on the Fourth of July, 1984, destroying its warehouse and inventory of books (American authorities “never found”—or punished—the perpetrators), Toland wrote to the IHR:

When I learned of the torching of the office-warehouse of the Institute for Historical Review I was shocked. And when I heard no condemnation of this act of terrorism on television and read no protests in the editorial pages of our leading newspapers or from the halls of academia, I was dismayed and incensed. Where are those defenders of democracy who over the years have so vigorously protested the burning of books by Hitler? Are they only summer soldiers of democracy, selective in their outrage? I call on all true believers in democracy to join me in public denunciation of the recent burning of books in Torrance, California.

Toland’s Adolf Hitler was based upon a great deal of original research, including previously unpublished documents, diaries, notes, photographs, and interviews with Hitler’s colleagues and associates. I have had difficulty identifying a good copy of the biography for sale on Amazon due to the headache of multiple editions and reprints I mentioned earlier.

As near as I can determine, the initial publication was Adolf Hitler, 2 vols. (Garden City, New York: Doubleday, 1976). However, sellers often list it for sale on Amazon while really having only one volume (which one is usually undeterminable) in stock. On the other hand, one seller informed me that he checked his 1976 edition in the warehouse, and it appeared to be a complete book in one volume. My impression is that the reprint (I assume it is unrevised), Adolf Hitler: The Definitive Biography (Doubleday, 1992), is the same book in a single volume.

Toland’s biography was well-received by both reviewers and the public. In his autobiography Toland wrote that he earned little money from his Pulitzer Prize-winning The Rising Sun, but was set for life thanks to the earnings from Adolf Hitler.

Patrick Buchanan penned a column about the book in 1977, after which he was widely condemned for “praising Hitler.” Daniel Weiss of the Virginia Quarterly Review wrote that “In some respects the Hitler who emerges is almost too human, too normal.”

Mark Weber, director of the Institute for Historical Review and a longtime WWII revisionist who reads German, writes:

I’m sometimes asked which biography of Hitler I think is best, or which I recommend. In my view, the best single biography of Hitler, and the one I most often recommend, is the one by John Toland, Adolf Hitler. It’s especially good in helping the reader to understand Hitler’s personality and outlook. Kershaw’s biography is detailed, but it’s also very slanted and leaves out a lot.

It would be a mistake to assume that Weber’s recommendation is the result of Toland’s brief connection with the IHR. Adolf Hitler was written several years before that relationship developed. Moreover, in 1977, when David Irving offered a thousand pound reward to anyone who could produce a single wartime document showing that Hitler knew anything about the Holocaust, Toland published an emotional appeal in Der Spiegel urging his fellow historians to refute Irving.

It is unlikely that Toland’s book is “pro-Hitler.” Certainly, reviewers have not attacked it as such.


Conclusion

I guess I’ll go with Toland’s biography, evidently the most objective, despite owning several others instead. Although I’ve only scratched the surface, it is apparent that enormous effort is required to merely survey the field before diving in to actually get a handle on The Most Evil Man Who Ever Lived.

And what is the likely outcome of such an effort? Well, David Irving, who has spent the better part of a lifetime studying the Führer, concluded:

What is the result of twenty years’ toiling in the archives? Hitler will remain an enigma, however hard we burrow. Even his intimates realised that they hardly knew him. General Alfred Jodl, his closest strategic adviser, wrote in his Nuremberg cell on March 10, 1946: “I ask myself, did you ever really know this man at whose side you led such a thorny and ascetic existence? To this very day I do not know what he thought or knew or really wanted.”

_____________________

Fifteen comments about this article can be read at Counter-Currents Publishing.

Categories
Literature Lord of the Rings Protestantism

The Scouring of the Shire

by Greg Johnson

After the destruction of the Ring and the downfall of the Dark Lord, Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin return to the Shire only to find that it has been seized by aliens who have enslaved and robbed the hobbits and ravaged the land.

The returning veterans rouse their people to rebellion, killing many of the usurpers and driving the rest away. Then they discover who was behind it: the fallen wizard Saruman, who is banished from the Shire. Before he can leave, however, he is killed by his servant in crime, the treacherous Wormtongue, who is then felled by three hobbit arrows.

This chapter was omitted from Peter Jackson’s film trilogy (as well as Ralph Bakshi’s animated version), although Jackson does allude to it in two places. In The Fellowship of the Ring, when Frodo peers into Galadriel’s mirror, he has a vision of the hobbits enslaved and the shire blighted by dark satanic mills. In the extended version of The Return of the King, after the fall of Isengard, Merry and Pippin discover that Saruman’s storehouses contain products from the Shire, indicating some sort of contact.

But Jackson moved the deaths of Saruman and Wormtongue to the fall of Isengard. Wormtongue still kills Saruman, but he is dispatched by an arrow from Legolas. [see YouTube clip here] Thus when Frodo and company return to the Shire, they find it unchanged. Thus in Jackson’s telling, Frodo’s vision was just one possible future foreclosed by the death of Saruman at Isengard.

Still, I think it a shame that “The Scouring of the Shire” was not filmed, for it is a potent political allegory that remains relevant today. Most commentators simply note that the Scouring is based on Tolkien’s personal experience of returning from the trenches of World War I to find England a changed place. But the Scouring goes far beyond anything in Tolkien’s experiences. It is a work of imagination, a political allegory that far more closely resembles the experiences of German soldiers returning from the Great War to find a radically new, alien-dominated regime.

The Shire was subjugated as follows. After the fall of Isengard, Saruman was reduced to a wandering “beggar in the wilderness,” a refugee. But when he enjoyed power, the wandering wizard developed a far-flung network reaching all the way to the Shire, where he cultivated the friendship of Lotho Pimple.

The Shire was an agrarian, autarkic society of independent small farmers and merchants. Pimple, however, was sufficiently alienated and ambitious that he wished to change this social order. He wanted more land than he could work himself, and he wanted hirelings to work it, so he could grow rich by growing cash crops for export. In short, he wanted to be a big shot with a plantation.

By means of mysterious infusions of capital from outside the Shire (obviously from Saruman) Pimple managed to target economically troubled small holders for takeover (perhaps by loaning them money at usurious rates and then foreclosing when they could not pay), reducing them to employees on what was once their own land. Thus Pimple became a big man, styling himself Chief Shirrif and then just Chief. When Saruman and Wormtongue arrived as refugees, naturally Pimple took them in.

Having elevated the rootless and greedy Pimple to power, Saruman cozied up with the Chief and began to institute a new order. He brought in racially indeterminate aliens to intimidate and terrorize the hobbits. He also recruited hobbits of defective character — people who wanted to act big and meddle in other people’s business (in the internet age, we call them trolls) — to vastly expand the police force. This was necessary, because Saruman also vastly expanded rules and regulations in order to yoke and mulct the hobbits. Naturally there was discontent, so a vast network of spies and informants was created, as well as a courier service to swiftly convey reports and orders. Dissidents were thus easily ferreted out and imprisoned.

Society was collectivized. Private homes were replaced by ugly, cramped, ramshackle housing developments. Rationing was introduced to crush the hobbits’ spirits and lower their standard of living, freeing resources to be consumed by their new overlords or to be exported for cash. Leisure was restricted and work expanded. Handcrafts, which were fine for an aesthetically refined and ecologically sustainable subsistence economy, were replaced by heavy industry to produce exports for cash.

This industry was fueled by wholesale deforestation and fouled the water and the air. But the desecration of nature went far beyond the bounds of even economic necessity, betraying a hatred of nature and beauty as such. Saruman’s real goal was less to create a new world than to destroy the old.

Finally, to cement his rule, Saruman had his collaborator Pimple secretly killed once he had outlived his usefulness.

It is simply an error to reduce this all to an allegory of the endogenous rise of capitalism in England. For the role of Saruman indicates that this process was far from endogenous in the Shire. Nor was it in England, for that matter. Saruman represents an alien influence, specifically the Jewish spirit — rootless, alienated, materialistic, and ultimately nihilistic — which is incarnated both in Jewry and its extended phenotype, Calvinism and low-church Protestantism. (It was the Puritan Revolution that brought the Jews back to England.)

Yet Saruman’s takeover and elimination of Pimple does not resemble anything that happened in England. But it does resemble the revolution that deposed the Kaiser, followed by various Judeo-Bolshevik Putsches and ultimately the Jewish-dominated Weimar Republic. Furthermore, Saruman’s totalitarian system of spies and informants and his expropriation of small farms and seizure of their produce did not take place in England or Germany, but it did happen in Soviet Russia, leading to some of history’s greatest crimes against European man.

Thus “The Scouring of the Shire” is a political allegory applicable not just to England but to all forms of Jewish subversion of traditional society.

But it is also an allegory of how a people might regain control of its destiny. The hobbits have lost their freedom through salami tactics. Each day a little more of their freedom was sliced off, but not enough to cause a general rebellion, just a lot of passive grumbling, until finally, when the meaning of what was happening dawned on them, it was too late. Frodo and company, however, returned home after a long absence, and the change hit them all at once. It did not slowly demoralize and enervate them. It made them fighting mad.

And as war veterans, they knew something about fighting. The Shire was also lost because the hobbits were disunited and fearful, ultimately because they had enjoyed a soft and easy-going lifestyle. Frodo and his comrades, however, had been tested and hardened in the crucible of war. They were not cowed by alien bullies, no matter what their stature. They immediately resolved to rally their people and scour the Shire of the usurpers. The hobbits had been long groaning under the new regime. The veterans were the spark to the tinder.

A few opening skirmishes led to a climactic battle at Bywater, which left nearly 70 of the alien interlopers dead and the rest in chains or flight. Nineteen hobbits also lay dead. The hobbits then marched to Bag End to depose Saruman and send him packing without penalty. The prisoners were also sent on their way unharmed. These foolishly gentle policies toward murderers were justified by Frodo with effusions of moral and metaphysical clap-trap that remind us that, after all, this is children’s literature. Best we ignore him when our own enemies are at our mercy.

The closest historical analogy to “The Scouring of the Shire” comes from Germany, where various Freikorps groups — militias of demobilized veterans — put down Judeo-Bolshevik Putsches in Prussia and Bavaria. Furthermore, the successor of the Freikorps was the NSDAP, also led and staffed by veterans, which finally put an end to the Weimar Republic. It is a model worth contemplating today as thousands of white veterans return from a Jewish-instigated war in Iraq to face 30 percent unemployment in a homeland overrun and despoiled by non-white immigrants. They are a constituency just waiting for a leader.

Categories
Civil war

“Being a sex trade worker, I am in a politically protected category”


The Brigade excerpts, chapter VI

by Harold Covington

The Mami and the Monkey



No ellipsis
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“You back on the pipe, Kick?” “No, I’m not back on the pipe!” Kristin “Kicky” McGee snapped back. “I’m clean as a whistle, and I been clean for six months now!”

“Yeah, well, I guess I shouldn’t have called the cops on you. That wasn’t, like, playing the game,” muttered Lenny. “Then again, maybe if I wanted to jam you up I should have turned you in for hatecrime. I know you don’t like dark meat, but that’s prejudice, even in a whore.”

“The term is sex trade worker, thank you,” said Kicky primly. “And it’s not prejudice, it’s a preference. Being a sex trade worker, I am in a politically protected category, sort of anyway, and I’m allowed to have preferences. Remember, no means no. Even for hookers.”

While the two of them were haggling, a nondescript older model Ford Explorer pulled up outside Jupiter’s Den. It was a warm summer’s day, and the SUV’s two occupants had the windows rolled down. The driver was a tall and powerful man with a seamed boxer’s face, a shaved head and goatee beard. The pro wrestler look wasn’t Big Jim McCann’s personal choice, since he was a master electrician by profession, but he needed to alter his appearance because his face was on a few too many wanted posters, web sites, and television screens as of late. McCann was quartermaster of the NVA’s First Portland Brigade. His passenger was Jesse “Cat-Eyes” Lockhart, who after much debate amounting to a passionate argument between Tommy Coyle and Zack Hatfield, had been transferred from D Company to First Brigade A Company and put on sniper duty in the big city. As reluctant as Zack had been to let him go, and as reluctant as Lockhart himself had been to leave his old friends and comrades in Clatsop County, the fact was that Cat was running out of major targets in D Company’s area of operation, and he was too valuable a resource to waste out in the sticks plinking away at Mexican dock workers and the local Chamber of Commerce. In the short time he had been in Portland, the Jack of Diamonds had already bagged a city councilman, a U.S. Army colonel, the head of the African-American Democratic Club, another FBI agent, and several police officers. His presence in the city was known, and he was driving the local politically correct establishment into hysterics. “You want me to go in with you?” asked Lockhart.

“Naw,” said McCann. “Gillis is a nervous little cuss, and he might get spooked if he sees somebody he don’t know. I just need to find out from him where he’s got the stuff stashed, and set up a pickup so we can get the gear and pay him. Then we need to get you to the Mayflower Hotel.” It was time for Cat to change safe houses, and McCann had been the only transport available. McCann’s phone beeped. He took it out of his pocket and flipped it open. “Yeah?” He listened for a few moments. “Okay.” He closed the phone. “That was our escort vehicle. Van Gelder says there’s a patrol coming down Sandy Boulevard, two units and an armored car. Unmarked, probably Portland Rapid Response, but maybe BATFE or FBI. They’re cruising slow. The way they’re coming, looks like they’re gonna turn onto 82nd in about a minute.”

“I don’t think they’re looking for us specifically,” said Lockhart. “They’ve been doing that a lot lately, keeping goon squads on the street as rapid response teams, moving around, trying to cover the city so they can move in fast with a lot of firepower on any of our naughty shenanigans. Ace and me got chased by one of those crews last time out.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want them driving by and looking in here and recognizing you,” said McCann. “You’d better come inside after all. Just hang back at the bar while I have my chat with Lenny, and then we’ll move on after Van tells us they’ve passed.”

Kicky turned around and saw one of the men who looked like a wrestler or a biker walk forward to talk to Gillis. They met at the end of the bar nearest to where Kicky sat in the booth. Reading men was a vital survival skill in Kicky’s lines of work both legitimate and otherwise, and with these two she immediately read muscle of some kind, heavy muscle. There was just something about the way they carried themselves, not with a criminal swagger or thuggish biker lope, but controlled and fast and efficient, no wasted motion.

She got up and went to the ladies’ room, in a small corridor near the bar. After she finished she quietly slipped down to the door of the men’s room at the other end of the short hallway and studied the younger man in the long mirror behind the bar. The bartender brought him a diet soda in a can with a plastic cup, and when he turned to pour it Kicky saw his face and profile clearly. Damn, she thought, I know him from somewhere. Who is he? She ran over her long list of male personal and business acquaintances. No, not one of them. She rummaged through the past few years of her disorderly life. No, nothing. Was he on TV or something? Recognition suddenly slammed into her. Jesus H. Christ! she whistled to herself. It’s him! That sniper every cop and Feebie in the Northwest is looking for! Well, well! Lenny’s coming up in the world, looks like. What the fuck kind of business is he doing with the spuckies? Bet it’s guns.

Kicky left the club and returned to her battered single-wide mobile home in a rundown trailer park about two miles away. She didn’t have a car of her own, the cab company wouldn’t allow her to take her cab home, and the buses were full of Mexicans who always dirty-mouthed her in Spanish and pawed all over her, so she walked. She was so sick inside herself at what she was doing that it was all she could do to go home and not go out hunting the streets for some rock, but she knew full well that if she went back to the drugs as well as back to the sex trade, she would be dead or back in prison within a year, and her daughter would be scooped up by It Takes A Village like a barracuda snapping up a minnow.

The prospect of committing sexual acts with drunken and usually unhygienic strange men, even white men, filled her with such disgust that she wanted to vomit even at the thought, but she understood that she had reached the point in her life where her always limited range of choices had virtually disappeared. Kicky knew that America had one rule above all else. Get money. It didn’t matter how you did it, you got money, end of story, or else you ended up like the white-haired bag women Kicky saw pushing their possessions up and down 82nd Avenue and Sandy Boulevard in shopping carts. No welfare or affirmative action or diversity programs for poor white chicks. Poor white chicks either stole or put out, or they got left behind. If you had a white skin, you got money or you fell below the point of no return. Never mind all that crap you saw on TV, that lovely diverse, racially mixed society where there was still a middle class and still material things and all was jolly. That was television. It wasn’t real. 82nd Avenue was real.

“You goin’ back to whoring?” snorted the old lady.

Kicky didn’t attempt to evade the question. “I got to get money, Mom,” she said simply. “I have to get Ellie out of Oregon, out of Child Protective Services’ reach. Otherwise they’re going to take her and sell her to some rich bastards. I know she’d be better off with them…”

“Mommy!” shouted a small golden-haired personage of eighteen months, wearing nothing but a Pamper, who gallumphed into the room from the bedroom and hugged onto Kicky’s leg. “Up!” she demanded. “Up me!”

“Hi, baby girl,” said Kicky with a smile, picking up the child. “Ooh, pooh, baby made a boo-boo! You need a change! Come on, let’s fix that!” She snagged another Pamper from the torn bag on the cracked Formica kitchen table and headed for the bathroom, trying not to think of what she would be doing later on.

*  *  *

She was wearing short hot pants and gleaming vinyl boots with elevated although not quite high heels, a low-cut halter top with no bra (she knew a lot of her potential customers found her tattoos erotic), a wide leather belt, and carrying a shoulder bag purse containing such items as extra condom packs and sex toys. It also contained a canister of pepper spray in a special holster sleeve.

Kicky looked around for Lenny Gillis, but couldn’t see him anywhere on the floor. She shoved through a door marked “Employees Only”—well, she was kind of an employee now—and looked in his office, which was also empty. She slipped outside into the alley.

The shouting was coming from just on the other side of a dumpster. Kicky crept up and peeked around the side of the receptacle. Lenny Gillis was being held up against the wall by a large, black, uniformed Portland police officer. Shit! thought Kicky to herself in shock. It’s the Monkey!

Like any street girl, she had immediately recognized Detective Sergeant Jamal Jarvis of the Portland Police Bureau’s Hatecrime and Civil Disobedience Squad, the feared police unit that constituted the muscle arm of Portland’s ultra-liberal and politically correct establishment. The word on the street was clear and unambiguous: black, Mexican, and Asian hookers paid Jarvis off in money or sometimes in drugs, but white girls paid in trade. Kicky was not the only white working girl who still retained some vestige of decency and personal standards, and the fate of those who refused or evaded Jarvis’s demands was not encouraging. Such bigoted ladies of the evening tended to end up facing bogus charges and many years in prison, or getting a coffee cup full of acid in the face, or in some cases their dead and violated bodies were found floating in the Columbia River or jammed into a culvert. No one cared much about a few dead white skanks here and there, but there had eventually been such a rash of that kind of thing that even the politically correct Portland Police Bureau realized that they had to do something to avoid embarrassment.

Jarvis was in the process of assaulting Lenny with a heavy, flat, leather-wrapped implement about a foot long, known in police circles as a slapjack. It was just as heavy and painful, but the flat surface left less telltale bruising than a traditional blackjack. “Whutcha gonna do, Lenny?” Jarvis droned on, slapping Gillis’ head back and forth with the cosh, each blow a dull and sickening thud that sprayed blood from Gillis’s mutilated and bleeding face, his broken nose and bleeding eyes. “Whutcha gonna do, Lenny? Gib Roscoe his money, fukkin cracka, gib Roscoe his money.”

“I haven’t got it!” screamed Lenny hysterically. “I can get it Friday! I can get it Friday! Jesus God!”

“Friday ain’t today, muthafukka!” rumbled Roscoe. “Gimme my props, muthafukka! Gimme my thousand!”

Kicky realized with horror that Jarvis was high, on drugs and on shedding white blood. He didn’t really care about the money. He just liked to beat white boys. She also realized that Lenny had suddenly stopped screaming.

“Aw, shit, Jamal, you a fool!” yelled Roscoe angrily. “We was takin’ a grand a month off this ofay mutthafukka!”

“So we finds us another piece of white trash to pin it on,” said Jarvis carelessly. In her hiding place behind the piled cardboard boxes of trash, Kicky McGee suddenly realized her own deadly peril. She tried to back away quietly, and needless to say she managed to back into another stack of piled boxes and knock it over, the glass and cans and junk inside cascading into the alley floor with a clatter.

Jarvis and Roscoe were calloused and brutal men, but their animal instincts were sharp and when need arose they could both move fast. They were on her before she could get ten feet down the alley in her sprint for the door.

*  *  *

Kicky was still unconscious when they brought her in. She didn’t even know for sure where she was. It might have been some station house, but most likely she was somewhere in the bowels of the downtown Portland Justice Center on Pioneer Courthouse Square.

Originally built as a modish complex of brick, glass, and concrete to adorn a stylish and politically correct power structure, decorated with murals and sculptures by trendy Portland artists, the Justice Center had taken on a much more grim and stark appearance and function since the Coeur d’Alene rebellion had broken out the previous autumn. Other areas had been slow to realize the danger and had accordingly suffered courthouses and police stations burned, bombed, and invaded by the NVA, who sometimes torched big stacks of legal and law enforcement papers and records on rural courthouse lawns. Not Portland. The multi-structured complex of the Justice Center’s several buildings containing the courtrooms both state and federal, offices, and the headquarters of the Portland Police Bureau, had immediately been transformed at great taxpayers’ expense into a fully fortified and secured Green Zone, based on plans drawn up by consultants from Israel and the United Kingdom.

But the Center had become a place of fear and nightmare not just in its outward appearance. Inside were the headquarters not just of the police, but of the FBI and Department of Homeland Security. These agencies had considered their pre-10/22 offices too exposed, and they had taken over a large portion of the administrative floors of the federal courthouse and sealed it off. There were rumors of excavations being done in secret by specially imported construction crews of Asian and Mexican laborers as more offices, soundproofed interrogation cells, and holding cells were dug deep beneath the complex. Then there were the stories of the torture chambers deep beneath the earth or high in windowless rooms, padded to muffle the screams. It was known that more white prisoners entered the Justice Center than ever emerged. What happened to them no one knew, but it was rumored that there was a covert crematorium in one of the walled-off courtyards of the complex. The Justice Center cast a long shadow over the city of Portland, a warning to any who might dare think of rebelling against the United States, and a source of anger and hatred that glowed secretly in the recesses of men’s hearts and minds, burning steadily brighter as time went on and more and more white people’s family members disappeared into the Green Zone.

It was all gone. She was white, she was poor, and everything she knew from her very birth told her that no one on earth would lift a finger to help her. She had always held the bitter belief that she had nothing, but now that it was all gone she understood how much she’d really had before, the trailer where she could at least lay down her head at night alone if she chose, the sad drunken woman who had borne her but at least had not left her, and above all the little golden child she would never see again except maybe through the glass on visiting day. This couldn’t be happening. It was surely a nightmare. She had them sometimes. Surely she would wake up soon. She closed her eyes and desperately willed herself to wake up, but when she opened her eyes, she was still in the god-awful puce green room with the cloying and overpowering smell of fresh paint, a smell that was making her sick.

Outside, behind the two-way mirror, although Kicky could hear nothing through the soundproofed walls, Jamal Jarvis was having a spirited discussion with his partner, Detective Sergeant Elena Martinez. Lainie Martinez was the Mami half of the Portland detective team commonly known as the Mami and the Monkey. She was a tall, slim, thirty-something woman with clear olive skin, straight black hair, brown eyes and a figure that looked fine indeed in a bathing suit and turned many heads both male and lesbian in the indoor swimming pool in the police gym where she worked out every couple of days and swam 50 laps afterward. Unlike her quondam FBI counterpart, the late and rather unlamented Rabang Miller, Lainie was actually respected, if not liked, by her superiors and her fellow officers in the PB for her competence and her occasionally brilliant detective work. No one remembered ever having seen her smile.

She wasn’t smiling now. “Oh, for God’s sake, Jamal, how many of these messes do you think you can get away with making until Internal Affairs has finally had enough?” she snapped.

“Hey, it ain’t my fault a white boy’s candy ass is so fucking fragile he cain’t take a little beat-down,” muttered Jarvis defensively.

“Look, I know how the game is played,” said Lainie in irritation. “Until police salaries come up to something commensurate with the work we do, and the risks we take, especially now with a bunch of racist crazies gunning for us every time we step outside the door, then every officer with any initiative is going to have something going on the side.”

A Mexican uniformed officer came down the hall toward them, holding a larger manila file folder and handed it to Jarvis. (He had once made the mistake of addressing Sergeant Martinez in Spanish with a flippant “Hola, Mami!” and had almost found himself hauled up on sexual harassment charges.)

“Hey, Jamal, here’s the file on your puta blanca with the tattoos in there,” he said. “Lookin’ good, my man. Seems Lenny Gillis filed a complaint with us a few months back when she assaulted him, hit him in the head with a beer bottle. He dropped the charges, but it’s on record. She’s got priors for solicitation and holding, and she did fourteen months in Coffee Creek on a two to five for larceny and possession of stolen goods.”

Lainie was thoroughly Americanized, and she spoke Spanish only on these occasions when it was required in the line of work. Her one secret neurosis and obsession, not even admitted to the Bureau shrink during her periodic required evaluations, was that she wanted more than anything else to be white. Not just any white; Elena Martinez dreamed of herself as Nordic white, with creamy skin and golden hair. Like the girl in the interrogation room, only without the tattoos. Her unconscious longing had long ago sublimated itself into an almost insane hatred of white people in general, white racialists in particular, and blonde white women even more particularly.

Jamal Jarvis was sharp enough to realize that Lainie was smarter than he was, and he sensed that hers were good coattails for him to ride on, so he generally acted as the brawn of the team while she was the brains. It worked surprisingly well, and their high clearance rate and general rep for getting results in the form of confessions from suspected racists and other thought criminals had done them both good, departmentally speaking. But Jarvis sensed that Lainie was what the Hispanics referred to as a “cocoanut,” brown on the outside and white on the inside.

*   *   *

Kicky looked up as the door opened and the two detectives entered the room. Jarvis had a thick file in his hand that she presumed were her yellow sheets. She looked at Lainie, Levantine sleek and arrogant and dressed to the nines in a blue serge skirt and jacket like some kind of model in the Lady Cop Chic section of Vogue. She knew full well that any faint hope she had of ever getting out of this depended on her crawling and groveling like a whipped dog to these two, and yet something in her that she didn’t understand seemed to take on a perverse life of its own. “I see the Monkey, so I guess you must be the Mami,” she snarled at them.

Martinez leaned over the table, and like lightning she lashed out in a vicious slap across Kicky’s face, almost knocking her out of the chair. “Inmates in this Justice Center are prohibited from using racial or ethnic slurs, derogatory references to anyone based on race or sexual preference or national origin, or other hateful language, Ms. McGee,” she said. “It’s not only a violation of JC regulations, it’s a violation of the hatespeech section of the penal code. If you do so again you will be charged with felony hatespeech in addition to first degree murder. I suggest you take heed. You’re in trouble enough.”

“Watch yo’ mouf, bitch,” added Jarvis.

Martinez took the file and slammed it onto the desk in front of Kicky. “We’ve got you cold. Your previous assault on your pimp with a blunt instrument is the icing on the cake. You’re gone, girl. I’m offering you one chance for a deal. One only. You will plead guilty to voluntary manslaughter in the death of Leonard Gillis and I can arrange it with the DA so you get twelve to twenty. As an added sweetener, since I’m feeling generous this morning, I can arrange for you to serve your sentence in a medium security facility so you won’t have to go back to Coffee Creek. This is as good as it’s going to get, Kristin. Take it or leave it.”

“They call me Kicky,” said the girl sullenly.

“Of course they do,” sighed Martinez.

Don’t I get a lawyer?” she demanded.

“Technically speaking, since 9/11 the state no longer has to provide you with one, depending on whether we want to file this as a security case under the Patriot Act, but in Portland the powers that be do like to keep up appearances. So yes, if you want I can get you a legal aid attorney,” explained Lainie. “Any such attorney will almost certainly be black, Hispanic, Jewish, gay, female, or some combination of the above, and probably will hold as little brief for white trailer trash crack whores like you as I do, and they will advise you to take the deal I’m offering.”

“I suppose the fact that I didn’t kill Lenny doesn’t have a damned thing to do with anything?” Kicky demanded bitterly.

“No, of course it doesn’t,” responded Lainie with another sigh.

“What about justice?” cried Kicky.

“This is a legal matter. Justice has nothing to do with it,” explained Lainie irritably, irked at the girl’s stubborn stupidity. “I can’t believe you’ve been on the streets as long as you have, and you still don’t know how it works.”

Kicky’s self-control finally snapped. “No!” she screamed in uncontrollable rage. “Fuck you! Fuck both of you! I didn’t do anything, God damn you both to hell! I didn’t do anything! I didn’t kill Lenny, that nigger standing there did! You know it! I didn’t do anything!”

Martinez stood up and slapped Kicky across the face again, but more or less pro forma, without anger or enthusiasm. “Suit yourself, you stupid little twist,” she said in disgust. “Don’t you ever say I didn’t try and help you. First degree murder and a life sentence it is. I suggest you watch your language in Judge Feinstein’s court. He’s not going to believe any wild stories you come up with about a respected and decorated police officer killing your pimp, and if you keep on using racial slurs and try to offer perjured testimony against an African American officer, you need to remember that hatecrime carries life without parole. So go ahead, jump up in court and yell out your stupid lies, and really fuck yourself over forever. Hell, maybe it’s for the best. Wealthy and decent couples all over the U.S.A are going to be lining up around the block for that little girl of yours. Maybe you’re doing the right thing after all by permanently taking yourself out of the picture.” She and Jarvis turned and opened the door to leave.

Kicky stared in horror. She knew that the door wasn’t just closing on the interrogation room. It was closing on her, her whole life, on her daughter. They were going to take Ellie now. She had lost. They were going to take Ellie.

As the door closed, Kicky jumped up and screamed at the top of her lungs, “I can give you the NVA! Fucking spic bitch, you hear me? I can give you NVA! I know where they are! I can give you that sniper, that guy they call the Cat! I can give you two the NVA, you bitch, you baboon! Just let me go! Please, God, I didn’t do anything, please let me go, please don’t take my baby!” She collapsed onto the table top, weeping hysterically.

The door opened.

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Categories
Audios Real men

“How long are we going to be yellow dogs?”

Extracted from Harold Covington’s #5 Radio Free Northwest podcast.

Categories
Civil war Feminism Justice / revenge

“…and stuck a second Jack into her mouth”

The Brigade excerpts, chapter V

by Harold Covington


Hunting The Hunters



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added between
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On the morning of February 15th, Hatfield, Cat-Eyes Lockhart, Charlie Washburn, Tony Campisi, Len Ekstrom, and Lee Washburn met in a trailer out in the woods, which had used by their circle of friends as a hunting lodge in times past.

“Does Marie know?” asked Hatfield.

“She’s pretty sharp. She knows I’m up to something,” Tony admitted. “I just hope she doesn’t think I’m screwing around on her with another woman. I know you’re leery of bringing in married men because most white women can’t be trusted nowadays not to betray even their own husbands for money or to save their lifestyles, but don’t worry. They’re not all like that. Marie is one of the good ones.”

“I know she is,” said Hatfield with a nod. “And yes, I know they’re not all like that. It’s just that so many white women have become so damaged by life in this filthy society; we’ve got to tread very carefully. It’s a real problem and we have to be aware of it. And somehow we’re got to beat it, to bring white women around and show them that their future is with us. We can’t do this without our sisters at our side, gentlemen.”

After Tony left to stand watch, Charlie Washburn plunked down two newspapers. “Our little St. Valentine’s Day Massacre last night made the front page in both the Daily Astorian and the Oregonian.”

Hatfield looked at the screaming headlines. “Yeah, I bet if you count up the column inches and the minutes of television air time on this one, you’ll find that the Goldmans rate five times more than mere police officers. Dead Jews get the establishment’s attention. Well, hopefully today or tomorrow we can give them some more to jabber about. But this is going to be a lot tougher, gentlemen. Last night we took down two unarmed targets, hit the Beast in the soft underbelly like we’re supposed to. But this second act is going to be different. Now we have to attack armed targets who are trained in firefighting techniques and who will shoot back. Even more than the Goldmans, we need to make sure we have our shit together on this.”

“I drove by 39th Street on the way out here,” said Washburn. “The sun was barely up but all you could see was flashing lights. Those poor guys must have been out there all night. What the hell were they doing?”

“Probably they all trooped down there as soon as the sun rose to search the area in daylight,” said Hatfield. “That means they’re already doing CSI investigation. They probably have a state police crime lab team down from Portland or Salem. That means most likely the Feds won’t be bringing their own, which is good. Fewer FBI means more chance of cutting a couple away from the law enforcement herd when they go for pizza or something. Okay, here’s my educated guess. Two or more FBI agents are going to show up at the 39th Street pier late this morning or early this afternoon, even if the state and local boys have already done the work. The feebs will rock up at Rigoletto’s Beanery if only to show the flag and convince the local lefty establishment that they’re doing something. That’s where we need to wait for them, with Cat-Eyes in place and ready to fire.”

“Okay, Cat, I want us to get into position in the area so that we can get in there quick,” said Hatfield. “We’ll wait at the Maritime Museum on Marine Boulevard; there are always vehicles parked there, and anyone driving by will think we’re just tourists gawping at all the shippy stuff. As soon as we get word that the Feebs are in town, we drive to Columbia Prospect and park in front like we belong there. We go into the building through the lobby, with those boxes I showed you held up to shield our faces from the security cameras, just in case they’re operational. Are the boxes all scrubbed down?”

“With alcohol and with a Scotch pad, clean as a whistle,” said Lockhart.

“Good. Don’t touch them again without gloves. We’re going to be leaving them behind and I don’t want them to find a single fingerprint. “We have to hope the roof door isn’t alarmed,” said Hatfield. “I haven’t been able to actually get up there and take a look. It should be okay as a firing position, but if it isn’t we’ll have to go to Plan B.”

“Which is?” asked Charlie.

“If for any reason we can’t get up onto the apartment house roof, or the roof isn’t suitable, we’ll have to break into one of the third floor apartments on the north side of the building, with a view over the river, and fire from one of the windows,” said Hatfield. “That may involve hostage taking and restraint, if anybody’s home. Once we know they’re in town, if they haven’t showed at last night’s crime scene after a reasonable time, we’re going to have to clock them, improvise and take them on the wing somewhere. That’s why I want you guys in two other cars.”

“Now, on that subject, the brigade adjutant was able to give me some interesting info when I went up to Portland Sunday,” continued Hatfield. “The idea behind all the diversity is for them to be able to blend in to traffic and not be spotted as Fed, but they made one dumb-ass mistake which kind of defeats that whole purpose. The windows on these vehicles are all tinted so we can’t see inside, which is against the law. You can assume that any motor vehicle you see with fully tinted window is a federal car. Don’t ask me why they missed something so obvious.”

“Because they’re stupid,” said Ekstrom.

“Bingo, and that’s encouraging,” said Hatfield with a smile. “Any agency dumb enough to pull a boner like that isn’t smart enough to catch us, eh, guys? Now, on the armor. The windows and windshield are top-of-the-line bulletproof glass, which isn’t really glass. It’s what they call a polycarbonate compound, and don’t ask me what that is, but whatever this stuff is, it’s stopped whatever we’ve thrown at it thus far, and not just in Oregon. The gas tank is self-sealing and can allegedly stand a tracer hit. The tires are some kind of super-duper steel belted radial that’s supposed to be proof against caltrops and land mines and whatnot, and the underside of the vehicle is composed not of steel but these nylon-sheathed plates, so they’re not magnetic. The main thing is that when they’re in the vehicle, the FBI agents will be likely shielded from a single rifle bullet.”

“I’ve got a full magazine of standard USGI tungsten armor-piercing .308, if that helps,” said Lockhart.

“It might,” said Hatfield. “A lot of this so-called bullet-proof glass is quirky, and if you hit it at the right angle or velocity it breaches, as we found out on numerous occasions in Baghdad.

“One last little reminder, gentlemen,” Hatfield went on in a grim voice. “These are bad people and they’ve done very bad things. I for one think they still owe us for Sam and Vicky Weaver. There are times when vengeance is thoroughly justified, and this is one of them. But there’s more to it than that, much more. We’re not just sending a message to the FBI today, we’re sending our message to Joe Six-Pack. He has to understand that these people no longer rule the roost in the Northwest, that when he sees something he shouldn’t or he has some kind of problem with the NVA, the last damned thing on earth he wants to do is call the police or the FBI, because they can’t even protect themselves, much less him and his family. This is about destroying the occupation’s credible monopoly of armed force.”

GOT IT, LET ME KNOW WHEN replied Zack, and closed the phone. “Jeez,” he said softly, shaking his head. “Luck is with us. This couldn’t be better. Only two FBI agents, one white male and one Asian female, driving a green SUV. Let’s roll, boys!”

*   *   *

FBI Special Agent Rabang Miller practically pranced into the day room of the Clatsop County sheriff’s office. In ten years with the Bureau she had mastered what she saw as the necessary combination of brisk efficiency, no-nonsense assertiveness and a touch of arrogance.

She was a short, orange-ish woman with long black hair in a severe bun, dressed in a dark green pants suit with matching jacket to cover the 9-mm sidearm in a clip holster by her side, a Glock with a specially modified grip to fit the generally smaller hands of female agents. Rabang Miller was Filipino, the child of a Subic Bay bar girl and prostitute. Her father was an unknown American serviceman of undetermined identity or racial ancestry, but judging from her appearance, most likely a Hispanic of some kind. After entering her mother’s trade at 14, she had eventually achieved the ultimate life coup that all Filipino bar-girls dreamed of. She had fucked and sucked a dumb-ass alcoholic redneck Army sergeant from North Carolina into marrying her and bringing her to the Great Golden Paradise of the U.S.A. From then on it was up, up, up all the way for this strong and valiant womyn of color.

Rabang proceeded to ride every available affirmative action program out of Bragg, into Duke University and an eventual law degree, then into the United States Attorney’s office, whence she slid into the Bureau as a trade-off for not bringing formal charges of sexual harassment against the federal judge who was her boss. She kept Miller’s name because all of her original immigration documents were in that name, and she didn’t want to provoke any official examination of them through a legal change that might reveal certain discrepancies such as her age and the fact that her marriage to the sergeant was technically statutory rape. She was now married to another judge in Portland, with a twenty-room Colonial mansion in a wealthy gated suburb, a 13 year-old mulatto son who was already on the crack pipe, and her eye on bureau chief if she could find some way to finesse it. She was already throwing the present SAIC two-hour Subic Bay Specials in an assortment of motels around town, looking for his weaknesses, anything she could use to bring him down, but a good case clearance or two on her record certainly wouldn’t hurt. Cracking the Goldman murders and reeling in a gang of white racist domestic terrorists would be just the ticket.

Agent Miller’s partner was Special Agent Brian Pangborn. Pangborn was the kind of agent who would have gone far under the old régime of J. Edgar Hoover. He was tall and lean, with sandy hair and blue eyes, sharp from his freshly pressed suit and his spit-shined shores up to his buzz cut, and active member of Promise Keepers and the 700 Club.

Pangborn was Rabang Miller’s third partner in the two years since she had come to the Portland office. Her previous two had asked to be re-assigned, and he was about ready to do the same. Pangborn had come to admit to himself that he loathed the officious little Asian woman; being in her presence was like continually hearing nails drawn across a chalkboard. Pangborn had one serious drawback as an FBI agent—he suffered from occasional spurts of independent thought and initiative. Combined with his race and gender, Pangborn knew these character flaws were enough to blight him forever on the Bureau’s career track.

Rabang Miller stomped up to the nearest deputy behind a desk. “Where’s the sheriff?” she demanded. She whipped out her badge and ID with a practiced flourish. “Miller and Pangborn, FBI.”

The deputy was remarkably unimpressed. “I’ll see if he’s in.” He picked up the phone. “Ted, those people from the FBI are here.”

Another deputy came into the day room. “Hey, is anyone here driving a green Chrysler Aspen with completely illegal full-tinted windows, parked in my parking space in the garage?” he yelled across the room.

“That’s our vehicle,” Rabang called back. “What about it?”

“Well, I just gave you a $250 ticket!” snapped back the deputy. “Tinting is against the law, and taking my parking space damned well ought to be!”

“We are FBI agents!” hissed Rabang in a rage.

“So you don’t have to obey the law like everyone else?” demanded the deputy. “Oh, sorry, silly me! What a question!” At one end of the day room was a raised platform enclosed with three cubicle walls, which contained the combined law enforcement and emergency services 911 and dispatch radios, maps, and unit location board. No one noticed a slim blond girl in long sleeves and trousers [Christina Ekstrom], sitting at a computer with a radio headset on. The girl quietly leaned over, took a look, and then surreptitiously pulled out a cell phone and started texting a message.

Ted Lear came out of his office and extended his hand. He was a surprisingly young man of medium height and auburn hair, with a slim and strong physique. “Hi,” he said, forcing a polite smile and extending his hand. “Ted Lear, Clatsop County sheriff.”

“Miller and Pangborn, FBI,” replied Rabang in a clipped staccato voice like a drill sergeant, flashing her ID again. She ignored the sheriff’s outstretched hand and Pangborn reached over and shook it before the snub became obvious. “Brian Pangborn,” he said with genuine warmth. “Glad to meet you, sheriff.”

“There seem to be an awful lot of people hanging around in here fourteen hours after a major homicide,” said Rabang, looking around the day room disapprovingly. “I understand that your department doesn’t give priority to hatecrimes, sheriff. This is the second double murder you’ve had in three months, both incidents clearly motivated by hatred against sexual orientation in the first case and racial hatred in the second. Why aren’t all your people out there pounding the pavement, or better yet pounding your local racist inbreds and getting some answers as to who killed Jake and Irene Goldman?”

“We’re kind of old-fashioned here, Special Agent, ah, Miller,” said Ted mildly. “We like to ask the questions first, before we start beating on people. By the way, you said the homicide here last night was racially motivated?”

“Of course it was!” screeched Rabang. “Our information is that the fascist terrorists called in to your local newspaper and claimed credit!”

“Someone called the editor of the Astorian, yes,” said Lear in the same mild tone. “No, I was curious because you used the term racially motivated. I didn’t think Jews were a race.” Miller suddenly pulled up, realizing she had inadvertently made a potentially dangerous error in politically correct nomenclature that did not need to get back to her superiors. “Well, you know what I meant,” she explained lamely. “Persons of the Jewish faith are one of the officially recognized politically protected special victim categories. All offenses against Jews are hatecrimes under the law.”

“So they are,” agreed Lear. “Would you step into my office, please?”

Once inside Lear’s office with the door closed, Rabang launched herself at him again like a striking snake. “Alright, cut the bullshit, sheriff! You know damned well that you’ve had four hatecrime homicides on your turf plus the disappearance of a large number of privately held firearms, and the NVA claimed credit for the killings last night! Time for you to wake up and smell the coffee. You’ve got a racist death squad operating right here in your little tourist paradise, and we are here to make sure it gets crushed out of existence, and fast! The Portland office doesn’t want any of this disgraceful foot-dragging that occurred in the murders of Elizabeth King and Martha Proudfoot. If you don’t get some results within forty-eight hours, the U.S. Attorney in Portland is assuming jurisdiction over these cases under the Patriot Act as domestic terrorism, the Bureau will be taking over completely, and I will tell you right up front that these murders and that gun raid aren’t the only things that we will be investigating!”

Lear ignored the threat. He sat down behind his desk and replied calmly and rationally, like someone trying to explain something to a stubborn child. “As I have repeatedly briefed the U.S. Attorney, the Oregon Attorney General, and various people from your own office, there was no foot-dragging in the Liddy King and Martha Proudfoot murders,” he told them patiently. “The case is still active and I have detectives assigned to the ongoing investigation. The reason we haven’t arrested and charged anyone is simple. We have no idea who did it. It wasn’t the husband, because he was in jail here on a potential domestic violence preventive detention warrant and also pending an indictment for hatespeech. Whoever it was left us not a jot, not a smidgeon of forensic evidence. It’s true someone wrote the letters NVA on the wall, but that could have been a red herring to throw us off.”

“You know perfectly well that ever since 9/11, evidence isn’t necessary!” argued Miller. “The Patriot Act gives local as well as federal law enforcement broad proactive powers to protect lives and property and the security of the United States against both foreign and domestic terrorism! If you’ve got two brain cells to rub together as a law enforcement officer, you know or else you damned well should know every individual in your county who so much as harbors a racist thought!”

“I have to admit, I’ve never arrested anyone for their thoughts before,” confessed Lear.

“Well, with two murdered Jews on your doorstep, don’t you think it’s fucking well time you started?” shouted Rabang in anger. “You’ve got to know who these people are! It’s your business to know!”

“No, ma’am, I don’t know,” said Lear wearily. “Where do I start? Anyone who has ever complained about losing his job to an illegal alien or an affirmative action employee? Anyone who has ever had his son rejected by every college he applied to and then dragged away into the Army and killed in Bumfuckistan? Anyone who has ever had a child raped or murdered or mutilated or their brains fried like an egg on drugs in our Brave New World here? Anyone who has ever walked through a public park with their children and seen two Third Worlders copulating like dogs under a tree? Where do I start? No, I mean it, really. Since we’re just pulling names out of a hat, who would you like me to arrest first for unapproved thoughts?”

Pangborn and Lear both understood that this was terribly dangerous talk and if he kept it up, there was every chance he would leave his own office in handcuffs on a federal charge of hatespeech, but Lear couldn’t seem to help himself. Pangborn caught Lear’s eye and shook his head.

Lear picked up a torn sheet from a notepad from his desk and read, “At 8 p.m. on February 14th, an active service unit from D Company, First Portland Brigade, Northwest Volunteer Army, carried out an enforcement action under General Order Number Four issued by the Army Council on November 24th of last year, ordering all non-whites including Jews to leave the territory of the Northwest American Republic forthwith. The NVA accordingly has shot dead Jacob and Irene Goldman for non-compliance with that General Order. All Jews and non-whites who are apprehended by the NVA will be similarly dealt with.” He put the paper down. “That’s it. I gather that’s pretty much their style?” he asked.

“That’s their racist fascist anti-Semitic jargon, yes,” snarled Rabang. “And do you still deny you have one of these racist murder gangs operating in your county, sheriff?”

“I never denied that we did,” protested Lear. “Maybe we do, God help us. But you will notice they said Portland Brigade. I think there’s a very good chance the shooters came down here from outside, from your bailiwick up in the city.”

Rabang was getting more and more steamed. “You need to get out of your denial phase really fast, sheriff, because I am starting to wonder about you.”

“We passed the crime scene on the way in here, and we saw the units there. Did the CSI team from the Oregon State Police get here yet?” interrupted Pangborn. He was used to trying to keep a leash on Rabang, but it was getting harder and more distasteful all the time.

“Yes, they’re out there now and I just came back from there when you arrived,” said Lear. “I was out there all night, if that improves your opinion of my professional zeal any, Agent Miller, but there was damn-all to find. The rain washed away any traces of anything and they must have used revolvers, because there were no cartridge casings found.”

“Or else if they were real pros, they policed up their brass,” said Pangborn.

“Maybe,” conceded Lear. “The medical examiner’s preliminary opinion was medium-heavy handgun rounds, either .357 or capped .38s, Devastators or something like that. Both of them shot once in the chest and twice in the head. Judging from the blood splatter patterns, they got hit in the head when they were down, to finish them off. That sounds pretty professional and pretty damned cold to me. Like the kind of thing we’re seeing in Portland or Seattle or Spokane.”

“We’ll take a look ourselves,” snarled Rabang, getting up.

“Knock yourselves out,” said Lear cheerfully, glad to be getting rid of them. “Agent Miller, if you guys can find anything out there I missed, I’ll buy you both dinner when Rigoletto’s re-opens.”

Rabang ignored his tentative peace offering. “Bullshit,” she said. “I told you. You get the cuffs on these racist motherfuckers within forty-eight hours or the U.S. Attorney is assuming jurisdiction and you can look forward to a career as a security guard at Mighty Mart.” She stalked out, followed by Pangborn, who turned at the office door and looked at Lear helplessly with a shrug. Lear gave him a friendly wave, the unspoken acknowledgement of helpless chagrin between white males in all strata of society that had been growing more and common over the years. When the door was closed, Lear picked up the intercom.

“Dispatch,” said a female voice.

“Hi, Chrissie,” said Lear in a weary voice. “Chrissie, could you radio Leo Galli out at Rigoletto’s, and tell him to tell the officers on the scene and those state forensics people that they are about to have the edifying experience of a visit from two charming folks from the FBI? They’re on they’re way now.”

“Sure, sheriff!” chirped Christina Ekstrom brightly. “I’ll let the guys know right away!”

*   *   *

“Hey, lieutenant, you know what they say,” responded Lockhart cheerfully. “No plan survives the first day of combat.”

“I don’t want the plan to survive, I want us to survive,” said Hatfield.

“Down,” ordered Zack. “They might be able to see us out here, especially if they’ve got binoculars.” The two of them low-crawled across the roof to a low brick parapet topped with an ornate iron railing, approximately twenty inches high, and Cat-Eyes looked around him.

“Uh, I don’t know about this, sir,” he said dubiously, shaking his head. Zack saw what he meant. From where they lay, they could see the 39th Street pier and the platform at the end of it whereon stood the yuppie restaurant and a series of smaller shops. There were at least eight police cars there or parked along the pier, blue and red lights flashing, and a large official-looking van that had to be a crime scene unit. Cops were standing in clumps, smoking and drinking coffee, or sitting in their cars, obviously waiting for something.”

Hatfield’s phone beeped. He took out his phone and saw I CAN TASTE THAT GREEN BEER NOW. “They’re coming,” he told Cat. He closed the phone and it beeped again almost right away. This time he read TWO DELIVERIES SHOULD BE THERE SOON. “Okay, Mr. Green is on them. Green SUV, fully tinted windows, remember.”

“They’ll have to exit the vehicle when they get out there on that pier,” said Lockhart confidently. “When they do, I’ll knock both their asses into the river!”

In the Chrysler Aspen, Rabang Miller had finally finished tearing the deputy’s citation into the tiniest possible shreds, and she rolled down the window and tossed the confetti out. Brian Pangborn, who was driving, looked over and said to her sharply, “Roll that window up! You know procedure!”

“Like these bumpkins are going to give me another ticket for littering?” Rabang sneered.

Rabang’s cell phone chimed with the first few bars of “I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar” and she opened it. Pangborn drove along in silence and turned left onto 39th Street while Rabang engaged in a conversation with someone apparently from her son’s expensive private middle school in Portland. Sounds like Junior has dropped himself in the shit again, thought Pangborn. He drove past Columbia Prospect on his right, onto the pier, and toward the police cars and yellow crime scene tape on the platform.

“There they are,” said Hatfield, looking through a crack in the blinds.

“Got ’em,” replied Lockhart, sighting the rifle and slowly matching the Chrysler’s pace.

In the SUV Rabang closed her phone in a fit of irritation. “What’s Juan done now?” asked Pangborn, hoping to distract her from the previous conversation.

“The usual,” snapped Rabang. “Just a few rocks in his locker this time, but this is one time too many and they’re talking expulsion. If he gets kicked out of Westwood Academy that will be the second school this year! I told the principal I’d be in for a parent teacher conference at 1 o’clock.”

“That’s going to be cutting it pretty close,” said Pangborn as he slowed to a stop by the state police forensics van. “We’ll be at least half an hour here, then two hours minimum back to Portland, where we’ll run into lunch hour traffic. I don’t think you can make it. You better call him back and re-schedule.”

“Fuck it,” said Rabang. “I’m not going to risk throwing another eight thousand dollars down the tube because that little junkie can’t even finish a semester. Let’s go back now.”

“Back to Portland? Now?” asked Pangborn, stunned. A senior Clatsop County deputy was walking over to their vehicle. “Aren’t we supposed to be investigating a double homicide?”

“Screw that,” said Rabang. “You heard me tell Cletus back there that he’s got forty-eight hours to catch these racists, and since I doubt if he could catch a cold, in two days we’ll be back here with full authority and our own team, with a list of names from Homeland Security. We will shake every tree in this county, gather up all the apes who fall out, and use the Dershowitz Protocol to get the information we need, as well as all the confessions we need.” The deputy was knocking on the window. Pangborn rolled his window down and flashed his badge.

“FBI,” he said.

“Hey there,” said the deputy. “Sheriff said you guys would be coming out. We’ve been waiting on you.”

“Can you give us a minute, deputy?” asked Pangborn, and rolled up the power window again.

“Never mind that,” said Rabang. “Turn around and head back for Portland.

There was something else, a sixth sense left over from Pangborn’s own time in Iraq. The roof, all those windows. In Baghdad he and his men would never have gotten anywhere near a building like that until it was cleared and secured.

“Fine,” said Pangborn, backing the SUV around and driving slowly back off the pier and out onto 39th Street. “Home again, home again, jiggety-jig.” Behind them the deputies stared at one another in astonishment.

“What in the name of the devil? They’re leaving!” hissed Hatfield.

“They were tipped off somehow,” said Lockhart.

“I can’t believe it!”

“Do we abort, sir?” asked Lockhart.

Zack took a deep breath. “Like hell we do! Maybe they’ve been tipped, maybe they just got spooked, maybe they got called back, who knows? But I can see them, God damn it, and they’re not getting away from right under our noses! No matter what, we’re taking those bastards down today! Let’s go!”

They pelted down the hall and down the outside stairwell, and they were in the front seat of the Yukon, Cat’s rifle between his knees, and Zack was firing up the engine in twenty-eight seconds. Zack pulled onto 39th Street just in time to see the green SUV turn left onto Leif Erickson Drive. “Looks like they’re going back to Portland for some reason,” said Hatfield.

“Or luring us into a trap,” suggested Lockhart.

“If it was an ambush they would have either hit us in the apartment building or at least outside in the parking lot,” said Hatfield. “Feds always try to surround and contain. They never let their targets get mobile if they can help it. No, for some reason those two must have got spooked, and they’re trying to make it back to their nest. Roll up your mask,” he said, suiting the action to the word. “Don’t want people to see two masked men driving down the road, after last night.” After a little speeding Zack now had the Chrysler in sight. They were doing the speed limit of thirty-five miles per hour on the winding road out of Astoria. There was another vehicle between them. Zack took out his phone and hit the speed dial for Charlie Washburn’s phone. It rang and Charlie answered. “Praise Jesus!” he shouted.

“Sorry about the call, Reverend,” said Hatfield, “But I don’t see any other way to do this. You know we were all gonna gather at the river, the beautiful, the beautiful river, but we got a couple of sinners here who done backslid and have turned their faces against salvation. They’re headed in your direction, ETA maybe ninety seconds, green Chrysler Aspen, fully tinted windows, which I can’t think of any way to say Scripturally. Could you please show them the error of their ways and await our second coming, that we may smite them with a rod of iron?”

“Verily, we shall vouchsafe unto them the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch.”

“Uh, Reverend, that’s not the Bible. That’s Monty Python,” said Hatfield in exasperation.

“Just keep far enough back so you don’t go to your own heavenly reward. And always look on the bright side of life, my son.” Charlie hung up.

“I tell you, if that was recorded and played back in court, we could plead insanity,” said Hatfield. “They’re going to try and use their pipe to bomb blow the feds off the road at Tongue Point. As soon as their vehicle stops, we take them. Somehow.”

“I’ll get up on the roof and fire from there,” said Lockhart.

The funny feeling in the back of Brian Pangborn’s mind hadn’t gone away. He glanced in his rear view mirror and saw the car behind him turning off into a driveway. Behind that car came a battered OD green Yukon SUV. It was coming up a little too fast for his liking. He interrupted Rabang. “The witnesses in the restaurant said the shooters were two men who fled the scene in a dark colored SUV, right?”

“Yes,” said Rabang. “Why?”

“That’s a Yukon behind us,” he said. “There seem to be two men in it.”

Rabang twisted around to look back. “It could be anybody,” she said.

“See the way he speeds up a bit and then slows?” pointed out Pangborn. “He’s trying to keep a set distance between us, a bit too much distance, like he’s hanging back for some reason. On this winding road at thirty-five, if he’s a local yahoo he should be getting in closer. It’s just a feeling, but I don’t like it.” They passed the point where Lief Erickson drive transmuted into Highway 30, and the speed limit went up to forty-five. “See? I’m speeding up now, and so is he, but he’s still keeping about seventy yards between us.”

At Tongue Point Charlie Washburn had turned the black Toyota Camry around and pointed it into the highway. “We gonna ram ’em?” asked Lee. “Not unless we have to,” said Charlie. “I’ll hit them with the Uzi and you get ready to flick your Bic, light that fuse, and see if you can blow an axle off, and not endanger Zack and Cat who will be coming up behind them. God, I hope traffic stays this light and no one else comes driving along right into the middle of this! Masks on!”

In the Chrysler, Rabang Miller pulled out her pistol and jacked a round into the chamber. “Be careful with that!” snapped Pangborn, looking for a place to pull over so he could let the Yukon pass, or not as the case might be. He saw a possible pulling off spot right at the intersection of Tongue Point Road and Emerald Drive, and so he was actually slowing down and veering right when all of a sudden the Camry roared out of Tongue Point Road and stopped right beneath the blinking yellow light hanging over the intersection. Pangborn saw two men in ski masks leap out of the car. He heard the stuttering of the Uzi, saw the muzzle flash and heard the pop pop pop as the 9-mm slugs slammed into the windshield. The polycarbonate glass held, but big ugly white splotches blossomed on the windshield before him.

“It’s them!” screamed Rabang in terror. “Fuck the car behind us, you asshole! They’re in front of us!”

Pangborn decided to try for a right turn up onto Emerald Drive, but he briefly saw a black cylindrical sailing through the air toward him. It banged against the windshield, bounced off, and just as he yelled “Bomb!” the pipe bomb exploded in the air about four feet in front of the FBI agents, with a weird crushing sound rather like a cross between a crump! and a clink! The Chrysler’s armor still held, but the front bumper was ripped almost entirely off and flapped up onto the windshield, and the force of the explosion crumpled the front end and caused all kinds of hissing and steaming fluid leaks and electrical shorts within. Pangborn lost control and the Chrysler slid into the ditch. The Uzi was still pattering bullets against the armored body.

A mere 50 yards behind them, the Yukon rolled to a stop. Hatfield got out and covered down on the disabled FBI vehicle with his submachine gun, leaning over the Yukon’s hood, waiting for a target. Cat-Eyes Lockhart was out the other door and he slithered up onto the roof with the agility of a serpent, spreading himself prone and sighting the rifle. “If they don’t come out I’ll move in with our bomb. Get ready to cover me!” called out Hatfield.

Steam, smoke and the smell of burning began to fill the passenger compartment of the Chrysler through the vents from the damaged engine. “We’re on fire!” shrieked Special Agent Miller. She tore her door open and bailed out of the car.

“No, wait!” yelled Pangborn. Rabang had thrown down her gun and she was running up the embankment, screaming hysterically in pure fear. She was completely open to the Uzi and Pangborn jerked open his own door and leaped out, crouching behind it with his handgun at the ready, planning on using the armored panels as cover to fire at the Toyota and the Uzi gunner, make them keep their heads down so Rabang might have a chance to get down or into the woods. He was convinced that the two men in the Toyota were the killers of Jacob and Irene Goldman, and the simple fact was that he had completely forgotten about the green Yukon that had been following them.

Nor did Pangborn have any more time to remember. Lockhart’s first armor-piercing bullet entered the base of his skull from behind and decapitated him; he never even heard the shot.

One second later, Lockhart’s second shot snapped the fleeing Rabang Miller’s spine, tore through her heart and sternum, and sent her spinning to the ground as bleeding rag that twitched and kicked and scrambled and then lay still.

Cat-Eyes leaped down off the Yukon, ran up to the smoking Chrysler’s open driver’s door, leaned down and inserted a Jack of Diamonds from a Bicycle playing deck into the dead hand of Brian Pangborn. He snagged Pangborn’s piece and stuck it his back pocket, ran up the hill to where Rabang Miller lay with her dead face staring at the sky, and stuck a second Jack into her mouth. He then ran back to the Yukon. Hatfield waved off the Washburns, who got into the Toyota and pulled off down Highway 30 toward John Day. The Yukon followed. From the moment the Toyota pulled out into the road until both NVA vehicles left the scene, the elapsed time was thirty-four seconds.

Cat-Eyes Lockhart turned to Zack Hatfield. “That’s it?” he exclaimed in amazement. “That’s the big, bad FBI? The rough tough G-Men that we’ve all been so afraid of for seventy years? Jesus, I’ve shot rabbits that put up more of a fight!”

Hatfield chuckled. “I think they’ve always been scared of this,” he said. “Scared that one day we’d find out just how easy it is.”

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Categories
Francis Parker Yockey Galileo Galilee Nicolaus Copernicus Philosophy of history

Imperium excerpts, chapter V

A book dedicated “To the hero of the Second World War”


The 20th Century Historical Outlook

The Demise of the Linear View of History





No ellipsis
added between
unquoted paragraphs:




Life is a continuous battle between Young and Old, Old and New, Innovation and Tradition. Ask Galileo, Bruno, Servetus, Copernicus, Gauss. All of them represented the Future, yet all were overcome, in one way or another, during their own lives, by the enthroned Past. Copernicus was afraid to publish during his lifetime, lest he be burned as heretic. Gauss only revealed his liberating discovery of non-Euclidean geometries after his death, for fear of the clamor of the Boeotians. It is therefore not surprising when the materialists persecute, by maligning, by conspiracy of silence, cutting off from access to publicity, or by driving to suicide, as in the case of Haushofer, those who think in 20th century terms and specifically reject the methods and conclusions of 19th century materialism.

Even in the Italian Renaissance, Francesco Pico wrote against the mania for the Classical: “Who will be afraid to confront Plato with Augustine, or Aristotle with Thomas, Albert, and Scotus?” Savonarola’s movement also had cultural, as well as religious, significance: into the bonfires went the Classical works. The whole Classicist tendency of the Italian Renaissance has been too heavily drawn: it was literary, academic, the possession of a few small circles, and those not the leading ones in thought or action.

And yet this movement has been put forward as the “link” between two Cultures that have nothing in common in order to create a picture of History as a straight line instead of as the spiritually parallel, pure, independent, development of High Cultures.

Categories
Civil war Justice / revenge

“Blood was about to be spilled once more in humanity’s longest war”


The Brigade excerpts, chapter IV

by Harold Covington

Valentine’s Night



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“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, is 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.

http://northwestfront.org/

Categories
Francis Parker Yockey Napoleon Philosophy of history

Imperium excerpts, chapter 4

A book dedicated “To the hero of the Second World War”


The 20th Century Historical Outlook

The Meaning of Facts





No ellipsis
added between
unquoted paragraphs:




Some men have a greater inner need to think abstractly than others.

For one of the characteristics of Life-facts is that distance–particularly temporal distance–shows up their lineaments more clearly. We know more of Imperial history than Tacitus knew, more of Napoleonic history than Napoleon knew, vastly more of the First World War than its creators and participants knew, and Western men in 2050 will know our times in a way that we can never know them.

Categories
Ancient Rome Autobiography Carthage Child abuse Christendom Constantinople Infanticide Lloyd deMause Mozart Psychohistory

Christmas Eve

I have a lot to say about Christianity. Believe me. Decades of my life were destroyed as a result of a focalized abuse perpetrated by my father—a fanatic Catholic—when I was a minor. His verbal abuse and slapping on my face, together with his eschatological doctrine of eternal damnation, broke my adolescent heart. Since as a young person nobody helped me, I was completely unable to process the trauma.

At seventeen I constantly had themes from Mozart’s Requiem stuck in my head in the Catholic school Zumárraga, an ear worm synchronized with the religious metamorphosis that was taking place in my mind: the change from the stage of perceiving God as the loving father of my St. Francis to the terrible God of the Requiem—my introjected Father.

Confutatis maledictis
Flammis acribus addictis
Sed tu bonus fac benigne
Ne perenni cremer igne.

My fear of eternal damnation, what Alice Miller calls “the fighting with the parental introjects,” i.e., the fighting against our inner daddy, reached truly paranoid, medieval levels of obsessive fear, as I recount in my book Hojas Susurrantes (Whispering Leaves). It’s a miracle that, unlike millions of adolescents who have been abused in this infernal way at home, I didn’t lose my mind…

Nevertheless, since the Jews have been targeting Christmas, I won’t criticize my parents’ religion in Christmas Eve. I better copy and paste part of a non-autobiographical chapter of Whispering Leaves that I used to source a couple of online encyclopedias. Pay special attention to the paragraph that starts with the words: “Something completely lost to the modern mind is that…” which, in a nutshell, summarizes my views on why Christianity conquered the souls of the ancient Romans.

The following excerpts relate to the positive side of the religion of my family: how the Church vehemently combated abortion and infanticide among the white people. Let’s remember that infanticidal practices run amok in the Classical World accelerated the fall of the Roman Empire, just as today’s millions of abortions represent a pivotal role in the demographic winter for the white people and the consequent demise of Western civilization.

Relying heavily on Larry S. Milner’s treatise on infanticide, in 2008 I wrote:

Note of August 2, 2018: Several paragraphs that used to be here have been merged within: this post

Christmas postscript

While the wicked are confounded,
doomed to flames of woe unbounded
yet, good Lord, in grace complying,
rescue me from fires undying!





The above is the English translation of the Latin lines.

However disgusting I find to quote a kike, I believe that psychologist Robert Godwin hit a nail. The unconscious message of Christianity is that, when through sacrificial offerings we murder or even torture our innocent son—as was done throughout the Ancient World—, we murder God; and that the crucifixion of Jesus was meant to be the last human sacrifice, with Jesus acting on behalf of our own murdered innocence.

This is the key to understand why a Judaic-inspired cult conquered the Roman Empire. Therefore, and even when I consider myself a spiritual martyr of such religion, I cannot share the views of those nationalists who repudiate every single legacy of such faith. However abominable the doctrine of hell is, what I said above is crucial for a radical—denoting or relating to the roots—understanding of the origins of the religion of our parents.

♣

P.S. of 15 April 2012

See references & comments below.

The Kwa

is the distilled essence of Judaism


“The State of the Kwa: Atlantic City” is a short white fiction piece written on 30 April 2004 by William Ventvogel (“Kwa” means “Amerikwa”: the degenerate, Mammon-worship place that America has become):




I accepted my boss’ invitation to go with him to Atlantic City for a day of gambling. I don’t gamble, but it would be interesting to see the changes. I hadn’t been up there in years. But no, the nature of the place had not changed. It was on artificial life support. There were fewer White workers than I remember in 1980. There were more casinos, and the crowd was darker, but the same dreary Kwaness was intact, the grasping, gluttonous, uncivilized hive activity of American society. Perhaps it would have alarmed one of us, but to a Kwan [someone who lives in the Kwa (Amerikwa)] it was all right. It was a place of good times, you see. And Americans are all about having fun, as Celine said. Most of the restaurant and service staff was Mexican. The issue about Atlantic City, New Jersey, is that it still runs despite the majority black, brown and Jew composition of the people.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t think a non-white population can maintain a White civilization. My consideration (as yours), is the strategic one: as the infrastructure ages and the proportion of White to not-white decreases, when does a region become Third World? It will, of course. The day would prompt me to follow this train of speculation. So my boss went off to the poker room for seven hours and I went my way. After paying $15 for a breakfast of sausage and eggs, and after reading the New York Times, I wandered off. Entering that red bag sewer of an ocean was out of the question. (I saw guys surfing it!) The rides were not open for the season yet. All the news stands carried moron picture books and nothing else. The scene outside the casinos is basically one of walking and buying something to eat every 100 yards. You watch the girls for a while. (Five in a hundred were interesting. Far, far too few were White.) The small shops had been taken over by Pakistanis, Indians and Asians. A few very old family pizza businesses carried on, run by Italian or Greek families. But generally it is a place left behind by Whites. It has a run-over, battered feel, like the wake of a glacier. I quickly exhausted the options for diversion, which is a dangerous condition for me. I started thinking.

Atlantic City is a place where everyone thinks that what they want is to be had there. No doubt those with more innate levity and good humor than I possess have fun there. Really, they do. No one I saw appeared to be worried. The Whites had credit cards, the not-whites had credit cards or cash enough. There was no favala-style hardness or predator look, no breadline desperation. The sun was shining and the waves were breaking on the pumped-in sand. The gulls wheeled and screamed in the sunlight. The feral cats that live and breed in serious numbers under the boardwalk were charming the morons. It was a good day to be a Kwan in Atlantic City. But as I stood against the rail there along the boardwalk watching the passers-by, I realized that the basic dynamic of our predicament was to be seen here: there is peace because Whites are yielding. I should point out that any objective survey, cursory or rigorous, of the composition of the mob would reveal it was majority non-white. There were niggers, mestizos and asians and mélanges of all, and these, scaled against the apparently wholly-Whites, outnumbered the Whites. Still, no cause for alarm! There was peace in Atlantic City. Whitey was still running the trains and power stations and giving up his taxes and managing the casinos and motels. He was keeping the books and running the police and fire departments and not overtly resisting, or even objecting, when a nigger or brown thing hits on his daughter.

As I watched that mob of potbellied whiggers, niggers and mélanges pass, I could not avoid speculating how much longer the Kwa can go on, when the center would disintegrate. I am morbid-minded, you see. Like most artists I find the dismal and eccentric more interesting than stock reports and niggerball. I observed the gold chains and backward ball caps, the sneakers, the yo-ball clothing, pierced eyebrows, Neanderthal gaits, the fart machine complex of the under-men doing their mobish thing with instinctual excellence, the way a Jew is instinctually a superb Jew. And I wondered if the cancer would spread into the still-White Kwa interior by the stealthy thoroughness with which it has taken over the northeast coastal region. I would answer yes, but I don’t think the Kwa will last long enough.

The rate of decay is theoretical but still, nothing this stupid can feed itself. Eventually Josefa and Ali, Cho and Shamika and Howard Greenstein are going to look for the White man one day and he will not be there. What then? The White man’s works won’t last forever nor work under all conditions, as they seem to now. The White man makes it all go. Take him away and you have no energy. The White man is fading slowly enough; his parasites are not alarmed.

This is the portal through which anyone who cares to peep might see how it will end. Material systems falter without the hands that created them. Machines require more than rote maintenance. Consider Haiti, a place touched by the White man. The U.S. Marines ran the island of Hispaniola from 1919 to 1933 but they weren’t there only to kick ass for United Fruit and Jew banks. They also made it safe for the uplift crowd, which always follows the ZOG army to improve the lives of the liberated. These are essentially Puritans. They bring democracy and God and women’s rights and other deteriorative voodoo. Yes, the jarheads made it safe for the Puritan uplifters to do their thing. Some good was accomplished: roads, schools, hospitals and power plants were built. The marines built a supposedly legitimate constabulary and army. But hell, that didn’t last long. When Roosevelt pulled the Marines out of the Caribbean in 1933 (his “good neighbor” policy) all of it sank away, of course. Now the Dominican Republic is a shithole, and Haiti is worse than a shithole — it is an abscess. Make no mistake: a people converts its environment into conformity with its instincts. So the animals of Haiti have the land they feel comfortable with. The Dominicans, having more White blood, have not brought their land so low as Haiti but overpopulation and corruption are taking it there. You have noted the ongoing exodus from Hispaniola in vessels of desperate design. Atlantic City would be paradise for them. There they will at least get fed.

And no doubt if they reach “our” shores our corps of uplifters will cover them. The jewsmedia will back the uplifters. The huddled masses win; the tax slaves lose (more). The jewsmedia will form public opinion into demanding services for these people for which the government can’t pay. So the government must borrow the money from Jew York banks — which is the plan. It is a sweet, bombproof strategy for usurers — but one that cannot go on forever. Resources will falter. The average technical and managerial competence will sink. This is ZOG’s Achilles’ heel.

The dynamic is to be seen on the boardwalk and casinos of Atlantic City, New Jersey. The media keep the mob excited — thus diverted. Atlantic City is a break from the mundane pressures, for example the moral peaks, the “personal development” goals. There is also the Big Score by which the gambler hopes to escape “the rat race”. Kwans are conditioned to be perpetually discontent. The media know how and are very good at it. You can detect the method in the casinos, in the slot machines, for example. The machines are digital now, imparting a sense of infinity, derived from the soul of the machines which is circular (circuitry); hence nothing in them really stops. So they emit this sound which affects the senses in this way: it is a crescending sound, tense and always climbing, climbing, like a murder scene in a movie. But it never works out, never ends. It climbs and climbs and the player feeds more quarters, dollars into the mouth of the machine so he will arrive. At what? In a football-field-sized casino several hundreds of these machines make a sound that to a non-gambler is insane. It sounds, brothers, like control. In a casino you might hear for the first time what control sounds like. It is a cacophony that makes slaves.

The only intelligent-looking people I saw were in the Starbucks. What does this mean? It means that practically everyone can be grouped. This is the fact; most of us can be profiled by marketers. All they need is a few weeks of purchase data. Personally I don’t care. They can’t make me spend, so let them watch. The Kwa is, as the kike Zangwill pronounced, “the distilled essence of Judaism.” Hence I turn to the others who feel as I do. Who are the most interesting writers today? White nationalists and (so-called) anarchists. These are the only ones taking on the dynamic of Jew and capitalist herd management. Starbucks has nailed the lit-and-wine set. Starbucks is daylight intelligentsia.

But the market targeting of AmeriKwa is a grand phenomenon, too. It foments sprawl, debt consumer spending and obesity. It is to be seen along most major ZOG interstate highways, for example. Market research offers a theme for every ill-discipline and aspiration. What you are looking for and hope to be can be shopped for at the next strip mall. At night the intensity of the competition is apparent in the banks and banks of lights, like infinite runways. The sheer bigness and complexity of urban/suburban Kwa life must make you wonder what the end will be, and how it will commence. And if you stay in this environment you will go insane. I have concluded that insanity is inevitable. It might be a controlled insanity, a functional insanity, but there is no avoidance of spiritual corruption and identity-death in a high-density aura of AmeriKwa. To survive materially you have only one option: adrenalize or fail. (Hence the need for caffeine.) The pace is accelerating and if you don’t get wired and stay wired (Starbucks) you will be eaten by someone who is.

I saw a lot of “Russians” in Atlantic City. I must say the women were very attractive. They seemed to me to have more easily readable signals and avoidance system than do AmeriKwan women. They were, in short, more feminine. But there are mixed opinions of these “Russians.” Many are zhids [Jews]. Too many had a gaudy and thuggish character. It was new money. The men were wearing gold chains and the women were over-painted and over-dressed. I have Russian friends who would have been embarrassed by the sight of them, I think. And they might have felt a resonance from the Soviet days in the Atlantic City Museum, a small place on the northern end of the boardwalk. There I watched a short film on the history of Atlantic City. It was well done until the end where it described the reasons for Atlantic City’s decline. It commenced in the postwar prosperity when, because people had the money to travel and build backyard pools they stopped coming to Atlantic City. Jet travel to Vegas, my ass! Atlantic City went down the shitter [toilet] because the niggers were growing restive by the desegregation laws the zhids engineered into promulgation in the 1950s and ’60s. The straw(s) that broke Atlantic City’s back were the MLK riots in 1968. Atlantic City had been attracting niggers from the South for decades. They came to work in the service industry; the bonus was that the Whites up north didn’t know niggers like Southerners do. After the defeat of Adolf Hitler’s White revolution and the Jew campaign against Whiteness the niggers lost their fear of the White man, and did their natural bush thing, which is riot, kill, rape and plunder. I don’t know how badly Atlantic City suffered in the King riots but surely the bushmeats [niggers] did bust up the place most splendidly. The human beings were frightened away. The Jews left too.

And so you see the phenomenon that is apparent throughout all of urbanized AmeriKwa: shallow pockets of prosperity, hemmed by a sort of deadline where Whites and niggers don’t mix much. Atlantic City glitters one block deep. Go deeper and you’re in the ghetto, with animal niggers and Whites who act like them. I dared a brief excursion a few blocks in and it was as bad as anywhere I’ve been. I got the feeling that the ‘meats were waiting for the signal. Will you recognize the signal, White man? The well-built old buildings were sinking away; they had that patina of nigger rot. So that’s what basically rules Atlantic City now as it does many, if not most, coastal cities: the brown and black cancer, kept at bay by the Jew media/extortion strategy. It rules the Kwa. In the meantime you may be sure that the kikes have a Rodney King on tape somewhere, ready to deploy at the right time. In the meantime, enjoy what’s left. One day in Atlantic City was enough for me. Maybe the showgirls can draw me back. That’s about it.