The Brigade excerpts, chapter X

by Harold Covington


“Sharkbait”


Covington in uniform
Kicky never knew ahead of time what she would be doing on a mission. The first few times out, there were no actual homicides committed. There were more punishment beatings of white liberals or people who had otherwise contrived to annoy the NVA [Northwest Volunteer Army], similar to the Lake Oswego job. Kicky marveled at the amount of time and effort put into the advance preparation of such relatively minor operations.

There were other missions besides punishment beatings. The actions of the rural NVA units such as Zack Hatfield’s D Company, whose flamboyant attacks had generated for them the media nickname “the Wild Bunch,” had successfully driven most of the Mexicans and the few blacks out of large portions of the Northwest hinterland in Washington, Oregon, Idaho, Montana and British Columbia. Many of the mestizos didn’t stop running until they got to California, but some only ran as far as the big cities, and so temporarily at least there was actually a slight increase in the number of non-whites in Portland suburbs such as Hillsboro, McMinnville, and North Portland. The urban teams of the Portland brigades then took over the task of persuading them to váyanse from the Northwest as a whole, permanently. At least half of Kicky’s tickles involved burning out or blowing up various Mexican hangouts, with or without the Mexicans inside, or else businesses known to employ illegals, including a construction site, a warehouse on the river front, and a commercial laundry owned by Jews and run by a Chinese straw boss with illegal coolie labor. These missions involved the approach to the target, one scouting tour through the area looking for potential problems, and then covering down and preventing interference while Fred and other volunteers hurled incendiaries through windows.

Kicky read the words from the sheet in a steady voice: “At 2035 hours tonight, elements of C Company, First Portland Brigade, Northwest Volunteer Army carried out a General Order Number Four enforcement action directed against the Blue Lagoon Lounge on 82nd Avenue in Portland, a known resort of drug dealers, transvestites, and non-whites posing a clear and present danger to the white community. A vehicle containing two hundred pounds of explosives was parked in front of the main entrance and detonated, destroying the building and everyone inside it completely. All sexual deviates, Jews and other non-whites are reminded that Army General Order Number Four prohibits their presence anywhere in the Homeland, and if found within any NVA command’s area of operation they are liable to immediate termination as military targets. End communication.”

“Wait!” squealed the woman. “Let me get a pen. What did you …?” Kicky closed the phone and handed it back to Ace. “Uh, comrade, looks like this script was printed earlier today, before the bomb could have even gone off,” she inquired, handing it back to him as well. “How could you know beforehand that everything I just said would happen according to plan?”

“It did. That was the confirmation call I got just now,” said Ace. “As to how we knew beforehand, the Red Baron never misses.”

“Red Baron?” asked Kicky.

“Best car bomb maker in the NVA,” said Ace proudly. “He not only makes ’em, he drives his own work. Maybe you’ll meet him one day.” A moment later, Kicky felt her own cellphone at her side vibrate. She guessed that Lainie Martínez was having an orgasm at the thought of getting close to a major NVA explosives expert, and was sending her a hint that she was to pursue the subject, which she ignored.

The Brigade excerpts, chapter XI

by Harold Covington


“Hearing the Screams”


Covington in uniform
“Dad, no need to dance around it. Jan’s decisions were just plain stupid. She was self-destructive, she had no sense of self-esteem and no inner strength. She let the whole adolescent angst thing get on top of her, she just went with the flow, and it killed her. She got involved with drugs, she got involved with a nigger, and she did both at once. If that’s not the classic definition of a self-destructive personality, I don’t know what is.”

Ray looked at her oddly. “The psychobabble I get. You picked that up from your mother and her hundred and one self-help books and fads, not to mention TV. But the racism is a new one on me. Where did that come from?”

“Where racism always comes from, Dad,” said his daughter calmly. “From close and regular contact with blacks.”

“Oh? And how many blacks do you have close and regular contact with at Ashdown Academy?” inquired her father. “Three? Four?”

“One was enough,” she replied coolly. “Look, Dad, can we take all the shocked disclaimers as read? Or to quote one of your own favorite sayings, don’t piss down my back and tell me it’s raining. I know what every white person in this country knows, even if they’re all too terrified to say it out loud. They’re not Africans-Americans, they’re niggers. They aren’t equal to us in any way, they never have been, they can’t tie their own shoelaces without an affirmative action program, and they’re not even very nice. Now, what did you want to say to me?”

Ridgeway looked at her, bemused. “Okay, fine, we’ll leave the deep political and philosophical debate on diversity and multiculturalism for another time. And yes, you’re right, we all know in the privacy of our own thoughts that when all is said and done, they’re nothing but niggers, and they won’t ever be anything else. But the fact is that society doesn’t allow that viewpoint anymore. I always thought of myself as pretty smart, but I’ll admit to you, I have no idea how on earth we have gotten to—well, where we are, but we have. The point is, Annette, and it’s the point I have to make sure you understand completely, is that whether we like it or not, we have to live in the real world. But Annette, I want you to promise me something. Dead serious, I want you to promise me that you won’t do anything stupid along that line.”

His voice was anxious. “I want you to promise me that you’re not going to try to contact this damned gang of racist psychopaths who are running around Portland murdering people and bombing things, and try to get them to kill this Flammus character!”

Published in: on March 26, 2013 at 6:57 pm  Leave a Comment  

The Brigade excerpts, chapter XII

by Harold Covington


“Are You In Or Out?”


Covington in uniform
“I’ve been thinking about it since I watched my sister’s coffin lowered into the ground,” said Annette bitterly.

“We both have,” said Eric soberly. “We’re young, but even we can see that things in America can’t go on this way. I laugh when somebody refers to us kids at Ashdown as privileged. Jan’s death showed us that all our so-called privilege won’t protect us against this—this filth, this madness, this—oh, this whole damned mess. We’re living in a toilet and eventually we’re going down the drain, one way or another. I don’t know what else to call it.”

“Don’t worry,” chuckled Wingo. “Greater minds than any of ours have spent their lives trying to describe the world we live in. Our job is to change it. One thing, though. I’m afraid for security reasons, which I’m sure are obvious to you, we need an answer right away. You say you’ve been thinking about it for a while, so you should be able to look into your hearts and know. Are you in or out?”

“I’m in if Eric’s in,” said Annette, looking at him. “I am willing to do whatever I have to do, but not be separated from him. We can’t have one of us in and one of us out.”

“Ditto,” said Eric firmly. “I’m in if Annette’s in, so I guess that means we’re both in.”

“You understand that if you become Volunteers, you may be separated anyway?” asked Wingo gently. “I mean separated bad, separated by death or prison or the just plain chaos and madness of war?”

“I understand,” said Eric with a nod.

“You will be given certain documents to read, and you will begin a training course that will teach you what you will need to know to fight to secure the existence of our people and a future for white children. Do you recognize that phrase?”

“Uh, no,” said Eric, shaking his head.

“Those are the Fourteen Words of David Lane,” said Schumaker gravely. “From now on, for the rest of your lives however long or short they may be, you will live by those words. And possibly die by them.”


http://northwestfront.org/

Published in: on March 26, 2013 at 4:59 pm  Leave a Comment  

For your bookshelf

Not long ago my entry “Ten must reads” elicited some attention. Two things have happened since then: William Pierce’s last book has finally been published and therefore can be treasured in our bookshelves; and I have read a book that was not in my original list, authored by Tom Sunic (below, flanked with white margins), that I have been discussing in the previous entries.

March-of-the-Titans-Pinnacle

Pierce-book








sunic_homo_americanus









Dwell-alone

brigade

Turnerdiaries-cover








I must say that, unlike my previous “Ten must reads” Roger Devlin’s is not included here only because it has not appeared in book form yet. I hope Devlin will get together his already published articles in The Occidental Quarterly and elsewhere to make them available in a single book cover.

Enjoy the reading!

The Brigade excerpts, chapter XIII

by Harold Covington


“A Mouse In The House”


Covington in uniform
“They’re organizing some kind of special brute squad to invade the Northwest and deal with us hatemongers, Federal Domestic Terrorist Police or something like that. Apparently it will be kind of like the Black and Tans in Ireland a century ago. It’s still in the planning stage, but Mr. Chips was bringing us the word from the Army Council to start preparing tactical and strategic plans to deal with a big increase in fed boots on the street and a lot tougher tactics. I myself was there from Three sec acting for Colonel Redmond, and Tommy Coyle and Harry Hannon both there to brainstorm.”

“You had both brigade commandants and an Army Council member there in the same room?” demanded Bresler. “Jeez Louise, that was risky!”

“I know, but sometimes we just have to put our heads together and work out a tough problem, and this was one of those times. The meeting never actually got started because Harry hadn’t arrived yet.”

“A panel truck sounds like bugging equipment, though,” said Bresler. “They might have had shotgun mikes or some of that weird microwave satellite gear. Did you sweep everybody who came in?”

“Yes, Red came down with those two kids from Dundee he uses a lot, Shane and Rooney, and Tommy had a couple of guys with him. I did them all myself as they came in the door, and nothing popped. I know, they can listen in on people in a basement now from satellites in space these days. They have fiber-optic micro-bugs that are the size of a pin head, bugs that look like cockroaches and even scuttle across the floor, you name it. The old-fashioned wire stuck on some guy’s shaven belly with surgical tape is as outdated as the flintlock. Whatever it was, I can tell you that they didn’t seem prepared to move on us. It looks to me like some kind of observation stakeout. But how the hell did they know where to listen in?” Hill slammed his fist into his palm in frustration.

“So what do we do now?” asked Bresler.

“We take every one of those incidents and we review and analyze the hell out of them,” said Hill. “Once we’ve narrowed it down to a few suspects, then it gets tricky, because we will have to devise some bogus setups to entrap them and see if we can make some Portland cops show up on cue at a certain place and time. These are the kinds of things that you will have to find out, Gary, because I can’t without tipping everybody in the Battalion that there’s a rat around, and you know that whatever else happens, we do not want that to get about. Our morale is high, largely because so far we have been able largely to prevent infiltration of this very kind. Rampaging paranoia and mistrust can destroy the Second Battalion as a fighting unit just as effectively as any mass arrest. It can even seep out of the Second Battalion and infect other units, and we have to prevent that at all costs. This has to be handled quietly, efficiently, and above all quickly, before anyone else dies or ends up in the Justice Center torture chambers.”

Published in: on March 26, 2013 at 12:01 am  Comments (1)  

The Brigade excerpts, chapter XIV

by Harold Covington


“Under New Management”


Covington in uniform
“My God, who are all these people?” Weinstein muttered to himself. “What is all this?” he asked, gesturing to a large map of the greater Portland area on a corkboard studded with black, red, green, blue, orange, and yellow pins, as well as one white pin.

“Black are NVA murders and red are bombings, which I’m sure you can figure out from the locations,” said Chief Hirsch. “Green are suspected arms dumps which we have under intermittent surveillance as much as our manpower allows, and as far as we can do without exciting suspicion and blowing cover. Blue are suspected NVA safe houses. Orange are the addresses of suspected terrorists, although those change all the time and we can’t guarantee their accuracy for more than a day or two. Yellow are reported sightings of the Jack of Diamonds Sniper, Jesse ‘Cat-Eyes’ Lockhart, who is a person of especial interest to us.”

Detective Andy McCafferty walked up to the board, with a sidelong glance at the FBI agents, and moved the white pin to a different spot on the board.

“What’s the white one?” asked Weinstein.

“That’s the present location of Sharkbait, our code name for the undercover,” said Lainie. “Her real name is Kristin McGee, her street name is Kicky, and her Volunteer name is Comrade Jodie. We have a GPI on her all the time, of course, as well as fiber-optic sound and occasional video monitoring, but we find that keeping her marked on the board gives an added perspective.”

“Nice code name for an NVA snitch,” chuckled Farley grimly.

“We like it,” said Lainie neutrally.

“How specific is your intel?” asked Weinstein, shaking his head. “For example, do you have any idea who killed Ambassador Whitman and his wife outside the Nordstrom department store in November?”

Andy looked at Lainie, who sighed and nodded her head. “Yeah, we know,” McCafferty told them. “That was Billy Jackson, Jimmy Wingo, and our girl. Actually, we have the whole hit recorded on digital audio.”

What?” shouted Weinstein in astonishment.

“You want to hear it go down?” asked McCafferty.

He provided two sets of headphones, and Weinstein and Farley sat with their jaws gaping while they listened to the soundtrack of the double hit and the subsequent ditching and booby trapping of the vehicle.

“My God, you’re years ahead of us!” muttered Weinstein.

“We got our shit together,” agreed Jarvis.

“I would like to point out that the audio clearly indicates the murder of the Ambassador was a crime of opportunity, and we had no chance to intervene…” began Linda Hirsch. “We’ve picked up a buzz that a high-ranking Army Council member is on his way down from the Seattle area, for a sit-down with the local warlords here in Portland to discuss the matter. This is one occasion when we can be reasonably sure that a lot of their heaviest hitters are going to be in the same room together somewhere.”

“Okay, tell you what, let’s just start at the beginning and see what we’ve got, and where we can go with it,” said Weinstein, literally rubbing his hands together in sheer delight at the prospect of hurting the hated anti-Semites and at the same time salvaging his slipping reputation at the Justice Department in Washington.

“We’re going to drop the hammer on these racist bastards. Here and now, tonight.”


http://northwestfront.org/

Published in: on March 25, 2013 at 12:01 am  Comments (1)  

The Brigade excerpts, chapter XV

by Harold Covington


“Ragnarok On Flanders Street”


Covington in uniform
“COPS!” screamed Kicky at the top of her voice. “Cops! It’s a trap! They’re all around us!” She reversed the Escalade, hit the gas and roared back into the street tailgate first. Wing looked up to see the armored personnel carrier for Delta One team turning into Flanders Street from Twelfth Avenue.

“Shit!” he shouted. He yelled into the phone, “They’re onto us! Ambush on Flanders! Beat feet! Kicky, go down 13th and head back toward the interstate, not toward the river, so we can try to lose them! Cat, heads up, see if you can spot any copters overhead!”

The street was full of screaming people, and 13th Avenue was now blocked going both ways by lunch-hour traffic, cars that were simply abandoned and left standing by their drivers who jumped out and fled for cover.

“I’ll do more than keep their damned heads down, I’ll blow a few of ’em off!” Cat-Eyes Lockhart yelled back. He was out the back of the SUV and he swung himself up onto the roof of the vehicle in one smooth motion, snapped down the bipod on the .50-caliber Barrett, and sighted in. He pulled the trigger, flame vomited from the Barrett’s muzzle, a mighty roar echoed from the buildings, and up the street a SWAT man went flying back through the air, his feet leaving the ground. Lainie Martinez and Jamal Jarvis had struggled into their body armor and were now out on the street. Lainie kneeled and fired her M-16 and Jarvis stood over her, blazing away with his. Chief Linda Hirsch [Chechar’s interpolated note: the police chief was a coveted affirmative action three-fer, being simultaneously female, Jewish, and lesbian] was jumping up and down for a bit, then leveling her Armalite and firing a wild burst, then jumping up and down some more while she screamed dementedly in Yiddish. The street sounded like the inside of a garbage can or a metal locker that was being beaten with sticks by a troop of demented monkeys.

Wingo had ducked around behind the Escalade for more cover while he slapped another magazine into the Kalashnikov, another of the taped-together clips. He slung the weapon, pulled a hand grenade off his belt, and then winding up like a baseball pitcher he hurled it up the street where it bounced off several car roofs and rolled down into the street, the blast hurling shrapnel and shaking the street. Then he did the same with a second grenade. The police all hit the ground or dove for cover. Wingo then recovered the Kalashnikov and started firing again. On the roof, Cat Lockhart also slammed a new magazine into the .50-cal rifle, rose calmly into a kneeling position oblivious to the police bullets whizzing around him like electrons, and resumed firing. Just then the CNN crew, who had been cowering behind the overturned UPS truck, decided that it was time to do their jobs.

They ran along Flanders Street and turned right into 13th Avenue, the cameraman braced his camera on top of a parked car, and Cassie Ransome started shouting a disjointed narration into her microphone, trying to explain to the satellite-uplinked studio and worldwide audience what was happening in front of her on a Portland street. The next twenty seconds of film footage eventually won Cassie and the cameraman Pulitzer Prizes. The video clip was shown all over the world for weeks, it became an integral part of the visual history of the Northwest War of Independence, and is still shown today in virtually every documentary made on the subject.

Linda Hirsch was hiding behind the Oak Harbor moving van, but every few seconds she would lean out, gibber, fire a one-handed burst with her M-16 that she held like a pistol, and vanish again. Lockhart had no idea who the fat babbling target was, but it annoyed him, and he was determined to hit it.

Kicky McGee was dazed, disoriented, and by now she was completely out of her mind with pain from her wound and from incandescent rage at the destruction of her whole life by these people. She staggered up the street, screaming wordlessly in a hoarse voice, her left arm and side soaked with bright red blood, her honey blonde hair streaming behind her. In her mindless rage she held the Glock pistol at arm’s length in her right hand, firing it blindly in the general direction of her tormentors, hitting nothing.

It was a confused scene, and actually pretty pointless and ineffectual. Nobody was hitting anything, and no one besides Lockhart was even aiming. But it looked cool as hell on TV, and in America, that was what mattered. By sheer fortuitous accident, what the CNN camera caught for twenty seconds—and twenty seconds is a long sound byte on TV news—was a perfectly blocked shot of stunning dramatic impact. In the far center right of the screen Kicky seemed to stalk up the street. She was firing blindly, howling like an animal in an unthinking spasm of rage and madness, but what the world saw was a wounded Valkyrie screaming her war cry and charging the enemy machine guns that splattered in round strikes all around her.

Cat Lockhart fired one last .50-caliber round, the one that smashed Linda Hirsch’s skull to fragments like an exploding melon, and then he whirled and made a spectacular Zorro-like leap from the back of the Escalade into the flatbed of the Chevrolet. Jimmy Wingo ran forward, grabbed the berserk Kicky around her waist and lifted her over his shoulder, then ran back and tossed her into the back of the pickup like a sack of potatoes, before jumping in himself. Thing One leaped back into the cab and the blue Chevy then roared off down Flanders Street on the sidewalk, knocking over sandwich-board shop signs and sending an espresso cart flying. At 14th Avenue they were joined by the Grand Prix, and both vehicles floored it out along Highway 30.

There was no pursuit. Almost all the mobile police in the city were surrounding Waterfront Park [defending the US Vice President] and no one was available or willing to organize any response. No one had even bothered to radio Delta Two team or any other police and tell them what was going on. From the time Kicky McGee slammed the Escalade into Andy McCafferty until the time the blue Chevy pickup departed the area with all five Volunteers, exactly seventy seconds elapsed.

“You saw?” asked Cat in surprise.

“You were on live, my man. You’re all over CNN and every other damned channel. I got to tell you, if that little gun bunny (*) in there ever wants a transfer, you send her down our way,” he said admiringly, nodding into the living room toward Kicky. “Looked like she was ready to take on the whole Portland police force single-handedly.”

“They ambushed us on Flanders Street, sir,” said Lockhart. “The whole thing stinks. I think they knew we were coming.”


_______________________

(*) Gun Bunny—Adolescent female Northwest Volunteer or associate of the NVA. A number of these young women distinguished themselves in combat, intelligence, and support roles during the War of Independence.

Chechar’s note: Every time I reread the lines of this blonde woman firing at her tormentors they move me almost on the verge of tears…

Published in: on March 21, 2013 at 12:01 am  Comments (3)  

The Brigade excerpts, chapter XVI

by Harold Covington


“Things That Go Boom In The Night”


Covington in uniform
“The NVA [Northwest Volunteer Army] uses explosives in three basic situations. First off, when there is an economic or strategic or propaganda-related target that has to be physically destroyed, sometimes loudly and visibly in order to set an example.

The second instance in which we use bombing is against enemy armor and fortifications, like when we toss these primitive rockets and mortar shells here over the Bremer walls (*) and razor wire and give Daddy a kiss. This is where the good old IED or Improvised Explosive Device, otherwise known as the Baghdad Banger, comes into its own. Like some other NVA guys who are vets, I have the unusual experience of having been on both ends of an IED, and between the Muslims and ourselves, we have refined them down to an art form. Through the use of IEDs we make enemy troop movements dangerous and difficult to plan and execute, and in some areas of the Northwest, we have succeeded in more or less driving the police and the military off the highways completely, forcing them to fall back on helicopters. If we ever succeed in obtaining any shoulder-fired missiles or some other way to bring those birds down, Uncle Slime is going to be really fucked. I imagine that some of you guys are already familiar with the third way in which the NVA uses explosives. Anyone?”

“Booby-traps!” said Annette.

“You got it,” confirmed Pascarella. “Whenever it is physically possible, the NVA always booby-traps the scene of an operation before un-assing the area. Pascarella chuckled. “Okay, now, as to the practical aspect of assembling and detonating ordnance. Every explosive device consists of three basic components. There is the main charge, the dynamite or Semtex or whatever will provide the main blast. The key to blowing the enemy into smithereens and not yourselves is simple: you keep these three components disconnected until the last possible minute.

“The champagne of all insurrectionary explosives is still Semtex, which is now manufactured in a dozen countries as well as the Czech Republic where it was invented,” the lieutenant continued. Semtex is the charge of choice for big jobs when we can lay hands on it. It’s just about the most potent stuff available for our purposes. A pound of it can take down a good-sized house, a briefcase full can decapitate an office building, and in the rare cases where we want to go that distance, a car trunk full of Semtex can send an entire city block to the moon. Gelignite, jellied nitroglycerine, is actually a bit more powerful, but it’s not manufactured anymore and like I mentioned, the bathtub variety is dangerous to work with.”

“How about C-4, sir?” asked Eric Sellars.

“We do still get hold of some, but it’s actually a lot easier and simpler and more cost effective for us to load up on dynamite and TNT. Now—delivery. This is where you guys come in.”

The young Volunteers leaned forward. “There are car and truck bombs, of course,” Pascarella told them. “Sometimes that’s the only way. We do not want the streets of Northwest cities turned into Baghdad or the Gaza Strip. Our sharp-eyed lads in the sniper companies inflict more physical and psychological harm on the enemy than a hundred carbombs could do, and they do it surgically and with a panache that excites admiration among whites, not fear and loathing.

“Most bombing is specifically targeted against indoor installations, the object being to slip inside their defensive perimeters and hit them where they think they’re safe. Have any of you been asked to deliver a package yet?”

“I have,” said Kicky. “It was my first solo tickle. That faggot bookstore and sex shop downtown with the big cartoon character sign, Homer Erotica. The Red Baron himself made up my package. I was given a fake student ID, and I brought in a shoulder bag full of books on the poems of Sappho and the Joy of Lesbian Sex and all that crap. Each book was cut out, and it had a stick or two of dynamite inside.”

“Good job, comrade, and a typical day’s work for our parcel post,” responded Pascarella with a nod, impressed. “It is entirely likely that you other three will at one stage or other be asked to deliver a package. There is no mission in the Army that requires more courage, more cool-headedness, and more just plain balls, as well as the ability to think on your feet and be a better actor or actress than anyone in Hollywood, which this classy lady here seems to have. Each one of these missions is unique, and I can’t really prepare you for them except to say that you will be given full training in everything you are to carry, its risks and how to handle and use it.”

_______________

(*) Bremer Wall—Heavy concrete berm, portable and lowered into place by a crane, used by the Americans to fortify police stations, FATPO (Federal Anti-Terrorist Police Organization) barracks, Green Zones (federal headquarters), etc. Also used extensively by American occupation forces in conquered Middle Eastern countries.

Chechar’s note:

Just compare Covington’s views about homosexualism to Counter Currents’ constant promotion of an author that likes to post images like this one… and demand tolerance from the pro-white community!

The Brigade excerpts, chapter XVII

by Harold Covington


“Taking Down Tinsel Town”


Covington in uniform
“Gentlemen, I don’t have to tell you that ever since the invention of the motion picture over a century ago, the movie industry has been the most completely Jewish field of private enterprise in the world, with the exception of international banking and the stock exchange. Even today, Yiddish is considered to be Hollywood’s second language. Literally so. It is spoken regularly on movie lots and sound sets, and in every office and casting department and boardroom. The senior executive office complex of every major production studio contains a private synagogue or chapel called a mincha, with one or more rabbis attached, as well as special glatt kosher catering facilities and kitchens. Entire boards of directors in Hollywood and also at their parent companies in New York sometimes hold Jewish religious services prior to meetings. Every crucial, non-technical job on the business and creative end of any major movie is either held by a Jew or is in the power of a Jew, from the studio heads, the producers and the directors, down to the scriptwriters, the casting directors, the agents, the accountants, and anything to do with the money. Even in areas that seem to be controlled by Gentiles, you will find that somewhere along the line during the process, Jews have crucial input and veto power. This control by the Tribe is pervasive and complete, and it extends into television as well, with the exception of two of the major cable networks, which are heavily Jewish in their senior personnel but are owned by consortiums of super-wealthy Protestant evangelical Christians of the Israel-worshipping persuasion, who are in their own way even more poisonous in their evil than the Jews themselves, because they have no excuse for turning on their own blood.

“I do not need to tell you of the terrible and largely irreversible damage that Hollywood has done to the white race and to Western civilization over the past century. For four generations, the international bankers and the corrupt politicians have committed unspeakable crimes against humanity, especially the war after war after bloody war they have plunged our people into for Jewry’s sake, but it is Hollywood and Hollywood’s mutant bastard spawn television that has made the white people of America and the world swallow these atrocities and actually support them with enthusiasm. It is Hollywood that has spent the past 50 years pushing every conceivable kind of perversion of body and mind down the throats of white people. It is Hollywood that has turned the loathsome practice of homosexuality into something cute and trendy, the subject for silly jokes, when it is in fact a poison of the very soul. It is Hollywood that has turned white women as portrayed on film into either mindless sex objects, or else degendered, masculinized, man-hating neurotics. It is Hollywood that has poisoned the minds and broken the spirits of generation after generation of white children who are now beyond recovery, and turned them into whiggers. The bankers have stolen our money. The federal government of the United States has stolen our lives and our freedom and soaked the earth with Aryan blood, spilled to save a filthy race of Asiatic parasites. But Hollywood has stolen our peoples’ minds and souls, and in some ways that makes Hollywood more evil to my mind even than the sinks of iniquity centered in New York and Washington, D.C. Comrades, we will go down to southern California, we will grip this monster by the throat, and we will cut its heart out!

There was a cheer from around the table; the men found the project to their liking. “At this point I’ll turn the floor over to Lieutenant Hill,” said Morehouse.

“Thank you, Red, and isn’t this a great audience in our studio tonight?” There was a chuckle from the assembled men. “I need to begin by explaining just what has precipitated this operation, which by the way, has been designated Operation We Are Not Amused,” said Hill. There was more laughter. “Obviously, any revolutionary movement within North America has to deal with the Hollywood problem at some point or other. It’s pretty obvious that barring some catastrophic event, the NVA [Northwest Volunteer Army] is here to stay as a permanent feature of Northwest life, and for us, to survive is eventually to win. The time has come for us to take our offensive for balance in the media right into the belly of the Beast.”

“Now we are about to start…” Harry Hannon interjected.

“But it’s not just simple fear that’s made Hollywood go a little easy on us so far,” Red Morehouse said. “I don’t want to get metaphysical, but Hollywood has always been the American ruling establishment with its heart on its sleeve, and southern California has always taken point in the culture wars, openly and brazenly, so you can read them like a book. And I can sense a deep and definite malaise. The Jewish and liberal establishment down there is not just afraid, they’re puzzled, disturbed, confused. They don’t know what to make of us quite yet. They’ve never seen white men act like this before—hell, no one in living memory has seen white men act like this before. Comrades, even if we were all wiped out tomorrow, the NVA has managed to achieve one incredible accomplishment, and something that for the entire century, no one ever thought was possible. We have reintroduced the gun into American politics, the ultimate fount of all law and political power.”

Morehouse smiled and shook his head in admiration. “For the first time since the Civil War, the United States of America no longer has a credible monopoly of armed force, and that fact has thrown the whole ruling élite in this country for a loop, unbalanced them. We’ve taken a hundred years of this shit from these people. No more! It ends now!”

“Who gets to be the hammer?” asked Tommy Coyle eagerly.

“Sorry, Tom,” said Morehouse, genuinely commiserating. “You and Harry are too badly needed up here with your brigades, and that goes for you battalion commanders as well. I’m afraid the reason you are here is because we’re going to need your help and your concurrence to cherry-pick your units. The actual hammering will be planned and organized by the Third Section, but the nails will be from Portland and the North Shore.”

“What will be your plan of attack, Lieutenant Randall?” asked Hatfield.

“The main strategic objective here is to neutralize the Hollywood movie and television apparatus as an effective weapon of enemy propaganda,” said Randall. “It is now such a weapon because of the Jewish control of these industries. We have to get the Jews’ hands off the levers of power and creative control down there as much as possible, not only by terminating individual hebes, but by establishing a credible deterrent sufficient to prevent those reptiles from producing dingo doo like those things there.”

Randall pointed to the scripts on the coffee table. “They have to know that even to contemplate producing an anti-NVA movie or television episode means bloody near certain death. We won’t be so much going after movie stars or actors themselves as we will be taking down the Jews who actually decide what movies and shows are made, and what their contents will be—studio heads, producers, directors, and screenwriters, and the moneymen. We have several objectives. First, to physically prevent these Jews from doing the dirty. A dead Jew can’t make an anti-white movie. Secondly, to create a psychological disincentive to make propaganda movies and telly for the Americans, since live Jews and liberals don’t wish to become dead ones. Finally, and this is a long-term goal, we want to demonstrate to the extensive Gentile community in the movie and television world down there that Jewish control of their industry, their money, their speech, and their creative talents is not some kind of perpetual, God ordained inevitability. We want to show them and the whole world that Jewish power can be broken, right in the heart of their own oldest and most cherished empire in this country.”

“In a way, we’re trying to show the stars and the genuine film artists down there the same thing we’re trying to show our own people here in the Homeland—that it is possible to resist, and that the enemy is not invincible.”


Chechar’s note:

Just compare Covington’s views about Hollywood to Counter Currents’ opposite views and leave a comment: either below, or in a recent thread.

The Brigade excerpts, chapter XVIII

by Harold Covington


“All The World’s A Stage”


Covington in uniform
“This will be the most significant mass assault on a Zionist target that the Northwest Volunteer Army has yet attempted,” said Hill. “It will also send an indelible message to the enemy and to the world, one that Hollywood is particularly able to understand. Do you remember the famous scene in The Godfather where the big Jew movie producer wakes up in the dawn, in his big mansion and his big bed with the silk sheets, and he looks over and he sees the severed head of his million-dollar race horse lying next to him in a bloody mess, and he screams and screams and screams and screams as the camera fades? That is the effect we are looking for in every sense of the word.”

“I remember the producer caved in and gave the Godfather what he wanted,” said Christina.

“Exactly. And why?” asked Hill. “The big kike, the Burger King, caved because he suddenly understood that he was dealing with people to whom his power, his money, his influence and his personal viciousness meant nothing. For possibly the first time in his life, the big Jew was dealing with men who weren’t afraid of him and all he could command, and who would accept nothing less from him than total compliance and submission. That is the message we want to send, not only to the big Jews who rule Hollywood, but also to the whole world. The power of these people is at an end. This tickle is going to be our equivalent of a big bloody horse’s head in the Jews’ beds. But there is more to the message we are sending even than that. We want all of white America to see, and to think: If ZOG cannot protect the cream of Hollywood’s élite, then they can’t protect anybody. If ZOG can’t protect the powerful Jews of Hollywood, then maybe it’s time we got onto the winning side. That is why it is imperative that we hit the Oscar ceremony itself, live and on camera.”

“Right, thanks to The Talented Mr. Ripley here, we have been able to score a few intelligence coups,” said Randall.

Hill sighed. “I want this to be as surgical as we can make it, and take out as many major influentials as we can, crippling the Dream Machine by decapitating its leadership and management. I don’t just want all these glitterati shitting in their pants when they hear machine guns as their bodyguards are hustling them out the emergency exits, I want them on the floor bleeding.”

 

LynchCoverChechar’s note:

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

Published in: on March 18, 2013 at 12:01 am  Comments (2)  
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