(Extracted from Harold Covington’s #5 Radio Free Northwest podcast.)
(Extracted from Harold Covington’s #5 Radio Free Northwest podcast.)
I came late to the issues characteristically discussed in The Occidental Quarterly.
I had no interest in politics during my early adult years, a circumstance for which I am now grateful. Like most Americans, I assumed that “politics” meant electoral contests between hardly-distinguishable parties.
In early adulthood I encountered The Gulag Archipelago and gained a proper appreciation of just how high the stakes of politics could be. Initially, I gravitated toward that combination of anti-Communism and status quo Social Democracy known as neo-conservatism. In the academic bubble I then inhabited, such a stance was viewed as radical.
As a college instructor, I was baffled to receive student essays vehemently maintaining the “equality” of black and white, or singing the heroism of Rosa Parks. My classes were in philosophy, and I never mentioned race at all. Clearly, this was the stuff students had been taught to write for their professors before they got to me.
The stridency of their language suggested they were defending an idea under heavy attack. But where was the attack? All I had ever heard anyone say about races is that they were “equal.” If this is all the students wanted to say, what were they getting so worked up about? They wrote as if they were trying to scratch an itch.
I wished to devote my life to learning and scholarship, with no thought of practical application beyond eventually sharing my knowledge with the generation that came after me. Of course, I quickly learned that few of my colleagues shared this elevated, quasi-monastic notion of the scholar’s calling. Some turned out to hold beliefs weirdly similar to the jailors described by Solzhenitsyn; many more did not, but were untroubled by — or afraid of — those who did.
Accordingly, my first practical cause belonged to the realm of academic politics: defending the life of the mind from ideological corruption. I was also fascinated by the sheer power which ideology exercised over many men’s minds, and by how a band of resentful mediocrities armed with little else had infiltrated and virtually subjugated an institution made up of highly intelligent people.
The ideologues talked a great deal about race, of course; but this did not lead me to take any interest in the subject myself. I vaguely hoped that once the imposters had been purged from the academy we could forget about race and get back to learning and teaching.
I devoted several years to investigating the first principles of modern “progressive” thought, publishing a little philosophical primer on the subject (Alexandre Kojève and the Outcome of Modern Thought). But this still did not lead me to the issue of racial differences, which are an empirical rather than philosophical matter. The entire drama of ideological politics can be played out within a homogeneous society, as students of the French Revolution know.
Nevertheless, I have come to the point where I prefer to publish even purely sociological analysis (e.g., “From Salon to Guillotine,” Summer 2008) in an explicitly racial-realist venue such as The Occidental Quarterly.
Here is why. Those traditional conservatives who continue to admonish us against the dangers of “biological determinism” are increasingly condemning themselves to irrelevance. The plea that “race isn’t everything” is valid per se, but not especially germane to the situation in which we find ourselves. For we are not the aggressors in the battle now being fought. And in any battle, it is the aggressors’ prerogative to choose the point of attack: if they come at you by land, you do not have the option of fighting them at sea.
Race is everything to our enemies, and it is the angle from which they have chosen to attack our entire civilization. It is also where they have achieved their greatest victories: you can see this from the way “conservative” groups feel they must parrot the language of the egalitarians just to get a hearing (see: here). Such well-meaning but naive friends of our civilization are in effect consenting to occupy the status of a “kept” opposition.
The more we try to avoid confronting race directly, the more our enemies will press their advantage at precisely this point. Tactically, they are correct to do so. And they will continue until we abandon our defensive posture and turn to attack them on their own chosen ground.
The Occidental Quarterly is blessed with contributors who have made racial differences and ethnic conflict their lives’ study, and I cannot match them in their own fields. But I prefer to throw in my lot with them because they are unambiguously not part of any “kept” opposition. Being a pariah at least keeps one honest.
A turning point for me was reading Glayde Whitney’s “The Biological Reality of Race” in American Renaissance (October 1999). Like everyone else in America, I had been subjected to years of race-talk, but the aim had always been to lead me to “feel” in a predetermined way. Even my students’ papers had been apprentice work in this genre. Whitney, by contrast, was simply setting forth information. Reading him was like being addressed as an adult after years of being talked down to. This by itself was enough to get me to sit up and take notice of what he was saying.
Moreover, he contradicted everything I had ever been told. And he did so while showing that race could be as interesting as any other scientific topic. I had never seen anyone actually diagram the human family tree, showing which groups were most closely related and which most distantly separated. I was particularly struck by the revelation that the deepest evolutionary cleft within the human race was that between black Africans and everyone else.
But even a complete racial science based upon exhaustive knowledge of the human genome would never make a dent in anti-white ideology. This is because ideologies are not scientific theories: they are systems of ideas mobilized by groups of men in their struggle to acquire or maintain power over other men. They are a misuse — a prostitution — of the faculty of human reason, whose proper end is the discovery of the true. Ideological doctrines are true, in the best of cases, only per accidens; more often they are falsehoods publicly maintained through violence and intimidation.
Not being based upon knowledge, the content of ideologies change with the elites and counter-elites which champion them. Past ideological regimes have been governed by Marxists who spoke of class rather than race. Still earlier regimes (and revolutionaries) invoked religious concepts. And, yes, racial science itself has been prostituted in the service of what was essentially a political ideology.
The masters of the West long ago ceased performing even the minimum function required of any governing elite: seeing to the physical survival of the people it rules. Instead, it maintains its power by setting its clients (“designated victims”) against the rest of us. “Antiracism” is the ideology, but what is really going on underneath is the mobilization of envy, covetousness, and the libido dominandi.
Much of the elite itself is white, of course. But this is really no more paradoxical than a company getting rich by staging a “going out of business sale” that never ends. Except, of course, that the “white anti-racism” game will have to end soon.
The regime’s greatest crime, however, lies not in setting its clients against us; it is what it has done to our own young people. Those indoctrinated students whose essays so perplexed me had been formed into instruments of an alien will: pawns in a struggle inimical to their own interests, and whose real nature they could not grasp. They were no less victims for being willing.
Writing for The Occidental Quarterly is essentially a continuation of the work I had always intended to do, adapted to a hostile political situation I have come to understand better. In the most general terms, this work remains: the pursuit of knowledge, teaching, and the fight against the same ideological enemies I encountered in the academy. For a professor-manqué, writing for an independent journal is the equivalent of what home-schooling is for a parent: a quiet revolt against institutions which have lost all claim to allegiance.
TOQ Online, October 1, 2009
The Brigade excerpts, chapter V
by Harold Covington
Hunting The Hunters
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.”
A book dedicated “To the hero of the Second World War”
The 20th Century Historical Outlook
The Demise of the Linear View of History
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.
The Brigade excerpts, chapter IV
by Harold Covington
“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.
A book dedicated “To the hero of the Second World War”
The 20th Century Historical Outlook
The Meaning of Facts
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.
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.
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:
That so many researchers have produced astronomical figures on the extent of infanticide moves me to think that Larry Milner’s initiative to devote ten years of his life researching the topic should be undertaken by others. Only then can we be sure if such large numbers are accurate. Here I cannot substantiate the figures of Milner and others, but shall weight the case under the most diverse of collected sources.
Joseph Birdsell believes in infanticide rates of 15-50% of the total number of births in prehistoric times. Laila Williamson estimated a lower rate ranging from 15-20%. Both believe that high rates of infanticide persisted until the development of agriculture. Some comparative anthropologists have estimated that 50% of female newborn babies were killed by their parents in the Paleolithic. These figures appear over and over in the research of other scholars.
Paleolithic and Neolithic
Decapitated skeletons of hominid children have been found with evidence of cannibalism. Neanderthal man performed ritual sacrifices of children. As shown in the bas-reliefs of a Laussel cave, a menstruating goddess is appeased only by the sacrifice of infants.
Marvin Harris, the creator of the anthropological movement called cultural materialism, estimated that in the Stone Age up to 23-50% of newborns were put to death. However, Harris drew up a rational explanation. In his book Cannibals and Kings: Origins of Cultures, published in 1977, he tells us that the goal was to preserve the population growth to 0.001%. This explanation of more “civilized” cavemen than us has not been taken seriously among other scholars. But the renowned geneticist James Neel is not left behind. Through a retroactive model to study the customs of contemporary Yanomami Indians he estimated that in prehistoric times the infanticidal rate was 15-20%. However, Neel wrote: “I find it increasingly difficult to see in the recent reproductive history of the civilized world a greater respect for the quality of human existence than was manifested by our remote ‘primitive’ ancestors.” Ark would have scoffed at this claim. The fact that Neel published such praise for the infanticidal cavemen in Science, one of the most prestigious scientific journals, shows the levels of antediluvian regression that we suffer in our times.
As we have seen, the sacrifice of children was much more common in the Ancient World than in present times.
Three thousand bones of young children, with evidence of sacrificial rituals, have been found in Sardinia. Infants were offered to the Babylonian goddess Ishtar. Pelasgians offered a sacrifice of every tenth child during difficult times. Syrians sacrificed children to Jupiter and Juno. Many remains of children have been found in Gezer excavations with signs of sacrifice. Child skeletons with the marks of sacrifice have been found also in Egypt dating 950-720 B.C. In Carthage “[child] sacrifice in the ancient world reached its infamous zenith.”  Besides the Carthaginians, other Phoenicians, and the Canaanites, Moabites and Sepharvites offered their first-born as a sacrifice to their gods.
Carthage. Charred bones of thousands of infants have been found in Carthaginian archaeological sites in modern times. One such area harbored as many as 20,000 burial urns. It is estimated that child sacrifice was practiced for centuries in the region. Plutarch (ca. 46–120 AD) mentions the practice, as do Tertullian, Orosius, Diodorus Siculus and Philo. The Hebrew Bible also mentions what appears to be child sacrifice practiced at a place called the Tophet (from the Hebrew taph or toph, to burn) by the Canaanites, ancestors of the Carthaginians, and by some Israelites. Writing in the 3rd century B.C., Kleitarchos, one of the historians of Alexander the Great, described that the infants rolled into the flaming pit. Diodorus Siculus wrote that babies were roasted to death inside the burning pit of the god Baal Hamon, a bronze statue. (I will approach the subject of the recent studies on the Israelites and child sacrifice in the Epilogue.)
Greece and Rome. Interestingly, in Persian mythology of Zoroastrianism, at birth some children are devoured by their parents: a fable reminiscent of Cronus. Rhea hid Zeus and presented a stone wrapped in strips, which Cronus took as a swaddled baby and ate it. Cronus represents the archaic Hellas.
The historical Greeks considered barbarous the practice of adult and child sacrifice. It is interesting to note how conquerors like Alexander are diminished under the new psycohistorical perspective. If we give credence to the assertion that Thebes, the largest city in the region of Boeotia, had lower rates of exposure than other Greek cities, its destruction by Alexander was a fatal blow to the advanced psychoclass in Greece. A few centuries later, between 150 and 50 B.C. an Alexandrian Jew wrote Wisdom of Solomon, which contains a diatribe against the Canaanites whom he calls perpetrators of “ruthless murders of their children.” (Take note how the classics, the 16th century chroniclers, and the 19th century anthropologists wield value judgments, something forbidden in present-day academia.) In The Histories Polybius was already complaining in the 2nd century B.C. that parents severely inhibited reproduction, and by the 1st century there were several thinkers who spoke out against the exposure of babies. Epictetus wondered “A sheep does not abandon its own offspring, nor a wolf; and yet does a man abandon his?” In the Preface we had seen that in the same century Philo was the first philosopher to speak out against exposure.
“The greatest respect is owed to a child”, wrote Juvenal, born in 55 AD. His contemporary Josephus, a Romanized Jew, also condemned exposure. And in Heroides, an elegiac poem that he wrote before his exile, Ovid asked, “What did the child commit, in so few hours of life?” However, two centuries after Augustus, in times of Constantine Rome struggled with a decreased population due to exposure. The legend of Romulus and Remus is also revealing: two brothers had been exposed to die but a she-wolf saved them. Romulus forced the Romans to bring up all male and the first female, and forbade killing them after certain age. As Rhea saving his son Zeus, this legend portrays the psychogenic landmark of classical culture compared with other cultures of the Ancient World. But even so exposure was practiced. A letter from a Roman citizen to his wife, dating from 1 B.C., demonstrates the casual nature with which infanticide was often viewed:
Know that I am still in Alexandria. [...] I ask and beg you to take good care of our baby son, and as soon as I received payment I shall send it up to you. If you are delivered, if it is a boy, keep it, if a girl, discard it. 
In some periods of Roman history it was traditional for a newborn to be brought to the pater familias, the family patriarch, who would then decide whether the child was to be kept and raised, or left to death by exposure. The Twelve Tables of Roman law obliged him to put to death a child that was visibly deformed. Infanticide became a capital offense in Roman law in 374 AD but offenders were rarely if ever prosecuted.
Something completely lost to the modern mind is that, in a world full of sacrifices as the Ancient World, the innocent child has to die, ordered by his father: an all too well known practice. It is impossible to understand the psychoclass that gave rise to Christianity ignoring this reality turned into a powerful symbol.
However, my working hypothesis is that the forms of parenting had to suffer, in general terms, a regression during the Middle Ages. As I said before, I was tempted to include a graph different from Lloyd deMause’s: one that showed the great slump since the best times of Ionia, Athens and Rome. I didn’t do it because that would mean starting from a dogmatic position: that Middle Ages childrearing was necessarily worse because history waned in the centuries of darkness. As a working hypothesis it is respectable; as an axiom it would be dogmatic. We must always keep in mind that in Scandal in Bohemia, Sherlock Holmes said to Watson: “It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.”
It will thus be the future task of historians to find out if childrearing modes were, in fact, more abusive in the Middle Ages than during the highlights of the Greco-Roman world. In the archived Wikipedia talk page of Psychohistory, Loren Cobb said:
In my view, the psychohistory of Lloyd deMause is indeed a notable approach to history, in the sense in which Wikipedia uses the term “notability.” I am not personally involved in psychohistory—I am a mathematical sociologist—but here are some thoughts for your consideration.
Psychohistory as put forth by deMause and his many followers attempts to explain the pattern of changes in the incidence of child abuse in history. This is a perfectly respectable and non-fringe domain of scientific research. They argue that the incidence was much higher in the past, and that there has been an irregular history of improvement. This is a hypothesis that could just as easily have been framed by an epidemiologist as a psychologist. DeMause proposes a theory that society has gone through a series of stages in its treatment and discipline of children. Again, this is well within the bounds of social science. None of these questions are pseudoscientific. Even the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta, a bastion of scientific epidemiology, is interested in these kinds of hypotheses.
I exchanged a few e-mails with Cobb, who like me is very critical of the psychoanalytic tail in deMausean legacy, and his position picked my interest. So let this prolegomena with academic references continue which, if developed, could become such an epidemiological approach in the future.
The Teachings of the Apostles or Didache said “You shall not murder a child by abortion nor kill that which is born.” The Epistle of Barnabas stated an identical command. So widely accepted was this teaching in Christendom that apologists Tertullian, Athenagoras, Minucius Felix, Justin Martyr and Lactantius also maintained that exposing a baby to death was a wicked act. In 318 AD Constantine I considered infanticide a crime. The West took its time to consider criminal the late forms of infanticide. The author of the Codex Theodosianus in 322 AD complained:
We have learned that in provinces where there are shortages of food and lack of livelihood parents are selling or pledging their children. Such ignominious act is repugnant to our customs.
Around 340 AD Lactantius argued that strangling infants was sinful. Although infanticide was not officially banned in Roman criminal law until 374 AD when Valentinian I mandated to rear all children (exposing babies, especially girls, was still common), both exposure and child abandonment continued in Europe.
Middle Ages. The practice was so entrenched, as well as the sale of children, that it had been futile to decree the abolition of such customs. Until the year 500 AD it could not be said that a baby’s life was secure. The Council of Constantinople declared that infanticide was homicide, and in 589 AD the Third Council of Toledo took measures against the Spanish custom of killing their own children. Whereas theologians and clerics preached to spare their lives, newborn abandonment continued as registered in both the literature record and in legal documents.
While the wicked are confounded,
doomed to flames of woe unbounded
yet, good Lord, in grace complying,
rescue me from fires undying!
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 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.
The following essay, “On Cities, Women, and White Survival” by William Ventvogel was published originally in January 3, 2003
Gentlemen, our survival depends on our attitude towards the most damaging set of lies fed to us by America’s Jewish community: the exceptions ploy. These are: “some blacks are okay,” “some homosexuals are okay,” “some career women are okay,” “some Jews are okay,” etc. If you have not learned by now that these are lies, that the presence of these people destroys White identity, we are doomed to fail.
Andrei Kievsky wrote recently that things are falling apart very fast. Yes. Mark the closeness of two milestones in the campaign to destroy Whites: 1) the blonde White woman‐nigger romantic pairing in media, and 2) the establishment of a super GRU murder‐repression agency by FedZOG. The current vogue of the mulatta Halle Berry is prep for White males to get over the color thing. And psycho killers loose in American society are to make us beg for security. The West isn’t doing much about the savages exterminating Whites in Africa and it won’t do much when it starts happening here, either. We’re finished with government. Fuck the government. We’re on our own.
Let’s look at the rest of it. White women are competing with us in the marketplace for money and influence. What sort of women? Those White women whom Jew propaganda has won over, that’s who. They are pro‐ZOG; they are unitarians, although many deny it. The fact is, these women face a bitter end, though most don’t seem to know it, and if they did they would back out. I’ve seen it happen, and they are pathetic at 40 years old, trying to re‐feminize themselves, trying to shuck the traits of competition and hoping a virile man will find them attractive, and perhaps make them mothers.
Taxes fund anti‐white politics—and Jews are superb at creating issues. All women in power today use some degree of government protection. A woman in level competition with men rarely lasts long. All women of influence owe something to the Jew government. Worst of all, most White men take these women seriously and use the Jew political lexicon in their relationship with them. That is, men negotiate with these women. I used to do that. I used to operate by the “some career women are okay” assumption. That’s conditioning; that’s the effect of Jew propaganda. What a mistake! Remember that the next time you see some redhead career cunt pawing a simian at the opera.
Jew corruption and support is concentrated in the cities. Pro‐Jew, unitarian, professional women are concentrated in the cities. The niggerball producers are there; queer power and welfare directorates are there; the corporate capos are there; the breeding and mud hordes and the elite Whites who use them are there. Take any member of these groups for other than what he or she is, and you are losing.
That Sanskrit saying, “From the corruption of women… all evils follow,” is true. But you can undermine the ZOG’s artificial order. Stop taking these women seriously! Women want to be dominated. When I gave up the nice guy crap and dropped the Jew lexicon and started hunting women ’70s style (and before), looking at them first as pussy, it was as if I had quit the Church of Goy Control, and been swept up by the Valhallans. Now I look at women as sources of pleasure and incubators for my children, and that levels everything else. That blows away the ZOG fog. Clarity and focus are mine.
Then I am powerful! If I realize that a certain woman deserves more respect from me, I shall give it. But until I see she is quality, she is my meat. The old “gentleman” and “nice guy” approaches don’t work. They are indicators of defeat and retreat, not civility. Good manners still impress—but not as we expect. There is a new dynamic at work in cities. It is predatory and commercial, cynical and claustrophobic and effete. Cities are no longer tenable for a gentlemanly White man with a touch of honor pulsing in him. Such men wash out. I know. The principal dynamic is, in short, Jewish. White women know something is off with White men. The White men are running away. They can’t handle it. What’s left to White women? That’s why so many White women are hooking up with Jews, niggers and orientals.
I live in the core of a rotting East Coast city. It is architecturally magnificent, the best of 200 years of civilized White men. But these men are all gone, and so is their type. Only the buildings remain of their civilization, in a swamp of nigger predators and parasites (there is plenty of wigger—White nigger—trash, too). Here in the core, sushi faggots, Jew lawyers and landlords, lesbians and career twats dominate. Rabble makes up the rest of the population. In a city 70 percent nigger you find yourself inevitably in their company. They are everywhere. And, brothers, I was “going along to get along” until a few weeks ago when two niggers pulled a 9mm on me. I got away with my life and wallet, and someone called the cops, but I left before they arrived. I don’t know if they ever showed up and I don’t care. I wouldn’t have called them because I don’t need them. The incident was merely life in a place with Africans roaming at liberty. Niggers feed on Whites. This is the imperative that drives all niggers — the “nice” ones too. They follow the White man to get his standard of living. Or else they live like niggers, i.e., they eat each other and sell their children. A male nigger’s greatest coup is screwing a blonde or redheaded White woman. Any White man who thinks that’s okay is headed for a necktie party. That day is coming.
There is no such thing as an okay nigger. I can’t look at any nigger as I did before. The only “okay” nigger is in Africa, or dead. In the meantime, demographics and economics ensure they’ll continue to feed off us, take us down. That’s the Jew plan for us. I watch every simian now—watch his hands, his eyes. There are too many and I can’t handle it well anymore. Either I kill them or I get out. The Jew problem behind the nigger problem, and the queer problem, and the Ms. MBA‐hole [a feminist who has an advanced university degree and who is a real bitch] problem, is like a leech sucking out the White man’s energy and brains. The ambient stress is always there whether you feel it or not. The city‐dwelling White man, being strong, ignores or “manages” it in order to survive. No matter, the stress will eventually destroy him, make him do something stupid. In the meantime I imagine with pleasant tones a life without the necessity of casing every nigger male, or every White male who’s friendly. There is too much enemy energy in the cities, too many Jews, too many questionable White women. And a healthy White man wants to clean it out, hunt them down and kill them, kill them all. And if he can’t or won’t, the stress eventually turns him passive—then apathetic—then cowardly—then materialistic. He is caught in the Jew vortex.
The way to handle the effects of cities at this time is to get out. Yes, eventually the Jews and muds will find us no matter where we go. But the cities are finished and there’s nothing to do but let them go down. We can take them back later—if there’s anything left. But a White man cannot keep his integrity in a city. If he thinks he can he is either degenerate or deluded by Jew propaganda. There are no White cities anymore, and the niggers and muds are always sniffing out virgin White territory. The moron Christians and unitarian Whites lick them all over, like a mama dog licks her pups. Only another decade or so will produce World Three urban conglomerations so filthy, dangerous and diseased, so hopelessly repulsive, no healthy White could stand them.
What will getting out of the city do for me? It will let me be White. It will give my kids a chance to know themselves. It will return my energy and mind to me. A low income is a low price to pay for my dignity and soul. If I stay here I will start hunting down and killing niggers and Jews—and I dare say if you stay, so will you. It would be natural to do it, but it isn’t the answer—yet. If I stay, corrupted White women will continue to remind me that the White man has shockingly turned away from himself. If I stay, I will witness more and more White people drifting into self‐destruction. We need a new and dangerous wilderness. The White man is his whitest in such places. No wonder we’re going down—there’s no wilderness left. Let’s step back and let them develop.
Sharpen your knives, White man. Breathe clean and wait for The Day.
How will the Castilian Wolf deal
with Little Red Riding Hoods
after the crash
The most paradoxical thing about women is that, while the fairest specimens of Aryan females look indeed like the crown of the evolution physically, if you empower them the race goes extinct. They simply refuse to reproduce. In fact, all of the present demographic winter looks like a typical women’s shit test writ large:
If you let my whims run amok with runaway feminism your little genes are going extinct. Have a little respect of yourself you pathetic eunuch. Take heed of how nymphs and nymphets were fair game when the first Romans faced extinction and resorted to the abduction of the Sabine women. After the racial wars in a Mad Max-like world, will you have the balls to abduct me and convert me into your legit wife, with lots and lots of kids you pussycat, or will you let the niggers do the job and turn America into Northern Brazil?
Every time I watch how a drunk Clarke Gable handled Vivien Leigh during that famous scene of Gone with the Wind, carrying her up the large stairs in his arms and telling her, “This is one night you’re not turning me out,” I shake my head imagining the non-lycanthrope nationalist gentlemen, you know, the AltRight types. (For the interregnum they’re ok, but during and after the racial wars we’ll need real wolves chasing after Little Reds.)
Gable passed the test. Leigh awakened the next morning with a look of pleasure for having been “raped” and being put, on the marital bed, in her rightful place. But it makes me wonder. Like the ancient Romans seeking wives (after being fed by a she-wolf) in order to found families, will 21st century nationalists pass the test after the rule of law collapses?
An ongoing discussion at Counter-Currents moves me to reproduce the following article, “The Future of White Women: A Speculation” written by William Ventvogel eight years ago. However radical they may appear to conservatives, present-day white nationalists are still trapped in the non-lycanthropic, bourgeoisie box, and unlike Ventvogel very few are willing to think outside it. Fortunately, the dollar is going to crash in the near future. You better be prepared psychologically to receive our unwelcome bite, turning yourself into Canis lupus with regard to the coming treatment of women, once the interregnum after 1945 is, finally, over.
The ugly fact is that throughout history women have been objects of barter. This is rooted in harsh conditions that abated barely two centuries ago. The women of the West—White women— generally had it better and were the first to be elevated above commodity—and by their own men. Their ascent to their positions of market‐competitor and leader today correlates to technological ascent. By “ascent” I mean the increasing productivity‐per‐unit, and decreasing cost, of technology. Technology has nearly erased harsh conditions in most areas of the West and allowed White women to participate in affairs—even dominate. No longer does a White woman need a male guardian. But the industrialized Western states are complex and in debt. They are disintegrating, and nothing can stop this process. What will the situation of White women be as things turn worse?
Technology also grows human populations beyond safe environmental carrying capacity. By any sane analysis, Earth is overpopulated with low‐intelligence, high‐birthrate problem makers—no matter what the egalitarian lens shows. Technology will falter and down with it will go those populations brought out by hyper‐technology of food and energy production. Barbaric conditions will creep back in, and White women will lose their power. They will become commodities again. How White men handle their women then will be as important as how well they neutralize their racial enemies. It will determine the fate of the White race. White men will face two great problems in their women: 1) the competition for White women, and 2) those White women who demand what no longer exists nor can exist. This, exacerbating the struggles of survival, will make the scene ferocious.
The easy times are ending. They might collapse in our lifetimes, because technology is failing and “American” society is becoming too complex to govern. Dark peoples are streaming into the West to escape their deteriorating homelands. They have infiltrated White homelands by the tens of millions and five billion more are behind them. They are here and will remain until that desperate hour of the wolf when, and if, White warrior action coalesces and drives them out. The darks have their own leaders and White egalitarian scoundrels willing to collaborate with them. And they have White technology and weapons. In the coming war of White survival, White men will be defending not only their sustenance but also their women from dark warlords.
Whites have been besieged in Mother Europe before: by Huns, Moors, Mongols and Turks. But the coming war in North America will be different. The White man will be the obstinate holdout, unsure of himself, and the smaller tribe. And his women will be gold. Blonde and red‐headed women of apparently pure White blood will be highly prized: battled for, murdered for, negotiated for, abducted and bought, acquired by tribute, by black, brown, yellow and Jew warlords. The White warrior aristocracy would develop a creed of fanatical protection of its women—much like the Old South—a Castilian intolerance of dissent, ready to eradicate any hint of threat—and this includes the defection of White women.
It is of course intellectually au courant to think that the White race is history’s most rapacious. This is the product of Jew propaganda. The White man has proven himself the most humane. The dark races, too, have invaded, plundered, razed and enslaved. But it was Euro man who abolished these actions, as the objects in official policy, when he could. He developed the technology and shared it; he possessed the means and the innate sensitivity to attempt it. Even before the Renaissance and Enlightenment, and long before the advent of the steam engine, the White man saw the danger of his love of war. And he was easing up on his women—instinctively knowing that their participation in government would be necessary to rein in his instinct for adventure. Thus, White women were living better, and in the promise of a better future, centuries ago—better than the majority of dark women in their own societies today.
Today Whites everywhere are under siege. Decades of unimpeded Jew propaganda and Jew‐engendered laws meant to destroy Whites have created two White psychologies: the survivalist and the ZOGling. The survivalist psychology will eventually resist; the ZOGling is willing to surrender. The survivalist wants to live White, and wants his children to live White. He knows what White is. The ZOGling is the doomed whiteskin who doesn’t care about whiteness; more concerned is he with physical survival in comfort, and is willing to miscegenate and serve ZOG (often the ZOGling is merely dull; or worse, a “Libertarian”). The ZOGling is a whigger, meat for the dark hordes, a condom on the Jew phallus.
The new breed on the way, the Castilian wolf, will apply a sort of triage towards White women. It will be informal, ad hoc, but will seek to separate healthy White women from the tainted. After having killed off his immediate nigger, brown and Jew competitors; after securing a deep territory, the Castilian warrior must cull the pool of White women. He must discover which has had willing sexual contact with non‐White men, especially niggers. Those who have will be killed, expelled, or sold. Convinced, egalitarian, pro‐mixer White women are likely to be STD‐infected, and must be culled. (The prisoner David Lane has written a novel on this.)
It must be remembered that churches and ZOG propaganda have induced White men also to interracial sex. More powerful than these, however, is the White man’s lust. He takes whatever women it pleases him to take; same as it ever was. The White warrior who wishes to keep his honor must invent a system of honesty and judgment, both to control himself and treat White women fairly. As the time of the wolf draws nearer the White man must watch for other degenerative influences. One that is extremely damaging, but seems innocuous, is the inducement to masturbation—and not for any religious reason. This is facilitated by pornography. Masturbation is emasculation. Take a look around. Only masturbation can account for the slouched, neutered, passive character of so many young White men. The following factors are involved:
1. Images of sexualized females in advertising (soft porn)
2. Copulating females in private media (hard porn)
3. Recourse of females into careerism and as a result removal from the mating pool
4. Psychological warfare against White male identity
5. Elevation de jure and de facto of coloreds and Jews over White males in lucrative professions
All of which invert White males: some into homosexuality, others into a “celibacy” sustained by masturbation and the “wife” of pornographic images.
Retention of sperm increases aggressiveness. George Lincoln Rockwell’s famous dictum, “A man who won’t fuck, won’t fight,” is true. We should see also that a White man who accepts sexual release anywhere but into a worthy White woman is ceding territory to Jew and colored males. One incentive for warfare was the capture of desirable women. And so it shall be again. The White man who fails to establish and protect a pool of choice [for] White females from the coming statistical empire of 15‐20 Jew, nigger, Asian and mongrel men for every single White woman, will effectively fail to secure himself. The simple fact will be this: the strongest warriors will get the best women—same as it ever was. The more technology falters, the greater the danger, and the more intense the competition for White women. The Chinese still practice female infanticide. Within 50 years there will be 200 million Chinese men for whom there won’t be Chinese women. Think about that when the lights go out again. The numbers cannot be avoided.
In A.B. Guthrie’s superb novel The Big Sky (1947), Boone Caudill returns home to Kentucky after 20 years as a White savage in the Shining Mountains. Caudill has killed a dozen men, red and White, with a knife, gun and tomahawk. A pretty young girl, a neighbor of his brother, shows interest in him. Her mind and his can never share the same topography, however. Here in Kentucky he feels trapped and doomed, and knows he can live only in a state of anarchy. He arranges an evening tryst, and rapes her. She is talking of moonlight and flowers, and he only wants her body. Consider this excerpt:
He got up afterward and straightened himself, looking down while she lowered her skirt and curled on her side and lay in the grass, her mouth still a little broken from the feeling in her and her shoulders bucking to her catchy breath.
Her voice was small and jerky but it still spoke as if of something sure. “When’ll we be married, Boone?” He had wanted this woman and now he had her and never wanted her again. In him there was only a deadness, the numb deadness of a man sure enough about dead. He sank down in the grass.
“When, Boone?” It was her hand now that hunted for his and cuddled it in the warm palm as if it was hers for good and all.
“I ain’t thought about that.”
“We got to be married,” she said, and he thought he heard the quick sound of scare in her tone. “We just got to be married”…
He had to go. His feet straightened and lifted him up. “I got a woman.”
He left her sobbing in the grass. Once he heard her cry after him and took a glance back and saw her sitting and bowed over. It was too bad she took it so hard, but he had to go. Under him his feet quickened…
He had to go. West again. Somewhere west, as in that far‐off time…
He didn’t realize he was running until he saw Blue trotting to keep up.
This will be the general form of the White man in barbaric conditions. Most will not be this crude, of course. Caudill was not very intelligent. But his character indicates the consequences of pariah‐hood and pent‐up rage.
When the ’Kwa [Amerikwa—a negative word used to describe the degenerate, racially destructive, Jewified, niggrified, pussified, and depressing place that America has become] starts disintegrating Whites will scramble to form communities. Regional conditions will vary according to the infrastructure which blacks and browns prefer—that is, urban. The colder the climate, the better. The more trees and mountains, the better. How many niggers have you seen in the mountains? A picture of the nigger’s sexual nature is to be seen in the areas in which he thrives: the cities. The male nigger, having been loosed by Jews to be what he is, runs about like a hyena. To this sort of nigger, who dominates nigger areas, masturbation is what chumps (pussies) do. And fags. A buck nigger seeks release only in penetration—hence the sexual aggressiveness of niggers and their increasing success with White females as White male sexual energy retreats. When the time comes White males must kill all White pussy‐hound niggers and White women who give themselves to them. They must be hunted down and killed with Castilian ruthlessness. In the coming wars, bourgeois values will be a joke. Any White man who fails to purge miscegenating White women from his community allows poison to fester in it.
The Jew knew exactly what he was about when he caused, over decades of careful undermining, pornography to be decriminalized. Until the Jew snuck out of his ghettoes and into White civilized society, pornography and masturbation were anathema. Our White ancestors crushed pornography and counseled against masturbation—though their reasons for doing so were idiotic religious reasons, ours are for sound biological reasons. In the end, masturbation is cheap and weak. Masturbation is White male control.
After the wars of survival, which will be in effect culling processes, medieval conditions will come. White women will again be traded and sold, or married off, to effect political alliances. There will be no avoidance of this, a necessary step in the evolution of White civilization. The areas bordering Jew, nigger, mestizo and Asian dominions will be raided for plunder and White women. White women must be practically ensconced into harem‐like conditions for their security and to secure a breeding pool. The crimes of the future are inevitable.
The solution to the problem of White women in our time is the same solution for the other problems we have under ZOG. The solution is, abandon the system. Accelerate the rot of ZOG and the ’Kwa by withholding energies that maintain it. White women out of control; White women holding power over White men in corporations, military, government and law enforcement; all this is a condition which will disintegrate when the ZOG does. In a Jew‐free society the balance will be restored. The rage is smoldering and there will be retribution against a certain type, or types, of White women at the proper time. There are many Boone Caudills and there will be many more. They have no use for ’Kwa and will take it down. I have heard them—the exiles, simmering for The Day [of the Rope], tell me of being dumped by arrogant White professional girlfriends for nigger toys; of losing promotions by Affirmative Action; of insults and offenses of every stripe and heat. ZOGtwats are part of the System, allied to the ZOG, and they will receive harsh treatment.
The White man has no enemy who can stand up to him if he decides to quit feeding them. When the Jew‐capitalist machine breaks down, he gets his women back. The start is that simple. The conclusion will not be. How he handles it will decide his fate.
“The areas bordering Jew, nigger, mestizo and Asian dominions will be raided for plunder and White women.”