A body-snatched Spaniard

Having in mind the story of snatched Britons I recounted yesterday, today at Occidental Dissent, Lew said:

Given those facts, do you think it’s possible literal, real, metaphysical Satanic influence is guiding the British leaders?

Preposterous! More probably, snatched Britons are merely acting out their emotional issues, as I explained about an adult Spanish woman who transfers the hatred she feels toward her abusive parents toward her parents’ culture.

Below, what I wrote by the end of 2009 when analyzing her. I apologize in advance that, since most of the original entries in Spanish don’t appear below (it would triple the length of this post), my English translation appears disjointed or disconnected at some places:

Today’s suicidal ethos throughout the West is unimaginably deeper than anything that the common Western patriot, or even the most sophisticated intellectual, has ever glimpsed in his wildest dreams. While intellectuals in the white nationalist movement are good in describing the predicament that the West faces today, at the same time they are clueless about the basic etiology of the whys of the ethnic and cultural self-hatred behind some of our people. Why is this so?

I have written a book from the viewpoint of depth psychology and cannot summarize my findings in this entry. Suffice it to say that the most extreme cases of cultural and ethnic self-hatred go back to the way we were raised by our parents, and the defense mechanisms that we unconsciously built in response to the family dynamics. Although I believe this is the universal cause of extreme self-hatred, in the sense of hatred toward our parents’ culture, in this article I will use a single case-study to illustrate why a westerner that I know hates her culture to the point of desiring its destruction. I analyze her not as a personal vendetta, but in the hope that those who defend our culture and ethnicity will become aware of what Alice Miller calls the forbidden knowledge.

Below, my translation of what I wrote in Spanish in several entries elsewhere:


First entry (6 October 2009)

It’s incredible what a broke guy does to get out of poverty. After the tragedy that occurred in my family, the central subject of my series of books Hojas Susurrantes, I ended up without profession or a job. Through the internet I met a woman from Gran Canaria, Teresa, who proposed to marry me so that I may obtain work permit in Spain. Though we never married, and although there was never intimacy between us, Teresa initiated the paperwork as if she was my employer so that, with time, I could obtain the work permit. Since I originally believed that this was altruistic help I accepted in order to break away from my family’s future inheritance and, finally, be free to publish my Hojas Susurrantes about them.

This idealism moved me to embark on a trip to Gran Canaria. Neither Teresa (“Tere”) nor I suspected that the 2009 economic crisis in Spain would severely worsen during the time I stayed there. Thousands of the island’s canary citizens lost their jobs. I was not even a Canarian and under those circumstances I lived ten months in Las Palmas de Gran Canaria…

But thanks to the unemployment I educated myself. I used those long months to read lots of articles in the blogosphere about the islamization of Europe, and even about the extinction of the white race (if the present suicidal birth-rate trend among Caucasians continues). Since in good faith I always talk about my projects and readings, I committed the mistake of telling Tere that I was involved in the counter-jihad movement; that is, the movement in the blogosphere concerned about the islamization of the West.

What a blunder… In the following months that I lived in Tere’s flat, unable to get out because of lack of a job, Tere harassed me with phone calls, e-mails and, when she visited Canaria (she works in Madrid), even personally. But I’m getting ahead of our story.

The days in which Tere gave me a tour in her island I witnessed how she approached the employees of the shops with questions in very bad mood. When I confronted her about this sort of behavior she replied that we were too susceptible; that she was a courageous woman and that the people simply misunderstand her passion. In a couple of e-mails she told me that her moods formed part of “her always critical and questioning nature.” She also wrote:

“It’s true that I can be very intense or passionate in discussions, something that some people misinterpret as irritation or anger.”

In these entries we will see what these “misinterpretations” really were, and why I consider her case a perfect paradigm to understand the West’s suicide in general and Europe’s in particular.


Second entry (12 October 2009)

Why do I use my time in something apparently so irrelevant like writing about the hysterias of a leftist woman? Simple reason: because we lack what in The Divided Self Laing called a “science of the persons.”

After Romanticism the genre of confessional autobiography cropped up. Unfortunately, by pretending to approach the subject on the basis of abstract principles, psychoanalysis, academic psychology and psychiatry usurped the study of the inner self and approached our souls from the impossible viewpoint of objectivism. This category error permeates the academia insofar as to understand concrete people it’s necessary a subjective history of these people.

Oliver Sacks recognizes this in his area of expertise, neurology. In a recent entry in another of my blogs in Spanish I refer to Sacks’ Musicophilia. And in another of his very acclaimed books, The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat, Sacks complained that in classical neurology we will find a thousand descriptions of the pathologies that correspond to the left hemisphere of the brain for a single pathology about the right hemisphere. He adds:

And yet, as Luria says, they are of the most fundamental importance. So much so that they may demand a new sort of neurology, a “personalistic,” or (as Luria liked to call it) a “romantic,” science; for the physical foundations of the persona, the self, are here revealed for our study. Luria thought a science of this kind would be best introduced by a story—a detailed case-history.

Sacks approaches the hardware problems of the despised right hemisphere of the brain, the hemisphere of the emotions; Laing and I, on the other hand, approach software problems: the cognitive distorsions through which some see the world. Sacks’ field of study is the damaged brain. Laing’s field, like my own, are the damaged minds. One studies the hardware, the other the software. In another of my blogs I have delved deeper into it.

So why do I post a long entry about a leftist that I met, a woman with no societal influence except her vote to Zapatero’s party? As I said, the reason is simple. The best way to illustrate the failures of judgment should be, according to Laing and Sacks, personalistic. But in the psychology departments I wouldn’t be allowed to enter into this type of incursion about a non-notable person.

I would like to quote Sacks again to illustrate this astronomical mistake in academic psychology. In the chapter about the man who, due to a neurological problem—his eyesight abilities were perfectly OK—mistook his wife for a hat, Sacks wrote:

Neurology and psychology, curiously, though they talk of everything else, almost never talk of “judgment.” And yet, judgment is the most important faculty we have. An animal, or a man, may get on very well without “abstract attitude” but will speedily perish if deprived of judgment. Judgment must be the first faculty of higher life or mind—yet it is ignored, or misinterpreted, by classical (computational) neurology. And if we wonder how such an absurdity can arise, we find it in the assumptions, or the evolution, of neurology itself. For classical neurology (like classical physics) has always been mechanical. Of course, the brain is a machine and a computer—everything in classical neurology is correct. But our mental processes are not just abstract and mechanical, but personal, as well—and, as such, involve not just classifying and categorizing, but continual judging and feeling also. If this is missing, we become computer-like, as Dr P. was.

“Doctor P.” was the curious patient who, due to a neurological problem that made him to forget what human faces were, mistook his wife for a hat. (In the above quotation I didn’t use ellipsis between the unquoted phrases.) What Sacks says after the above quote hits the nail:

By a sort of comic and awful analogy, our current cognitive neurology and psychology resemble nothing so much as poor Dr P.! Our cognitive sciences are themselves suffering from an agnosia essentially similar to Dr P.’s. Dr P. may therefore serve as a warning and parable—of what happens to a science which eschews the judgmental, the particular, the personal, and becomes entirely abstract and computational.

As a remedy to this hemiplegic neurology, Sacks recommends the study of the brain’s right hemisphere. Nevertheless, unlike the left hemisphere, the right one cannot be studied with IQ-like tests, but through personalized case-histories. Sacks thus illustrates the neurological dysfunctions in the diverse areas of the right hemisphere. His work showed me stuff about the mind that I hadn’t fully digested a few years ago when I read another of his books, An Anthropologist on Mars. Incidentally, all of my Sacks books were gifts by Tere! On this one I must be grateful to her…

The above are key quotations to make my point. Just as present-day neurology is hemiplegic, the humanities are hemiplegic too, including almost everything published to date about ethno-masoquism in the West. While a few psycho-biographies about the pathologies of politicians are available, it is considered improper to analyze a casual acquaintance.

I believe that this is a gigantic mistake, as my study of Tere will demonstrate. To analyze a staunch far-leftist woman is, in the “software,” the “hardware” equivalent of analyzing the brain lobe of someone who mistakes his wife for a hat.

The original post was too long. I’ve moved “entries” 3 to 12 (and part of the 14th and last entry). Below I keep what is essential to make my point:

Thirteenth entry (28 October 2009)

I’ve already said that Teresa used my economic dependency to harass me about my political views when I wanted to avoid her as if she was the plague itself. The following e-mail excerpts are examples of such harassment. Angrily she wrote:

19 August 2009

And why do you elude person-to-person confrontation? Do you know what’s the problem with you? You constantly send contradictory messages and the other person doesn’t know how to behave with you.

18 August 2009

But your obsession and visceral hatred that you exude in these [YouTube] videos cannot but confirm the idea, already stated in my previous e-mail, that the subject [my exposé of radical Islam] is no more than a scapegoat for your rages and hard feelings about your family. And it’s a pity that ultimately my efforts to help you to come here, and to spread your ideas about psychiatric coercion, have ended in the promotion of the opposite values of liberty, equality and solidarity which I’ve always struggled for. [In the moved posts omitted here I already talked about Tere’s fallacy of identifying anti-psychiatric activism with the “progressive” policies of the left.]

7:49 A.M.

Incidentally, today I was thinking about one of your videos of the “Alice Miller” series where you bitterly criticize your cousin, the filmmaker, because he didn’t dare to comment anything about your book after you gave it to him.

I don’t know if you noticed it, but you did exactly the same when I recommended you to watch the film that I so much identify with—and that had affected me so much that I wasn’t capable of watching it again with you—, titled The Secret Life of Words. Your only comment was a laconic and brief “Not too bad” and only when I questioned you about it you immediately passed on talking about banal subjects with absolute indifference. How can you demand that others do what you don’t do? [I’ll respond to this hysterical demand, that I should have played the role of Tere’s “Doctor Heart”, below.]

17 August 2009

I’ve just watched one of your videos where you say that you’d like to go to the USA and subscribe the Republican Party. HOW CAN YOU BETRAY YOURSELF AND YOUR IDEAS IN SUCH A WAY? I’d like to know what would those right-wingers of “gates of viena” [sic, a counter-jihad blogsite] say about your ideas about traditional family…

24 June 2009

I’ve glanced through, in leaps and bounds just for a change, your English blog. How obsessive!!!! [in June of 2009 most of my entries were about the islamization of Europe]. Isn’t there any other subject of your interest? And in leaps and bounds, some words catch my attention.

“The Reconquest”? It’s as clear as day that you didn’t suffer the Francoist dictatorship and all of its grandiloquent paraphernalia “for God’s empire”!! [Tere reduces ad absurdum my concern about Europe’s islamization in the 21st century with a 20th century chapter in the history of her country.]

23 June 2009

And it’s a stupidity on your part if you think that in Muslim countries the only schools that the children go are usually the Koranic madrassas. [I never said this] In Morocco, for example, the French lyceums have a great tradition and prestige. [Judge by yourselves my dear readers. In the tone she spoke to me, “stupidity on my part,” Tere demanded at the same time that I played the role of her “Doctor Heart”...]

17 June 2009

“…the social engineers that import millions of Muslims to Europe.” But what paranoid conspiracy nonsense is this? [Tere quotes what I wrote in my blog but omits the context because, as she herself acknowledged, she only “glanced through in leaps and bounds” my entries.]


Teresa ends up in the Fruit Cake Hospital

This is the most important section of my analysis [taking into account the analysis I omitted here because of the length of the original post]. It has to do with my hypothesis that an unprocessed hatred toward the abusive family transmutes into depression, as I explain in my essay “On depression.” Within this framework, suicide or suicidal ideation are perfectly comprehensible. Indeed, suicidal ideation is what at the beginnings of the new century Tere suffered when she was committed in a psychiatry ward of a public hospital of Las Palmas. This is the story:

By the end of 2002 Tere contacted my through internet for the first time. In that year I still didn’t have a webpage. But I had translated to Spanish several anti-psychiatric articles authored by Lawrence Stevens. Tere liked especially one of those articles in which, following Tom Szasz, Stevens said that suicide ought to be “a civil right.”

Tere rarely writes in English. Instead of contacting the author she contacted the translator—me—, and through a series of e-mails she revealed an interesting story that I believed from 2002 to 2009, when my trip to her native island disabused me. I confess that since we met in the internet Tere was so fascinated with my anti-psychiatric work that, for years, she paid the bill of my (now defunct) antipsych webpage.

The day that I left her island for good Tere was in her flat of Las Palmas. On her own initiative, she showed me the file of the psychiatric ward in which she was committed not long before she contacted me in 2002. Although it was written in almost illegible handwriting by the nurses and physicians of the hospital, the file demystified the story that Tere had detailed in her e-mails of 2002, as well as in 2003 when she visited Mexico.

In the idealized story, Tere was casually passing by near a bridge in her island when a policeman believed she would jump from it and called the ambulance, which unjustly took her to the hospital. A female doctor, her story goes, had her in an observation room and Tere protested that the detention was taking too long. This moved the doctor to arbitrarily commit her. Once involuntarily committed in the psychiatric ward she was drugged with Valium, again against her will. The tranquilizer produced a terrible side effect, paralyzing her muscles and Tere believed she would die. She wasn’t allowed to leave the ward for days and days… (If she was cut off the outside world it was because she didn’t want to give the doctors but a single phone number of a girlfriend, who to boot was never at home.) Once her brother took her out of the hospital, Tere was so scared that decided to move to Madrid. Even though she owns a flat in Las Palmas (where I would live years later), Tere preferred to share an expensive flat in Madrid in her obsession to get away, at all cost, from the betrayal she suffered in her native island.

This is Tere’s tale. Originally it made such an impression on me that I mentioned it in my webpage without mentioning her name, as a typical case of psychiatric commitment of a sane person. However, when Tere showed me the psychiatric file, I discovered that her tale was a fabrication.

In the diverse documents that Tere showed me, what first caught my eye was the police report. He testified that Tere told him she was measuring the bridge’s height. Tere hadn’t told me this little detail! What I remember now is that even in her idealized version Tere said she rudely talked back to the policeman when he asked her, alarmed, where exactly was she going.

And until now I start to connect the dots. Remember how Tere treated the employees of Las Palmas? The point is that such behavior provides a very different reading of the facts. The policeman knew that another person had killed himself a week before by jumping off the bridge. Now, confronted with a rude woman talking about measuring the bridge’s height in the middle of a freeway road, he called the ambulance. I remember that Tere herself confessed me that the reason she talked rudely to the policeman was because of what the police symbolized in her mind when she was much younger, especially due to the character of the Francoist police.

So we’ve got Franco once more [mentioned several times in the above-omitted entries]. It’s evident that Tere projects her teen experiences to the present, and onto completely innocent people. Nowadays the Spanish police are very different from Franco’s police, and even more in the Canary Islands. The Canary people in general, and the Spanish police in particular, are kind. However, due to her eternal retro-projections Tere didn’t see any provocation coming from her rude answer to the policeman, who only fulfilled his duty after the recent incident. On the contrary, and like other persons with an attitude problem, Tere projects her traumas onto the people in her immediate surroundings, however innocent they may be. For example, in one of her most provocative e-mails Tere wrote:

Are you sure you are not projecting toward the Islamic subject your unresolved rage and revenge thirst for the harm you got in the family during your teens????????

Tere’s head of concrete impedes her seeing that I’m not projecting but describing what’s happening in Europe. That’s not projection. Tere’s words are a projected self-portrait onto the people she happens to encounter. If there’s someone whose “rage and revenge thirst” is unresolved, it is Tere’s. It’s she the one who suffers from “family harms.”

This is not the first time when someone projects onto myself her self-portraiture. Analogously, the first event in the chain that ended up in her commitment, the policeman’s call to the ambulance, had been a diametrically-opposed incident to the story Tere had made me believe. Let’s now see what happened after that.

According to Tere’s tale, the commitment had been an arbitrary action of female the doctor in charge of the admissions. Only until I arrived to the island I learnt that Tere’s suicidal ideation had been something very real. From Tere herself I learned that she was measuring the bridge’s height to make sure she would die after jumping off! Tere told me this personally in Canaria: not even by e-mail. She had to check up the height because a couple of her acquaintances had jumped off from not sufficiently tall buildings and had, pathetically, survived. But there were even more surprises in her file…

One of the things that surprised me the most is that Tere made a few little tantrums asking to leave the hospital, confronting the nurses with the words:

“I can take my life whenever I want!”

or:

“I can take my life when I feel like doing it!”

Although I don’t have the file with me, I remember those phrases. When I read the police’s report—that Tere intended to measure the bridge’s height—, or the nurses’ report—that she made tantrums about taking her life—, amazed, I asked Tere: “But did you tell them those things?”

Candidly Tere assented and rationalized her conduct as the legitimate reaction before the commitment. There were other phrases of this kind, but I don’t remember them exactly. Since Tere only let me see the file in her presence, I couldn’t annotate what I read. But I can state that the file transmitted a very vivid image that Tere made a fool of herself in the hospital, lachrymosely demanding her right to kill herself. That had been the real cause of her commitment, not the malevolence of the Canary authorities, the version of the story that I had originally swallowed.

When Tere showed me the file it didn’t cross her mind that the revelation would radically transform the idea I had about her case. Tere showed it to me under the impression that I, who for a couple of years had done anti-psychiatric activism, would solidarize with her cause. She never perceived that by showing it to me her old tale would crumble.

A person in his right mind would have kept up a straight face, even someone who would commit suicide. There are be people in their right mind that commit suicide. Tere’s file, on the other hand, registered temper tantrum after temper tantrum in the psychiatric ward, aggravated by the side-effect of the Valium that impeded her to breath normally and even “to open the anal sphincter” when going to the toilet, as Tere confessed a Scientologist who does some activism against involuntary psychiatry. Even though Tere let me read only a fraction of the file, her acting out was so obvious that I wonder why wasn’t she punished with much stronger psychiatric drugs. As I said, the Canary people that I met were very kind; this might explain why they didn’t administer her neuroleptics.

I never told Tere a word about how her file had changed my mind. Still, each time that the file reported one of the amazing phrases attributed to Tere, I asked incredulously: “Did you say that…?” Tere continued to assent without perceiving how the new revelations would change my previous opinion.

Tere’s file refreshed my memory on another subject. When in 2002 I read the long tale that Tere had written, I gathered that in the previous days to her fateful visit to the bridge she was extremely upset about a lawsuit against her previous employer, a rather long and tiresome lawsuit process she had initiated. Tere’s frustration about it drove her to visit the bridge.

In September 11 of 2009, the day I escaped from her island, to my surprise those lawsuits were mentioned in the psychiatric file that I saw. And after watching Tere aggressively arguing in her island with innocent employees the first days we arrived to the island, a behavior she would later repeat with me for sure, the dots connected by themselves. For example, Tere told me that she had reproached, angrily, her detention addressing the female doctor in charge of the admissions in the psychiatric ward. I didn’t tell Tere what was in my mind when she confessed this little incident, but it seems pretty obvious that this resulted in a one-way ticket to the ward. Who on earth dares to talk rudely to the one in charge of admissions within the psychiatric ward itself? Only someone so overwhelmed by her emotional issues that acts out her suicidal ideation in front of the thoughtpolice!

To understand this analysis of Tere it’s useful to become familiar with my analysis of Andrew Solomon (already linked above). Just as Solomon displaced the rage he felt for his mother on one of his friends, breaking his jaw, Tere does something similar. Of course, women are not tough guys by nature. Instead, they frequently discharge their rage verbally: what Tere did at the stores; with me, with the policeman at the bridge, with the powerful psychiatrist in charge of the admissions, and I assume that with her former employers too, against whom Tere filled up angry lawsuits.

In one word: hysteria. Tere has a medical degree. She knew perfectly well the dynamics of the psychiatric institutions in her native island. She has no valid excuse about how would the authorities of her island react before her acting out her emotional issues.

During the ten months that I stayed in her flat, Tere was there about two months in her holyday days. When she told me that her parents hit her as a child, I suggested her to do a serious mourning to process the trauma: say, something like writing an autobiography like the one I had written. For Tere, that was absolutely out of the question. She told me several times that that wouldn’t do any good to her.

Tere never confronted her parents. She doesn’t talk about her family traumas with her two brothers either. Nor does she reproach anything to her silent relatives. She keeps everything to herself. It’s understandable, therefore, that the volcano of rage she carries inside explodes in other ways.

Tere’s case is typical. I have given my two sisters the bestseller of Susan Forward Toxic Parents, which incidentally I recommended to Tere a few years ago and she did purchase a translated copy of it. Forward tells her clients that graduate in her therapy to write a letter to the perpetrator, the parent who abused her clients when they were younger. Of the many people that I know that have read Forward’s book—Tere included—, no one has followed Forward’s advice. The fears of touching the parent inundate even the minds of those who, like Tere, have already half a century in this world. And in the case that the parent has passed away, as I explained in my essay on Solomon, Forward advises reading a vindictive letter in front of the parent’s grave to obtain inner peace. But Tere didn’t settle the score with any of her parents in the form of long epistles (cf. the first book of my series of five, Letter to mom Medusa).

Tere’s attitude is typical. All people whom I’ve tried to communicate with tell me that they already got over it and that writing long, reproaching letters—let alone sending them to their parents—is out of place. It’s risible that Tere answered back that she vehemently dislikes writing when she apparently didn’t dislike writing the psychodrama of her involuntary commitment, and even sending it to her intimate friends. Those who suffer from chronic bad temper are capable of anything except addressing their bitterness at the source that caused it.

In my Solomon essay I said that substitutive hate, the one directed onto scapegoats, is infinite. In the case of Tere that means nothing less that her bad tempers and brawls don’t finish just there. Tere needs, in addition to that, to hate the culture that was deaf about how she was abused in her teens. Tere herself confessed to me that she hated the society because of that betrayal, and that when she was committed her old memories of physical abuse at home assaulted her mind. According to her own words, the commitment had been a —:

“Now I know…!”

—that what was done to her as a child was true. But Tere, who has written op-eds to the newspapers complaining about psychiatry, doesn’t write a single word advocating the child’s right not to be parentally abused or about her own childhood, where her real pain lays. It’s no mystery that she transfers her rancor to parent symbols such as the authorities, as we saw with the police. But the policeman who impeded her reaching the bridge is not her father. Nor her mother. Nor her deaf relatives. It was Tere herself, not the file, who told me that when the policeman asked her where was she going, she responded adamantly:

“To the bridge!”

The hard answer detonated a chain reaction from the forces of law and order. And each time that Tere had the opportunity of repressing her bad temper and keep a straight face, she did nothing but escalate her acting out provoking even more the island’s authorities.


Final analysis

I wouldn’t have written this comparatively long analysis were it not for Teresa’s hatred for the West in general and traditional Spain in particular, and her craving for my culture’s destruction. We already saw [in the omitted entries] that she told me she really loved the 9/11 terrorist attacks, the Moorish immigration that is taking away what force remains of Christendom in Spain, that she thinks that every single Western family is noxious, and that she wishes that “everything collapses.”

The sad thing about cases like Teresa’s is that there are many of them. What moves me to write this article is that in the nationalist movement there is no psychological analysis whatsoever, not even in the slightest form, of why leftist people hate their civilization. I believe that this case illustrates it. The volcano of rage that Teresa carries inside never explodes in the form of speaking out about her real aggressors. Never. She re-directs it to the culture that, in her mind, symbolizes her family: the Francoist Spain and everything related to conservatism. Teresa gives a damn about the fact that in other cultures the treatment of women is far worse that what she got as a child. That’s irrelevant. What only matters is the destruction of the culture that crucified her. Period.

Teresa and I have the same age and we both suffered in Catholic families at the same time. Comparing the two biographies it’s evident that I was a victim of more serious parental abuse than what she got.

But I don’t desire the destruction of my civilization. Before trauma, even big time trauma, there still exists individual responsibility. That someone devotes himself to speaking out about child abuse (like me), or contributing to destroy the West through voting for Zapatero and by hating those concerned with the Islamization of the Europe (like Teresa), only shows that there’s indeed something like surrendering our will to evil.

If leftist feminists were good persons, the first thing they would do is to feel compassion for the girls in Europe whose genitals have been chopped off at their parents’ request. But these women do exactly the opposite: they hate the System dissidents who pity the pubescent Muslims, as Teresa hated me in her quoted e-mails.

“A little woman chasing after her revenge would over-run fate itself” wrote Nietzsche. Teresa and the rest of the little women that feel extreme hatred toward our civilization chase after an unconscious revenge. With so many voters like her in Spain and in the Western world, so many Body-snatched Pod whites like in the 1956 film, the fate of the West looks grim indeed. Teresa’s suicidal ideation, aborted by the psychiatric institution that she loathes so much, transmutes itself into the suicide of our civilization since, alas, instead of killing themselves many other empowered women have become West haters too.

But there is something in which Teresa and I are in agreement. I believe that the policeman should have let her jump off the bridge…

The Brigade excerpts, chapter I

by Harold Covington

“I’ve Had Enough of What Ain’t Right!”

“I’ll do it,” said Zack Hatfield.

“Do what?” asked his friend Charlie Washburn.

“Kill them,” said Hatfield. “I’m going to kill both of those bitches.”

The two of them were sitting on plastic-upholstered armchairs in the musty living room of Zack’s cheap furnished apartment in Astoria, Oregon. Hatfield was a tall and rangy blond man in his late 20s. His muscles were lean and ropy, and his often scowling face was prematurely seamed from working outside in the cold and the wind, at whatever temporary labor jobs he could find in his home town that hadn’t been snapped up by Mexicans.

♣

“Yah, apparently that’s the big thing in all the feminist self-help and psychobabble books now. They call it life scheduling or some such shit,” explained Hatfield. “The first marriage is for kids, which of course she always takes with her in the divorce settlement after soaking hubby number one for every penny she can. Apparently the lesbian thing is also something every truly liberated woman is supposed to schedule now. I think all Ms. Proudfoot has to her name is a welfare check and a line of noble Native American Womyn crap.”

“Woe-men?” repeated King.

Hatfield nodded. “That’s the way fems write it. I think that’s how it’s pronounced. It’s one of those PC shibboleths the media and the intelligentsia are trying to introduce into the language and make into an accepted and then mandatory term, like the word Ms. George Orwell wrote about it in 1984. Newspeak. Mind control. Just like we have to say African-American instead of nigger. When a totalitarian society controls the language, controls the words that people use in speech, and punishes them for using any word or terminology other than the prescribed ones, eventually the whole population will be so afraid they’ll start using the politically correct terms in their very thoughts, to make sure they don’t blurt out some word that will make them lose their jobs or get them arrested for hatespeech. Anyway, your life has to be destroyed because it fits into Liddy’s life schedule, apparently. It’s all about her, of course. You’re a used component and now she’s throwing you away.”

“But if she wanted a divorce she didn’t have to do—this!” King waved his hand around at the surrounding walls and Plexiglass. “Why this?”

“To make absolutely sure that she gets Caitlin and Judy,” Hatfield replied patiently. He had explained the situation to King several times before, and so had his court-appointed attorney, but it was obvious that King simply could not yet wrap his mind around what was being done to him. “Under both the federal hatecrime laws and the Oregon Diversity and Tolerance Act, any conviction for hatecrime or hatespeech automatically terminates a convicted offender’s parental rights.”

“All for one single word?” screamed King in horror. The walls were closing in on him and he was clearly beginning to go insane. “Just because I said dyke?”

“Hey, buddy, settle down!” snapped the guard behind him. “You’re in enough trouble already! I’m a pretty laid back kind of guy, but it’s my job to make sure you don’t talk any more hateful stuff.”

Hatfield ignored him, and when King got the phone back to his ear he went on. “Martha Proudfoot claims that you made her feel threatened because of her gender, her sexual orientation, and her race. I think she claims you said dyke squaw, actually. You’re lucky the D.A. kept it in state court and so you’re only looking at five years for the speech. If they’d gone federal with it they might claim that making the Proudfoot woman feel apprehensive was an act of hatefully-motivated assault, which they can do under the statute, and then they could hit you with actual hate crime, which is mandatory life, maybe without parole if the judge thinks you actually intended to strike her.”

“Strike her?” laughed King bitterly. “My God, have you seen that creature? She’s built like a bulldozer!”

“Steve, you know that the FBI had some child psychologist and a couple of agents in the other day and they grilled the girls for four or five hours?”

“Yeah, Pritkin, my lawyer, told me about that. Caitlin is six years old! Judy is four! What in God’s name could they expect to get from children?” demanded King incredulously.

“They asked the girls if you’d ever said any bad things about black people or Hispanic people as well as gay people, that kind of crap. This thing up in Idaho last month has them really freaked out and maximum paranoid. The Marines just recaptured Coeur d’Alene a few days ago, and the feds are seeing white supremacist rebels under every bed now. They asked your girls if they’d ever seen any flags in your house. Green, white, and blue ones.”

♣

“We can just stand by and wring our hands while Steve King’s life is destroyed, and the lives of two little girls are poisoned. We can write a letter to the editor, or maybe get drunk and call up a right-wing talk show, although we’d damned well better not say what we really think, or we’ll be up on hatespeech charges too. And it won’t save Caitlin and Judy King from being raised to hate all men of their own race.”

“Suppose we all club together whatever money we’ve got and try to hire a decent lawyer for Steve?” suggested Ekstrom.

“There’s no such thing as a decent lawyer, and even if there were, they wouldn’t stand a chance in these courts on a hatespeech case,” Zack told them. “No lawyer with enough clout to beat a hatespeech case will touch one, because of the repercussions to his own career if he does win. There is only one way. Those two bitches can’t be around to get up on a witness stand and swear his life away.”

“It’s not just about Steve,” said Washburn heavily. “It’s about Caitlin and Judy as well.”

“It’s not even about them, Charlie, not in the final analysis,” said Hatfield, shaking his head. “It’s about us. About whether we’re men or dogs.” Zack suddenly clenched his fist and roared aloud, a lifetime of rage and humiliation and contempt for the world around him welling up from his heart and his belly and his brain and bursting out of his body in an explosion.

Washburn looked at the other two men. “Me, too. I’m in. Len, I think Zack’s right. You’d best take a powder. Zack’s single and I’m divorced, and we both have crappy jobs and nothing to lose. You have a family and a business and you’ve got everything to lose. I wasn’t a Ranger like Zack, I was just a truck driver, but I remember enough of my military stint to fire a weapon. I’m sure two of us can do this. There’s no need for you to be involved.”

“I am tired of living in hell,” said Ekstrom. “I never thought that I would be ready in my own mind to kill someone. But I’m ready. At some point in time, this madness and this cruelty has to stop. For me, it stops with Steve King. They’re not going to get him. No.”

“That’s the real thing, all right,” said Zack with a sigh and a smile. “It’s taken how many years between us to reach this point? Sometimes I thought white men never would.”

“We have,” said Charlie. “Okay, Zack, you’re the ex-Ranger. You should know how to plan a double assassination. How do we go about this? What do you want Len and me to do?”

“I’ll do the planning and the actual killing. I need you two to provide an alibi, nothing more,” said Zack.

“You do realize the shit is going to hit the fan big time when two lesbians with a hatespeech case pending against a white male are murdered?” asked Charlie. “You also realize that yours is the first door Sheriff Ted Lear is going to come knocking on? He knows you and Steve have been tight since high school, plus you visited him in jail.”

“Yeah, well, that’s why I need you two guys as my alibi,” said Hatfield with a grin. “But I’ve also got a little trick up my sleeve to muddy the waters like hell. I’m going to take a magic marker with me, and I’m going to write the letters NVA [Northwest Volunteer Army] on the wall. Maybe in their blood.”

“Jesus, Zack, that will be sure to bring in the FBI!” exclaimed Washburn. “After what’s happened in Coeur d’Alene, they’re descending on the Northwest like a swarm of angry bees!”

“We see all over CNN and Fox News that the uprising in Coeur d’Alene has been crushed and it’s all over. I don’t buy that. My guess is what’s left of the real NVA is going to keep on fighting and hitting these bastards.”

♣

He walked calmly down the empty street and turned in at the Kings’ driveway. Inside the sweat shirt, stuck into his belt was a truncated double-barreled 12-gauge shotgun. There was a battered military-surplus Hummer in the driveway sporting a number of feminist and pro-abortion bumper stickers, which Zack had learned belonged to Martha Proudfoot. There were no other cars in the driveway, which was a good sign. He had no way of knowing if Liddy King or the Proudfoot woman had become sufficiently paranoid to install an alarm system. Steve King had never used one, since this part of the Northwest was still sufficiently crime-free so it had not seemed necessary, as long as the family had Spuds the terrier to sound the alarm in case of intrusion. But with the media full of hysterical raving about evil racist terrorist conspiracies in the wake of the October rebellion in Idaho, the two lesbians might have gotten jumpy.

He pushed the door open. The chain was off, so he would not need the small pair of bolt cutters in his left back pocket. That’s a stroke of luck, he thought. They’re careless. Careless and arrogant. I’ll bet it simply never occurred to them that despite what they’re doing, anyone would dare to lift a finger to stop them. Why would it occur to them? Until a few weeks ago, no one’s ever fought back.

The little beds were empty. Thank God, he thought to himself. Caity and Judy at least won’t have nightmares about terrible sounds and boogey men in masks from this night’s work. I wonder if they will ever be able to understand why, when they grow up?

Now Hatfield stood outside the master bedroom door. He could hear low, drowsy female voices from within, talking softly and casually. There was no sign of alarm; he had been as silent as the grave. Zack pulled two rubber ear plugs out of his pocket, lifted his mask and inserted them into his ears so the noise and concussion of the heavy bore gun going off in a closed room would not damage or rupture his ear drums. He slid the hammerless shotgun out and eased the safety off; it was ready to fire. He took a long deep breath…

♣

“You wrote those letters on the wall?” Ekstrom persisted curiously.

“I did. Don’t know when they’ll find the bodies, but when they do I promise you’ll be able to hear the Daily Astorian scream in horror all the way down to Coos Bay.”

“What happened in Coeur d’Alene has changed things. Now we know it can be done. We failed in Coeur d’Alene, but the Party hasn’t been destroyed. I know because I have been in contact with some people who escaped from Coeur d’Alene and who are still fighting, carrying on a guerrilla war to establish our own white country here in the Northwest. It’s going to be long and bloody and horrible, but we’re going to win.”

“How do you figure that?” asked Washburn curiously.

“Short answer? God is on our side,” said Zack simply. “Oooo-kaaay…” said Washburn. “And you know this, how?”

“Because of what happened in Coeur d’Alene and what happened with me tonight,” Zack explained. “These things are God’s sign to us. Not whether we won or lost, or whether I screwed up somehow and I’m in jail looking at a double murder charge this time tomorrow night. That’s not what matters. What matters is that these things happened. That we did them. God has given the white man back his courage. The courage to stand up and defy our oppressors’ laws. The courage to fight back with weapons in our hands, instead of a computer keyboard. The courage to be men again, real courage that comes from our hearts and not from a can of cheap domestic beer or a whiskey bottle. We never had that before, up until now, and that’s why white men always lost. We were ashamed of who we were. We were ashamed to be who we are.

“No more. Guys like me and the Old Man and so many others have spent all our lives begging God on our knees to just do this one little thing for us, to give us back the courage that our ancestors had, even if it’s only for one last glorious defeat, so that we can die on our feet instead of live on our knees, and exit the stage of history with our heads held high. God has answered our prayers. We have our courage back now. I don’t know how it happened, but we’ve got it back. We got ours back when we did this thing tonight, because even though I was the trigger man, you guys stepped up to the plate just as much as I did. Anyway, I’m going to meet with some people about joining the Northwest Volunteer Army.”

http://northwestfront.org/

Atheist scum

Unlike Nietzsche and other nineteenth-century critics of Christianity, today’s atheists are scum. A single example will illustrate my point.

Atheist Richard Dawkins, who has appeared in talk shows arguing that homophobia is bigotry, claims to be an evolutionary biologist. But Dawkins has never dared to take seriously the most elemental biological law of evolution regarding the future of his people: to grow and multiply—not even when whites are flagrantly violating that law and heading toward extinction.

The following is a brief exchange between Dawkins and a Palestinian Muslim. Keep in mind my recent post on Pride & Prejudice and Will Durant’s words, that Nature “sees that a nation with low birth rate shall be periodically chastened by some more virile and fertile group”:

Muslim: Fix your women.

Dawkins: Fix your women! That’s not my business; that’s my women’s business.

Muslim: No, no! It is your business. When you take your women and dress them like whores in…

Dawkins: I don’t dress women! They dress themselves!

Muslim: I know but you allow it as a norm to let women on the street dressed like this. What’s going on with your society? What’s wrong with the…?

See the video of this exchange here. Dawkins could not tolerate more cognitive dissonance and, as you can see in the video, he simply faded out the audio of what the Muslim was trying to tell him.

Unless a white revolution reclaims Europe, the Muslims will teach the feminized western males of Eurabia how to grow a pair again, especially regarding our treatment of women. How sad that the Muslims have to teach us what we already knew when, unlike the atheists of today, we took the laws of biology very seriously.

This is Nietzsche’s critique of licentiousness under the guise of liberty taken from Twilight of the Idols, chapter “Skirmishes of an Untimely Man,” section 41:

Freedom which I do not mean.* In times like these, abandonment to one’s instincts is one calamity more… Today the individual still has to be made possible by being pruned: possible here means whole. The reverse is what happens: the claim for independence, for free development, for laisser aller is pressed most hotly by the very people for whom no reins would be too strict. This is true in politics, this is true in art. But that is a symptom of décadence: our modern conception of “freedom” is one more proof of the degeneration of the instincts.

(*) Adding a “not” Nietzsche is quoting here a popular German verse from a Max von Schenkendorf poem titled Liberty.

Europe’s vagina

I had posted this entry on February 5 but want to repost it so that it may be read along with my previous entry on Nietzsche’s very traditional views about what used to be our most sacred institution before Western man committed racial suicide: Marriage.

The subject of the virtual abolition of Marriage is, to my mind, more important than the Jewish question. Those who want to know why are advised to print Roger Devlin’s article “Sexual Utopia in Power” and study it carefully.

♣

During pre-Christian times Nordics began emigrating in wave after wave heading south. The original Romans, themselves the descendants of one of these waves, would later refer to the German-Scandinavian area as vagina gentium, the womb of white nations. Also, the land which ultimately comprised Russia ought to be hugely significant for white nationalists because it included the Caucasus area, the original source of the “Indo-European” (Caucasian) peoples.

What pained me the most while reading both William Pierce and Arthur Kemp’s stories of the white race is that Europe’s vagina was closed and raped into the Asiatic gene pool in the course of the Asiatic invasions. After those interminable invasions that lasted centuries the Caucasus area ceased to be the womb of the Nordish peoples. “It was perhaps the single most important racial genocide in history” wrote Kemp.

The aggressor was external of course. But during my lifespan I have witnessed the destruction of whites by whites themselves on a scale no seen since the Mongolian invasions. With reproduction levels below the minimum relacement of 2.1 per family, we, not the Huns or Genghis Khan’s hordes, have closed the womb through the so-called sexual liberation movement, feminism, the pill, the legalization of abortion, the empowerment of women, mixed marriages, and the destigmatization of lesbianism and male homosexuality.

It is my hope that, after the dollar crashes and Western society falls into utter chaos—and, thanks to the laws of social entropy, ethno-states are formed at both sides of the Atlantic—, Roger Devlin’s dream to reinstitute heterosexual marriage will become reality.

If our civilization is under the grip of liberal mores, especially the belief that non-discrimination on race and gender is the highest moral value, when values are transvaluated back to Austen mores our women will be having six or more kids.

If whites are to survive as a people the vagina gentium must be reopened, whether our spoiled women like it or not…

Chechar’s ten must-reads

1. Hellstorm (excerpts here)

Hellstorm is the first book in my list for the reasons explained below this post. Whites will not regain a proper self-esteem unless and until the big lies of omission about the Second World War are exposed with all our heart and being. If the Allied crime is not understood, assimilated and atoned for, my prediction is that the white people will perish.

2. Who We Are (excerpts here)

3. March of the Titans (excerpts here)

It is not enough to know the real history of the century when we were born, as well as the astronomic lies of omission of the academia and the media about the wars. The fact is that, unlike the other races—brown, black and yellow—in the last millennia whites have managed to find themselves as an endangered species more than once, and this has paramount importance to understand our times. I find it incredible that only a few white nationalists have been interested in the history of their race; proof of it is that these two splendid books by Arthur Kemp and William Pierce are not the main bestsellers in the community. (Unlike Kemp’s 2011 edition of March of the Titans, Pierce’s Who We Are is not available in book form—he died before sending the manuscript to the printers.)

4. A People that Shall Dwell Alone

5. Separation and its Discontents

6. The Culture of Critique (prologue here)

The Jewish problem is one of the greatest problems in the western world, and, pace counter-jihadists and other naïve conservatives, no man can be considered mature until he has striven to face it. Therefore, besides readable and very entertaining histories of the white race, a specific study on the Jewish question is fundamental. The above books comprise Kevin MacDonald’s magnum opus on Jewry.

MacDonald’s preface to The Culture of Critique (see link above), which he wrote four years after finishing the trilogy, can be read as a didactic introduction to the whole trilogy.

Presently I am reading the sections of the second book on how otherwise individualist whites elaborated collectivist group strategies in the form of the Early Medieval Church and, more recently, the (aborted) National Socialist movement in Germany. These are mirror images of Judaism as a reaction to a perceived group conflict, precisely what the blogger Svigor has been calling “towards white Zionism.” Although MacDonald’s study is academic, what I am reading now in Separation and its Discontents is pretty captivating. It seems to me that a future movement of white collectivism inspired in these precedents is the only way to racial preservation.

7. The Turner Diaries (excerpts here)

8. The Brigade (excerpts here)

Objective scholarship is not enough to get the picture of what white nationalism is. We also need a thoroughgoing subjective vision, what I call soul-building. We need novels depicting future reactions or group conflicts against the tribe, other non-white invaders and the white traitors. William Pierce’s Turner Diaries inaugurated a literary genre that fills the gap. For those who have no stomach for Pierce’s extermination fantasies I would recommend the best novel of Harold Covington’s quintet, The Brigade, an absolute treat.


9. Toward the White Republic (excerpts here)

This collection of essays authored by Michael O’Meara is the best pamphlet to date on white nationalism. Like the Hellstorm book, we can even send gifts of this slim book to our friends and acquaintances. Unlike most white nationalists, O’Meara is a genuine revolutionary, not a mere reactionary. It is a shame that after being fired by the academia for political incorrectness, as far as I know Professor O’Meara has not found a sponsor within the white movement.


10. Collected essays by F.R. Devlin (example here)

The last “book” of my list has not been published all together, not even online. It’s an imaginary book in my mind containing the best essays of F. Roger Devlin on how feminism has been destroying our morals, our white genotype, phenotype and even our extended phenotype in the latest decades. (Yes: I am old enough to remember the times when the institution of marriage was rock-solid among my relatives.) Those editors in the white movement who are promoting homosexuality ought to mend their ways and, instead of publishing books claiming that “homophobia” is part of the Jewish culture of critique, they should be collecting Devlin’s essays under a single cover. (I confess that hetero-sexual family values are exactly the conscious and unconscious force that drives my mind into the white movement.)

I wish that Devlin’s Collected essays as well as Pierce’s Who We Are be published in hardcovers before the currency crash (coming under Obama’s second term) makes unaffordable any gathering of the best pro-white literature in the market.

Enjoy the reading! After the dollar crashes and the internet is censored you will regret not having a home library!

Origin of the Family

Excerpted from the third article of William Pierce’s “Who We Are: a Series of Articles on the History of the White Race”:

Since the use of [Paleolithic] tools required a larger brain than before, and since the birth canal had become smaller, infants had to be born in a premature state, with a relatively long period of postnatal development and growth ahead of them. This meant a long period of incapacitation for mothers, while they nursed and cared for their helpless young. And this in turn required a prolonged dependence of the female on the male.

Thus, stable male-female pairing, with the male taking the role of hunter-provider and the female the role of mother-nurse, became established in our evolutionary line hundreds of thousands of generations ago. It is what is natural for our race, in that a predisposition for it is born with us. The foolish liberals who see it as the “oppression” of women and imagine that they can abolish it with a few acts of Congress or a Constitutional amendment have not the faintest understanding of what they are tampering with.

How the sexual revolution is destroying the West

by Michael O’Meara

Guillaume Faye (pic), Sexe et dévoiement [Sex and Perversion—Ed.] Éditions du Lore, 2011

Four years after Guillaume Faye’s La Nouvelle question juive (The New Jewish Question,2007) alienated many of his admirers and apparently caused him to retreat from identitarianism and Euro-nationalism, his latest work signals a definite return, reminding us of why he remains one of the most creative thinkers defending the future of the white race.

In this 400-page book, which is an essay and not a work of scholarship, Mr. Faye’s central concern is the family, and the catastrophic impact the rising number of divorces and broken households is having on white demographic renewal. In linking family decline to its demographic and civilizational consequences, he dissects the larger social pathologies associated with the “inverted” sexuality now disfiguring European life. These pathologies include the de-virilization and feminization of white men, the normalization of homosexuality, feminist androgyny, Third-World colonization, miscegenation, the loss of bio-anthropological norms (like the blond Jesus)—and all that comes with the denial of biological reality.

At the core of Mr. Faye’s argument is the contention that sexuality constitutes a people’s fundamental basis; it governs its reproduction and ensures its survival. Thus, it is the key to any analysis of contemporary society.

As the ethologist Konrad Lorenz and the anthropologist/social theorist Arnold Gehlen (both of whom have influenced Mr. Faye) have demonstrated, there is nothing automatic or spontaneous in human sexuality, as it is in other animals. Man’s body may be like those of the higher mammals, but it is also a cultural, plastic one with few governing instincts. Socioeconomic, ideological, and emotional imperatives play a major role in shaping human behavior, especially in the higher civilizations.

Given, moreover, that humanity is no monolith, there can be no universal form of sexual behavior, and thus the sexuality, like everything else, of Europeans differs from that of non-Europeans. In the United States and Brazil, for example, the sexual practices and family forms of blacks are still very unlike those of whites, despite ten generations in these European-founded countries. Every form of sexuality, Mr. Faye argues, stems from a specific bioculture (a historically-defined “stock”), which varies according to time and people. Human behavior is thus for him always the result of a native, inborn ethno-psychology, historically embodied in cultural, religious, and ideological superstructures.

The higher, more creative the culture the more sexuality also tends to depend on fragile, individual factors—such as desire, libido, self-interest—in contrast to less developed cultures, whose reproduction relies more on collective and instinctive factors. High cultures consequently reproduce less and low cultures more, though the latter suffer far greater infant mortality (an equilibrium that was upset only in the 20th century, when high cultures intervened to reduce the infant mortality of lower cultures, thereby setting off today’s explosive Third-World population growth).

Despite these differences and despite the world’s great variety of family forms and sexual customs, the overwhelming majority of peoples and races nevertheless prohibit incest, pedophilia, racially mixed marriages, homosexual unions, and “unparented” children.

By contravening many of these traditional prohibitions in recent decades, Western civilization has embarked on a process that Mr. Faye calls derailment, which is evident in the profound social and mental pathologies that follow the inversion of “natural” (i.e., historic or ancient) norms—inversions that have been legitimized in the name of morality, freedom, and equality.

Sexe et dévoiement is an essay, then, about the practices and ideologies currently affecting European sexuality and about how these practices and ideologies are leading Europeans into a self-defeating struggle against nature—against their nature, upon which their biocivilization rests.


The Death of the Family

Since the Cultural Revolution of the 1960s, expressions of egalitarianism and a nihilistic individualism have helped undermine the family, bringing it to the critical stage it has reached today. Of these, the most destructive for Mr. Faye has been the ideology of libidinal love (championed by the so-called “sexual liberation” movement of the period), which confused recreational sex with freedom, disconnected sex from reproduction, and treated traditional social/cultural norms as forms of oppression.

The “liberationists” of the 1960s—the first generation raised on TV—were linked to the New Left, which saw all restraint as oppressive and all individuals as interchangeable. They were convinced that all things were possible, as they sought to free desire from the “oppressive” mores of what Mr. Faye calls the “bourgeois family.”

This ’60s-style sexual liberation, he notes, was “Anglo-Saxon” in origin, motivated by a shift from prudery to the opposite extreme. Originally, this middle-class, Protestant prudery confined sexuality to the monogamous nuclear family, which represented a compromise between individual desire and familial interests. This compromise preserved the family line and reared children to carry it on.

In the 1960s, when the Boomers came of age, the puritans passed to the other extreme, jettisoning their sexual “squeamishness” and joining the movement to liberate the libido. In practice, this meant abolishing conjugal fidelity, heterosexual dominance, “patriarchy,” and whatever taboos opposed the feel-good “philosophy” of the liberationists. As the Sorbonne’s walls proclaimed in ‘68: “It’s prohibited to prohibit.” The “rights” of individual desire and happiness would henceforth come at the expense of all the prohibitions that had formerly made the family viable. Mr. Faye does not mention it, but American-style consumerism was beginning to take hold in Western Europe at the same time, promoting self-indulgent materialism and the pursuit of pleasure.

Americans pioneered the ideology of sexual liberation, along with gay pride and the porn industry, but a significant number of “ordinary” white Americans resist their elites’ anti-traditional sexual ideology. Salt Lake City here prevails over Las Vegas. The Washington Leviathan nevertheless continues to use these ideologies and practices to subvert non-liberal societies, though not always with success: The Russians have rebuffed “international opinion” and refuse to tolerate gay pride parades.

Europeans, by contrast, have been qualitatively more influenced by the “libertine revolutionaries,” and Mr. Faye’s work speaks more to Europeans than to Americans, though it seems likely that the European experience will sooner or later come to the United States.

Against the backdrop of ’60s-style sexual liberation, personal sexual relations were reconceived as a strictly individualistic and libidinal “love,” based on the belief that this highly inflated emotional state was too important to limit to conjugal monogamy. Marriages based on impulsive sexual attractions and the “hormonal tempests” they set off have since become the tomb not just of stable families, but increasingly of Europe herself.

For with this adolescent cult of sexualized love that elevates the desires of the solitary individual above his communal and familial duties, there comes another kind of short-sighted, feel-good liberal ideology that destroys collective imperatives: the cult of human rights. This flood of discourses and laws promoting brotherhood and anti-racism are synonymous with de-virilizition, ethnomaschoism, and the destruction of Europe’s historic identity.

Romantic love, which is impulsive on principle, and sexual liberation have destroyed stable families. This “casino of pleasure” may be passionate, but it is also ephemeral and compelled by egoism. Indeed, almost all sentiments grouped under the rubric of love, Mr. Faye contends, are egoistic and self-interested. Love in this sense is an investment from which one expects a return—one loves to be loved. A family of this kind is thus one inclined to allow superficial or immediate considerations to prevail over established, time-tested ones. Similarly, the rupture of such conjugal unions seems almost unavoidable, for once the pact of love is broken—and a strictly libidinal love always fades—the union dissolves.

The death of the “oppressive” bourgeois family at the hands of the emancipation movements of the ’60s has given rise to unstable stepfamilies, no-fault divorce, teenage mothers, single-parent homes, abandoned children, homosexual “families,” unisex ideology, new sexual categories, and an increasingly isolated and frustrated individual delivered over almost entirely to his own caprices.

The egoism governing such love-based families produces few children. To the degree that married couples today even want children, it seems to Mr. Faye less for the sake of sons and daughters to continue the line and more for the sake of a baby to pamper, a living toy that is an adjunct to their consumerism. And since the infant is idolized in this way, parents feel little responsibility for disciplining him. They subscribe to the “cult of the child,” which considers children to be “noble savages” rather than beings that need instruction.

The result is that children lack self-control and an ethic of obedience. Their development is compromised and their socialization neglected. These post-’60s families also tend to be short lived, which means children are frequently traumatized by broken homes, raised by single parents or in stepfamilies, where their intellectual development is stunted and their blood ties confused. Without stable families and a sense of lineage, they lose all sense of ethnic or national consciousness and fail to understand why miscegenation and immigration ought to be opposed. The destruction of stable families, Mr. Faye surmises, bears directly on the present social-sexual chaos and the impending destruction of Europe’s racial stock.

Against the sexual liberationists, Mr. Faye upholds the model of the past. Though perhaps no longer possible, the stable couples of the bourgeois family structure put familial and communal interests over amorous ones, to the long-term welfare of both the couple and the children. Conjugal love came, as a result, to be impressed with friendship, partnership, and habitual attachments, for the couple was not defined as a self-contained amorous symbiosis, but as the pillar of a larger family architecture. This made conjugal love moderate and balanced rather than passionate. It was sustained by habit, tenderness, interest, care of the children, and la douceur du foyer (“the comforts of home”). Sexual desire remained, but in most cases declined in intensity or dissipated in time.

This family structure was extraordinarily stable. It assured the lineage, raised properly-socialized children, respected women, and won the support of law and custom. There were, of course, compromises and even hypocrisies (as men satisfied libidinal urgings in brothels), but in any case the family, the basic cell of society, was protected—even privileged.

The great irony of sexual liberation and its ensuing destruction of the bourgeois family is that it has obviously not brought greater happiness or freedom, but rather greater alienation and misery. In this spirit, the media now routinely (almost obsessively) sexualizes the universe, but sex has become more virtual than real: There is more pornography but fewer children. Once the “rights” of desire were emancipated, sex took on a different meaning, the family collapsed, sexual identity was increasingly confused, and perversions and transgressions became greater and more serious. As everyone set off in pursuit of an illusory libidinal fulfillment, the population became correspondently more atomized, uprooted, and miscegenated. In France today, 30 percent of all adults are single and there are even reports of a new “asexuality” in reaction to the sexualization of everything.

There is a civilization-destroying tragedy here: for, once Europeans are deprived of their family lineage, they cease to transmit their cultural and genetic heritage and thus lose all sense of who they are. This is critical to everything else. As the historians Michael Mitterauer and Reinhard Sieder write: “The family is one of the most archaic forms of social community, and at all times men have used the family as a model for the formation of human societies.” The loss of family stability, and thus the collapse of the family as society’s basic cell, Mr. Faye emphasizes, not only dissolves social relations, it brings disorder and makes all tyrannies possible. Once sexual emancipation helps turn society into a highly individualized, Balkanized mass, totalitarianism—not Soviet or fascist, but US progressive—becomes increasingly likely.

The Idolatry of Homosexuality

Homophilia and feminism are the most important children of the cultural revolution. They share, as such, much of the same ideological baggage that denies biological realities and makes war on the family. Mr. Faye claims that in the late 1960s, when homosexuals began demanding legal equality, they were fully within their rights. Homosexuality in his view is a genetic affliction affecting fewer than 5 percent of males, but he does not object to homosexuals practices within the privacy of the bedroom. What he finds objectionable is the confusion of private and public realms and the assertion of homophilia as a social norm. Worse, he claims that in much elite discourse, homosexuals have quickly gone from being pariahs to privileged beings, who flaunt their alleged “superiority” over heterosexuals, who are seen as old-fashioned, outmoded, ridiculous. Heterosexuals are like women who center their lives on the care of children rather than on a career, and are thus something bizarre and implicitly opposed to liberal-style “emancipation.”

Mr. Faye, who is by no means a prude, contends that female homosexuality is considerably different from and less damaging than male homosexuality. Most lesbians, in his view, are bisexual, rather than purely homosexual, and for whatever reason have turned against men. This he sees as a reflection on men. Even in traditional societies, women who engaged in homosexuality retained their femininity and so were not so shocking as their male counterparts. By contrast, male homosexuality was considered abhorrent, because it violated the nature of masculinity, making men no longer “properly” male and thus something mutant. To those who evoke the ancient glories of Athens as a counter-argument, Mr. Faye, a long-time Graeco-Latinist, says that in the period when a certain form of pederasty was tolerated, no adult male ever achieved respectability if he was not married, devoted to the interests of his family and clan, and, above all, was never to be “made of woman,” i.e., penetrated.

Like feminism, homophilia holds that humans are bisexual at birth and, willfully or not, choose their sexual orientation—as if anatomical differences are insignificant and all humans are a blank slate upon which they inscribe their self-chosen “destiny.” This view lacks any scientific credibility, to be sure, even if it is professed in our elite universities. Like anti-racism, it denies biological realities incompatible with the reigning dogmas. Facts, though, have rarely stood in the way of faith or ideology—or, in the way of secular 20th-century ideologies that have become religious faiths.

Despite its progressive and emancipatory pretensions, homophilia, like sexual liberation in general, is entirely self-centered and indifferent to future and past, promoting “lifestyles” hostile to family formation and thus to white reproduction. Homophilia here marches hand in hand with anti-racism, denying the significance of biological differences and the imperatives of white survival.

This subversive ideology now even aspires to re-invent homosexuals as the flowers of society: liberators preparing the way to joy, liberty, fraternity, tolerance, social well-being, good taste, etc. As vice is transformed into virtue, homosexuality allegedly introduces a new sense of play and gaiety to the one-dimensional society of sad, heterosexual males. Except, Mr. Faye insists, there’s nothing genuinely gay about the gays, for theirs is a condition of stress and disequilibrium. At odds with their own nature, homosexuality is often a Calvary—and not because of social oppression, but because of those endogenous reasons (particularly their attraction to their own sex) that condemn them to a reproductive and genetic dead end.

In its public displays as gay pride, hemophilia defines itself as narcissistic, exhibitionist, and infantile, thus revealing those traits specific to its abnormal condition. In any case, a community worthy of itself, Mr. Faye tells us, is founded on shared values, on achievements, on origins—not on a dysgenic sexual orientation.

Schizophrenic Feminism

The reigning egalitarianism is always extending itself, trying to force genuine sexuality, individuality, demography, race, etc., to conform to its tenets. The demand that women have the same legal rights and opportunities as men, Mr. Faye thinks, was entirely just, especially for Europeans—and especially Celtic, Scandinavian, and Germanic Europeans—for their cultures have long respected the humanity of women. Indeed, he considers legal equality the single great accomplishment of feminism. But feminism has since been transformed into another utopian egalitarianism that makes sexes, like races, equivalent and interchangeable. Mr. Faye, though, refuses to equate legal equality with natural equality, for such an ideological muddling denies obvious biological differences, offending both science and common sense.

The dogma that differences between men and women are simply cultural derives from a feminist behaviorism in which women are seen as potential men, and femininity is treated as a social distortion. In Simone de Beauvoir’s formulation: “One is not born a woman, one becomes one.” Feminists therefore affirm the equality and interchangeability of men and women, yet at the same time they reject femininity, which they consider something inferior and imposed. The feminist model is thus the man, and feminism’s New Woman is simply his “photocopy.” In trying to suppress the specifically feminine in this way, feminism aims to masculinize women and feminize men in the image of its androgynous ideal.

This is like the anti-racist ideal of the mixed race or half-caste. This unisex ideology characterizes the mother as a slave and the devoted wife as a fool. In practice, it even rejects the biological functions of the female body, aspiring to a masculinism that imitates men and seeks to emulate them socially, politically, and otherwise. Feminism is anti-feminine—anti-mother and anti-family—and ultimately anti-reproduction.

Anatomical differences, however, have consequences. Male humans, like males of other species, always differ from females and behave differently. Male superiority in achievement—conceptual, mathematical, artistic, political, and otherwise—is often explained away as the result of female oppression. Mr. Faye rejects this, though he acknowledges that in many areas of life, for just or unjust reasons, women do suffer disadvantages; many non-whites practice outright subjugation of women. Male physical strength may also enable men to dominate women. But generally, Mr. Faye sees a rough equality of intelligence between men and women. Their main differences, he contends, are psychological and characterological, for men tend to be more outwardly oriented than women. As such, they use their intelligence more in competition, innovation, and discovery. They are usually more aggressive, more competitive, more vain and narcissistic than women who, by contrast, are more inclined to be emotionally loyal, submissive, prudent, temperate, and far-sighted.

Men and women are better viewed as organic complements, rather than as inferior or superior. From Homer to Cervantes to Mme. de Stäel, the image of women, their realms and their work, however diverse and complicated, have differed from that of men. Women may be able to handle most masculine tasks, but at the same time their disposition differs from men, especially in the realm of creativity.

This is vitally important for Mr. Faye. In all sectors of practical intelligence they perform as well as men, but not in their capacity for imaginative projection, which detaches and abstracts one’s self from contingent reality for the sake of imagining another. This is true in practically all areas: epic poetry, science, invention, religion, even cuisine and design. It is not from female brains, he notes, that have emerged submarines, space flight, philosophical systems, great political and economic theories, and the major scientific discoveries (Mme. Curie being the exception). Most of the great breakthroughs have been made by men and it has had nothing to do with women being oppressed. Feminine dreams are simply not the same as masculine ones, which search the impossible, the risky, the unreal.

Akin, then, in spirit to homophilia, anti-racism, and ’60s-style sexual liberation, feminism’s rejection of biological realities and its effort to masculinize women end up not just distorting what it supposedly champions—women—it reveals its totally egoistic and present-oriented nature, for it rejects women as mothers and thus rejects the reproduction of the race.

Conclusion

Sexe et dévoiement treats a variety of other issues: Christian and Islamic views of sexuality; immigration and the different sexual practices it brings, some of which are extremely primitive and brutal; the role of prostitution; and the effect new bio-technologies will have on sexuality.

From the above discussion of the family, homophilia, and feminism, the reader should already sense the direction of Mr. Faye’s arguments, as he relates individual sexuality to certain macro-changes now forcing European civilization off its rails. His perspective is especially illuminating in that he is one of very few authors who link the decline of the white race to larger questions of civilization, sex, and demography.

Nevertheless I would make several criticisms. Like the European New Right as a whole, he tends to be overly simplistic in attributing the origins of the maladies he depicts to the secularization of certain Christian notions, such as equality and love. He also places the blame for undesirable social/economic developments on cultural/ideological influences rather than depicting a more realistic dialectical relationship of mutual causation. Likewise, he fails to consider the ethnocidal effects on Europe of America’s imperial supremacy, with its post-European rules of behavior and its anti-Christian policies.

But having said that—and after having written reviews of many of Guillaume Faye’s works over the last 10 years, and reading many other books that have made me more critical of aspects of his thought—I think whatever his “failings,” they pale in comparison to the light he sheds on the ethnocidal forces now bearing down on the white race.

American Renaissance, June 29, 2012

The fate of the white race—in the hands of the empty-headed sex

It is important to notice that the great increase in homosexuality that we see nowadays, and also the increase in prestige for that form of behavior, is due in no small measure to the existence of scientific means of birth control. This development was a watershed event in evolutionary terms, decoupling sex from the natural, reproductive function it had served ever since life began on earth and making it into something that is now widely viewed as only a lifestyle statement. By their nature, scientific birth control technologies create a large pool of people of both sexes who don’t have children and who won’t have them, either by choice or simply because they are not able to conform to cultural norms. Such people have no stake in the future, and live only for themselves. The existence of this element acts like a corrosive acid on the structure of a society, eating away cultural bonds and decomposing it into individual atoms.

Once the pleasures of sex have been in this way decoupled from reproduction, the inevitable result is equality—between the sexes, because now women can have sex with the same abandon that was previously only the birthright of men, and between heterosexual and homosexual, because heterosexual sex need not necessarily lead to reproductive consequences either. It all becomes just undifferentiated pleasure, a lifestyle choice. This has the effect of raising the prestige of homosexuality, which had heretofore been held in contempt since ancient times, to put it on a par with heterosexuality.

Before the advent of such technologies, women had very little say in whether they were going to have children or not. The biological attractions of the reproductive act are such that virtually all fertile women ended up having them. But now, in what must certainly be a supremely dysgenic move, the genetic fate of the White race has been placed into the hands of the empty-headed, weak-willed, easily-brainwashed sex. As a result, the most intelligent White women often defer having children until it is too late. Even the White women who do have White children often end up choosing to have the children of the more feminine, brainwashed, politically-correct males available to them, because such males fit in better with our politically-correct culture and are therefore more likely to have stable social networks and employment. Some of them—too many of them, no doubt—have even aborted White children and chosen to have trendy niglets instead.

All in all, it’s hard to overstate what a disaster scientific birth control techniques have been to the White race.

Posted by Der weiße Engel
on December 2010, discussed again at TOO today

Liberals—about to be mugged by reality

Takuan Seiyo is half-Jewish. Nationalists must be aware of this fact. This said, some chapters of his online From Meccania to Atlantis, a serial being published in The Brussels Journal, are worth reading. The “Body-snatched Pod” metaphor of the film is one of the best I have seen to understand liberals. I would recommend watching the trailer of Invasion of the Body Snatchers (here).

Below, some excerpts from a couple of chapters of From Meccania to Atlantis’s (no ellipsis added between unquoted paragraphs):

European Commissioners opine that “Immigration Is Moral Necessity” and “Islam Is Welcome.” A French President predicts that “Arabic Is the Language of the Future.” A Moroccan becomes Mayor of Rotterdam. Europeans who wish to assert their ethnic identity and interests versus those of aliens are roughed up.

In the United States—a country that has ruined itself through its own naïveté about human nature, about the world and about itself, the presidential election is being contested between a right-liberal candidate of the Stupid Party and a left-liberal candidate of the Evil Party. The latter’s position’s is that America’s wealth should be redistributed to the Afro-American “community” so that the country can have its salvation. He may have rephrased this idea in more unctuous words as his political shrewdness was increasing over the years, but essentially this is still the intention.

Soon enough the United States will be turning from a stupid form of capitalism to a stupid form of socialism, and from a stupid form of multiculturalism to an evil one—of the Eurabian kind. It will be Sweden West, without the virtues that ethnic Swedes still possess.

To begin with, who are “we”?

One Identity

We are the ethno-conservatives—perhaps 60 million people in Western Europe, North America and Oceania. There are probably four times that number who are like us, but they are latent, unable at this time to cut through the fog of suppressive propaganda and inertia.

We are vastly outnumbered, and have few friends among the leading elites of the Western world. But it helps to remember that 185 million ex-Russia, non-Muslim Eastern Europeans are behind us. Living under Soviet tyranny has immunized them against the terrible mental virus that has ravaged the West. They have their own problems, related to economic development, but their combined weight is on our side. We ought not to forget who came to the rescue of Vienna and Western civilization in their hopeless encirclement in 1683.

Our common denominator is not white, for our most numerous and powerful opponents are also white. Rather, it is our opposition to our disfranchisement, marginalization and impoverishment by our own ruling elites in government, media, education, culture and business.

In America, we steam for having been abandoned by our government to mayhem and rape by illegal aliens. This is so obvious, that our ruling elites’ willful subversion of this precept is the greatest act of mass treason and insanity in the history of the world.

Jihad is an opportunistic infection that lay dormant as long as the West was strong and self-confident. The West’s own impairment of its cultural immune functions and the related importation of millions of Muslims has allowed the dormant jihadi virus to thaw and flourish.

We need our particular ethnicity and our singular culture, as other peoples need theirs. In contrast, the ruling American elite—including Republicans—has gone mad to such an extent that “minorities” are now over 1/3 of America’s population, soon to be half. And the EU ruling elite is welcoming, nay, soliciting, an Islamic wave that will accomplish what it failed previously at Tours, Lepanto and Vienna.

Together, they have brainwashed two generations of Westerners so effectively that the majority of whites in the world, notably among the young, celebrates “diversity”—i.e. their peoples’ and Western Civilization’s inevitable dissolution—as their core value. It is against this part of the population, and the politicians and subversive intellectuals who hold their puppet strings, that I believe we ought to define ourselves.

The Pods

Most contemporary whites are docilely or actively complicit in their own displacement, disappropriation, and disproportional share of rape, battery and murder by more savage peoples who have fewer scruples.

That’s why I think of them as “Pods” and of us as “Nonpods.” I use these words in the context of one of the great masterpieces of American cinema, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, released in 1956 and directed by Don Siegel, based on a novel by Jack Finney. In it, a doctor returns to a small California town to find out that one by one, its people, most of whom he has known all his life, have been replaced by dopplegängers.

These emotionless beings animated by a single instinct—proliferation—develop from large, foaming seedpods; in effect a biological production line for lifelike automatons, set up by evil space aliens.

One by one, real people disappear—acquaintances, friends and ultimately the protagonist’s girlfriend, until he remains the sole nonpod, encircled by human-like, giant legumes: the Body Snatchers.

Pods whose previous identities have been snatched and extinguished seem to be multiplying in our world too, and they are passionate in their hatred—of us. Middle-aged men and women who demonstrate publicly their desire for Europe to remain European are beaten up by Antifa gangs half their age and twenty times their number.

Pods view biological race and gender differences as social constructs, and therefore social group differences as an unjust inequality that must be rectified by reconstructing society. They view nation, ethnoculture, and private property as obsolete obstacles in the way of freedom, equality and fraternity of all people. Therefore, the right of anyone to immigrate anywhere precedes the right of the one suffering the destruction of his social capital by this immigration.

They view the refusal to tolerate the intolerable as unacceptable intolerance, and the desire to protect and preserve one’s family, community, country and culture as racism and xenophobia. And lastly, they have stood Jesus’ metaphor on its end, so that they fail to see the beam in the nonwhites’, non-Christians’ eye, but they see and greatly magnify the speck in their own peoples’ eye.

This is deep, delusionary dementia. This mental disorder is now the dominant orientation of the Western peoples, with its triumphant apotheosis, The One We Have Been Waiting For, coasting on the final approach to the most powerful job in the world, so that he can change the world into Pod kingdom.

Barack Obama is expected to receive 75-80% of the white vote in many urban areas of the United States. If this is not having one’s body and soul snatched, nothing is.


From Chapter 11: “Mugged by Reality”

The Pinocchio regime

The grand Body Snatcher project of erasing race-ethnicity-religion-culture-gender distinctions does not, of course, erase them. It merely, in the manner of a babbling baby, starts calling da-da what was previously doo-doo, as if through this onomatopaeic transfiguration shit could be turned into father.

The willful lying about reality, the manipulation of language and images to disguise such lies, the teaching and enforcement of the lies and the persecution of those who challenge the lies is the chief occupation of the regime of Meccania.

Even the few politicians and journalists who take a principled stand against immigration lie. Culture can be reliably correlated with the quartet, and only the full quartet, of race, ethnicity, religion and social class. But to do that would be to commit the dreaded crime of “discrimination.” In Meccania, one cannot discriminate on pain of severe penalties. But the ultimate peril is to Meccania itself.

Reality will continue to discriminate, no matter what Body Snatchers say or do. And a clash between a reality-averse ideology and Reality has the same pre-ordained outcome as a test crash between a knockoff car and a wall. It’s only a question of the speed, acceleration, mass and distance of the lying car from the solid wall.

The virus is pitiless and catholic, though limited to the (previously) white West alone. In Sweden, there is a plague of rapes committed by Muslim immigrants. As Muslim immigrants in Malmö increased to 25% of the population, the number of rapes tripled. The Rosengård area is largely no-go even for the Swedish police. But the authorities blame the rapes on warm weather, alcohol, Internet dating sites and increase in reporting rape. Fjordman quotes a leading Swedish journalist, Helle Klein, “If the debate is about that there are problems caused by refugees and immigrants, we don’t want it.”

By the time Ms. Klein personally will have already been crash-tested by Reality. Debate will no longer be an option, only submission.

Male-dominated societies like China and Russia aggressively threaten the West’s vital interest, and Islamic patriarchal primitives ravage it from without and within, but the West is busy feminizing itself further, confusing its genders, enforcing gender and race quotas to elevate non-deserving and incompetent nonwhites or non-males, lying to itself outrageously about innate group differences.

E = mv2

The energy released by the impact of Snatcher State’s smashup against the Wall of Reality may or may not be expressible in elegant mathematical formulas, but it’s clearly related to the mass hurling forward toward the “progressive” future, times some order of velocity.

The mass is incalculably enormous. Snatcher State now controls every part of every sphere of activity in every Western country. Through Gramscian education, Snatcher State has controlled the brains of the last three generations of its subjects.

The velocity is quite dizzying too. In the Eurabian districts of Meccania, one can compute the approximate date of impact by comparing demographic data on immigration and fertility rates of Muslim immigrants versus those of indigenous Europeans. The meeting with The Wall will occur around mid-21st century. The consequences of the impact are visible now, 40 years in advance.

The crash may take 100 years to unfold fully, just as the test truck folds in slow-motion upon meeting the wall. But its shape is on display in the once-thriving parts of Christian civilization such as North Africa, Syria, Lebanon and Turkey, and in once-peaceful and Buddhist countries like Afghanistan and Pakistan. It’s on display now in every country where a minority of another race and faith lives among a Muslim majority.

Detroit has already met The Wall. Its industry is shattered. It looks like a post-Apocalypse city. It has the highest per-capita crime rate in North America, probably in all of Meccania: 1,220 violent crimes per 100,000. 84% of Detroit’s population is black, voting strictly by racial allegiance and electing criminal, incompetent mayors and a city council of crude, whitey-bashing ignoramuses.

These problems are impossible to fix, because the ruling Body Snatchers are racist cowards who tacitly hold black (and mestizo) people to lower standards of conduct than they do Whites.

It’s more difficult to know what ultimate shape America’s Wall will take, for its Snatchers (as in the U.K.) come in three flavors: “Progressive,” Liberal and Pseudo-Conservative, whereas in continental Europe they are all from the Left mold. Nevertheless, three things seem solidly in America’s future:

One is the destruction of the dollar and of America’s capitalist model itself. The second item is the inevitable crash of the global economy. In the West, this will impact the U.S. the most. In either case, Americans will have only their White Pod elite to blame, going back to 1965.

Eurabia will know it has hit The Wall when the muezzin’s call issues from the tower of the Westerkerk. Europe’s secular-socialist feminists will have experienced The Wall when they choose themselves to wear the full body chador rather than suffer spontaneous and frequent street violence. The society that swoons at transvestite politicians, gay marriage, homosexual indoctrination in schools and “empowerment” of men-hating Marxist women will know the test of Reality when its fertility rate is no longer 1.3 but 0.65.

Before the impact

The crash seems inevitable. The momentum is enormous. The steering wheel is in the unprisable grip of crash-test dummies. A large majority of the passengers are altered Pods, happy to be on a ride toward a democratic, “progressive” future—peaceful, diverse, integrated, free of discrimination, racism, sexism, homophobia, inequality and all things nasty.

Eventually, when the Wall of Reality is so close, all but the chief priests of the Pod cult will want to bail out from the speeding vehicle. There is nothing like imminent pulverization to reprogram a chip in a hurry. But by then, the velocity will be such that staying or jumping will make no difference.

We might speculate as to the full dimensions of the crash. In areas where the population is less brainwashed, e.g. some parts of the U.S., Australia, Switzerland and Italy, it may avert the crash altogether.

The way to exit the Pod vehicle is to separate from the Body Snatchers. Persuasion, rhetoric, political propaganda, electoral politics cannot do it. A chip that has been molded to oscillate only at one frequency cannot be made to vibrate to another.

Who are the anti-Pods? The “simple folks” who study and work and pay their bills and go through life under their own steam.

It’s people who volunteer for military service rather than attend pacifist demonstrations under a security umbrella provided by the soldiering of others. Who own guns and are ready to defend their families, because they know that Podism breeds crime and the police are always too late. Who marry only those with whom nature has made breeding possible, and who go through the tribulations of raising and providing for their brood. It’s a minority of professionals and intellectuals who had enough inner strength to go through years of Pod indoctrination and peer pressure at university and on the job without losing their hold on Reality’s compass.

Exodus fundamentals

First, singularity. Podism is a single viral pathogen that knows no boundary of territory, culture, language or religion, except it’s limited, as though by a genetic mutation, to people of European origin alone.

Exodus is not simply a flight from high taxes, street crime or ethnic discrimination. When the totem of faked, forced equality hovers like a giant Moloch over Western Civilization, there remains only one option for cultural survival: construct a new civilization—a new civilization that restores and reinvigorates the old one. It will be described hereafter as Atlantis.

Anti-Pods in each town ought to strive to live next to each other, on the same street, in close proximity. When more move in, more contiguous streets. A neighborhood. Anti-Pod café-salons. Anti-Pod clothing stores selling (only high-quality) clothing made by anti-Pods on patterns from the 50s. An anti-Pod radio station and Community-TV channel and an anti-Pod film theatre running only films free of Snatcher propaganda. Anti-Pod schools and kindergartens.

Right there you see the problem. For Meccania has laws that constrain its citizens’ freedom in many of these areas. In Germany, they’ll throw you in jail for home-schooling your child. In the U.S., some Snatcher judge will find a way to coerce you to accept Pod residents and employees, and rehab clinics or mosques for Pod clients, and Pod media content, and Pod schooling.

True self-government for anti-Pods will not be possible in any of the major cities of the West—except after the crash. Hence, for anti-Pods for whom it’s possible, the goal should be to move away from all centers where Snatchers dominate, to populate villages, towns and provinces that have the fewest Pods and Pod-clients.

The ultimate step would be secession.

“…and stuck a second Jack into her mouth”

The Brigade excerpts, chapter V

by Harold Covington

Hunting The Hunters

No ellipsis
added between
unquoted paragraphs:


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

“Does Marie know?” asked Hatfield.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Which is?” asked Charlie.

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

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

“Because they’re stupid,” said Ekstrom.

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

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

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

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

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

*   *   *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dispatch,” said a female voice.

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

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

*   *   *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“FBI,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They were tipped off somehow,” said Lockhart.

“I can’t believe it!”

“Do we abort, sir?” asked Lockhart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” said Rabang. “Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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