Extermination • II

Libro
 
“How much good it would do if one could exterminate the human race.”

—Bertrand Russell

Quoted in A Bibliography of Bertrand Russell

 

1

No one, to my knowledge, has written a thorough analysis of his parents. But what I said in Hojas Susurrantes (abbreviated HS this line up) about the murder of children’s souls only lays the foundation for a further and deeper elaboration of Psychohistory, which in the last analysis shows us that the human species is a failed species.

2

From a careful reading of HS it cannot but be inferred that most of the human species should be exterminated—on top of what is written there, because, as Schopenhauer wrote, if the world is hell, human beings are the devils of the animals. And if we want to save the animals from the human devils, there is no choice but to dispatch the latter.

3

That only some of the most beautiful specimens of whites deserve to continue living; so beautiful in body and soul that they have left human devilry behind, has become so obvious to me as that the cow is a mammal—as we shall see in this sort of continuation to HS.

 
 

By way of a prologue

Most of the text of HS is not original. There are original parts, yes: the long letter to the mother with which the book opens; my experiences to twelve years, and the final part where I analyze my fear of damnation as an internal persecutor begotten as a result of my father’s crimes. However, most of HS consists of long paraphrases of other peoples’ ideas, pastiches and re-workings of their works to present the trauma model (refuting, along the way, the fraudulent professions of “mental health”).

I believe that, as a didactic work to Aryanize the trauma model away from the Semitic or philo-Semitic hands of Alice Miller and Lloyd deMause, HS honors its goal. But the problems I raised—remember how the fourth book in HS ends by mentioning the burning of children by their Semitic parents in the Ancient World, wondering if mankind had a right to exist—were left unsolved. Fortunately, this century will be crucial because of the energy devolution that is upon us, especially of oil, for Nature’s killing these humans that I hate so much and whose destruction has become my personal religion.

I will not live to see my day: that which for decades I have called the extermination of the Neanderthals, in which I include not only non-whites but those white traitors who brought them into the West. But the burden is upon me to bear witness to why I believe that the être supérieur should yearn, as so desperately I do, that the primitive version of modified apes, as in my soliloquies I call the humans of today, both white and of other races, becomes extinct.

Another huge issue never made onto paper is a detailed narrative of my agonizing experiences in 1976, when I was only seventeen, and ten years later, while living in California: experiences outlined in HS. Here I hope to talk more about those life lessons. So to confess why I hate humanity to the extent of wanting to exterminate it, at the same time being the first to analyze in detail his destructive parents—so that, after due extermination, in the Acadia of my most cherished dreams the treatment to children and animals be free of my hells—is the double helix of this new text.

But there is much more than that. In the Neanderthalesque literature that I run into the bookstores I never see confessions about male sexuality that go to the merits. In HS I quoted an Austrian writer who said that autobiography is the most difficult literary art because the adept of self-portraiture has to betray himself. Of course! How it won’t be self-betrayal for a respectable writer to recount, say, his sexual fantasies? Previous literature to the “total autobiography” suffers from cowardice insofar a text that confesses everything could be posthumous. But the so-called giants of letters, that I find so small that I do not read, never reached such confessional level. They stayed in the pre-autobiographical phase of literature. Here I will try to amend this lacuna in the section entitled “In search of the soulmate.”

Quite apart from the autobiographical question, we propose the need to rescue and/or abduct Aryan women—only the very young and pretty—from what will become multiracial clans after the civilizational collapse pulls us over to strictly ethnic strongholds. To paraphrase George Lincoln Rockwell, “He who doesn’t rape won’t fight!” will be the motto of a Blonde Beast redivivus that, by getting his manhood back, will not only become genocidal of everything that does not resemble him. The Beast will hunt for his females once the collective unconscious falls back to its original form by historical inertia forces. The brutality and savagery resulting from the collapse of the rule of law, together with the most elemental Darwinism, will mercilessly weed the feminized white males. Thanks to the energy devolution of our century the yin where today is pending the psyche of these whites will swing, like a pendulum of kilometric arc, to the Yang extreme of the right.

We won’t only lucubrate to kill non-whites around the globe and renaming cities currently inhabited by people of brown, yellow or black skin with names like “Pierce City” or “Himmler City.” The idea is that, alongside the extermination of Neanderthals, the Beast will have to go on the hunt for females, abandoning a masturbation currently afflicting millions of feminized males. The Aryan sperm injected involuntarily into those who had fornicated with the colored will fulfill the fourteen words during a holy war that will cover the world—and this time fulfilling them by brute force. The obvious objective will be to form families thank to the same élan vital that breathed life into the ancient founders of Rome by abducting, and raping, their attractive Sabine neighbors. In other words: if every nation, not just ancient Rome, is born with violence, after the darkest night of the West the Aryan Nation can only be born with extreme violence: from limit to limit of the pendulum’s arc, from the extreme yin to the extreme Yang.

Basic historical inertia: the swung pendulum is rushing toward us with vengeful force because of the incredible liberal lengths it reached in the late 20th and early 21st centuries. So far it swung toward the dark side that the “Day of the Rope” so dreamt by William Pierce in The Turner Diaries, a novel written in the 1970s but projected in the 90s, won’t be enough. We will go further. Neither Pierce nor Covington—much less Covington: a de facto feminist novelist in Freedom’s Sons—dared to predict the abduction of the new Sabine women. They did not seem to have considered that if the ancient Latins (Aryans) abducted and raped the Sabines (Aryans who copulated with Aryans), with much greater reason will be legitimate to direct our rediscovered sexual primitivism over those who delivered themselves to non-whites!

Returning to the subject of total autobiography. The victim of his parents and the fucking society who has lost everything requires getting revenge against those who spit on his cross. Only revenge heals the soul, and as I cannot settle scores with the Neanderthals at least I can tell what they did. Going into detail of what I omitted in HS will show how the evil that infected my parents also infected my siblings and how some of them, in turn, voluntarily surrendered to evil after reaching adulthood. Also, when analyzing my family, relatives, acquaintances, close and distant persons I met and even strangers whom I only interacted over the net, we will see how their behavior helped me realize that the human being is so obsolete a version of Homo sapiens as the niggers of the seedy hostel with whom I spent a night.

Finally, my exterminator conclusions I have come regarding all these people have relevance for understanding the darkest hour of the West. This topic sucked my recent years to the point of putting on a blog in English and its ramifications over a thousand entries summarized in two books: The Fair Race’s Darkest Hour and Day of Wrath (which I will be abbreviating as FR and DW). The book Extermination, that I now start, is relevant because the evil that ails the white man is the same one that destroyed my tree and its leaves and my dear family of Palenque.* And if I can unravel the evil that destroyed me I will probably unravel the evil that destroys the white race around the world, including the mass migration of non-whites in London I witnessed last month.

In other words, the evil I saw in my parents and the people I met (cf. HS) and the evil I see in westerners who are committing ethnic suicide (cf. FR and DW) is, down to the core, two sides of the same coin. That alone deserves my venture into this new literary genre: the vindictive autobiography.

Mexico City
September 2014

 

___________________________________________

(*) Note that this book is written for those who have already read my previous books, including HS, and understand exactly what I mean, for example, with the word “Palenque”: the house where I experienced happiness before the catastrophe of my adolescence.

Turner Diaries climax

“And such a Dies Irae may be closer than we dream…”

Arthur C. Clarke

nuke_1
 

I drove to the one place I was reasonably sure was still manned by Organization personnel: the old gift shop in Georgetown. It was just outside the new Pentagon security perimeter. I arrived there as dusk was falling and pulled the pickup truck around to the rear service entrance.

I had just climbed out of the truck and stepped into the shadows at the rear of the building when the world around me suddenly lit up as bright as noon for a moment. First there was an intensely bright flash of light, then a weaker glow which cast moving shadows and changed from white to yellow to red in the course of a few seconds.

I ran to the alley, so that I could have a more nearly unobstructed view of the sky. What I saw chilled my blood and caused the hairs on the back of my neck to rise. An enormous, bulbous, glowing thing, a splotchy ruby-red in color for the most part but shot through with dark streaks and also dappled with a shifting pattern of brighter orange and yellow areas, was rising into the northern sky and casting its ominous, blood-red light over the land below. It was truly a vision from hell.

As I watched, the gigantic fireball continued to expand and rise, and a dark column, like the stem of an immense toadstool, became visible beneath it. Bright, electric-blue tongues of fire could be seen flickering and dancing over the surface of the column. They were huge lightning bolts, but at their distance no thunder could be heard from them. When the noise finally came, it was a dull, muffled sound, yet still overwhelming: the sort of sound one might expect to hear if an inconceivably powerful earthquake rocked a huge city and caused a thousand 100-story skyscrapers to crumble into ruins simultaneously.

I realized that I was witnessing the annihilation of the city of Baltimore, 35 miles away, but I could not understand the enormous magnitude of the blast. Could one of our 60-kiloton bombs have done that? It seemed more like what one would expect from a megaton bomb.

The government news reports that night and the next day claimed that the warhead which destroyed Baltimore, killing more than a million people, as well as the blasts which destroyed some two-dozen other major American cities the same day, had been set off by us. They also claimed that the government had counterattacked and destroyed the “nest of racist vipers” in California. As it turned out, both claims were false, but it was two days before I learned the full story of what had actually happened.

Meanwhile, it was with a feeling of deepest despair that I and half-a-dozen others who were gathered around the television set in the darkened basement of the gift shop late that night heard a newscaster gloatingly announce the destruction of our liberated zone in California. He was a Jew, and he really let his emotions carry him away; I have never before heard or seen anything like it.

After a solemn rundown of most of the cities which had been hit that day, with preliminary estimates of the death tolls (sample: “and in Detroit, which the racist fiends struck with two of their missiles, they murdered over 1.4 million innocent American men, women, and children of all races…”), he came to New York. At that point tears actually appeared in his eyes and his voice broke.

nuke_2Between sobs he gasped out the news that 18 separate nuclear blasts had leveled Manhattan and the surrounding boroughs and suburbs out to a radius of approximately 20 miles, with an estimated 14 million killed outright and perhaps another five million expected to die of burns or radiation sickness within the next few days. Then he lapsed into Hebrew and began a strange, wailing chant, as tears streamed down his cheeks and his clenched fists pounded his breast.

After a few seconds of this he recovered, and his demeanor changed completely. Anguish was replaced first by a burning hatred for those who had destroyed his beloved, Jewish New York City, then by an expression of grim satisfaction which gradually turned into an exultant gloating: “But we have taken our vengeance against our enemies, and they are no more. Time and again, throughout history, the nations have risen up against us and tried to expel us or kill us, lot we have always triumphed in the end. No one can resist us. All those who have tried—Egypt, Persia, Rome, Spain, Russia, Germany—have themselves been destroyed, and we have always emerged triumphant from the ruins. We have always survived and prospered. And now we have utterly crushed the latest of those who have raised their hands against us. Just as Moshe smote the Egyptian, so have we smitten the Organization.”

His tongue flickered wetly over his lips and his dark eyes gleamed balefully as he described the hail of nuclear annihilation which he said had been unleashed on California that very afternoon: “Their precious racial superiority did not help them a bit when we fired hundreds of nuclear missiles into the racist stronghold,” the newscaster gloated. “The White vermin died like flies. We can only hope they realized in their last moments that many of the loyal soldiers who pressed the firing buttons for the missiles which killed them were Black or Chicano or Jewish. Yes, the Whites and their criminal racial pride have been wiped out in California, but now we must kill the racists everywhere else, so that racial harmony and brotherhood can be restored to America. We must kill them! Kill them! Kill! Kill!…”

Then he lapsed into Hebrew again, and his voice became louder and harsher. He stood up and leaned into the camera, an incarnation of pure hatred, as he shrieked and gibbeted in his alien tongue, gobs of saliva flying from his mouth and dribbling down his chin.

This extraordinary performance must have been embarrassing to some of his less emotional brethren, because he was suddenly cut off in mid-shriek and replaced by a Gentile, who continued to give out revised casualty estimates into the early hours of the morning.

Gradually, during the next 48 hours, we learned the true story of that dreadful Thursday, both from later and more nearly accurate government newscasts and from our own sources. The first and most important news we received came early Friday morning, in a coded message from Revolutionary Command to all the Organization’s units around the country: California had not been destroyed! Vandenberg had been annihilated, and two large missiles had struck the city of Los Angeles, causing widespread death and destruction, but at least 90 per cent of the people in the liberated zone had survived, partly because they had been given a few minutes advance warning and had been able to take shelter.

Unfortunately for the people in other parts of the country, there was no advance warning, and the total death toll—including those who have died of burns, other wounds, and radiation in the last 10 days-is approximately 60 million. The missiles which caused these deaths, however, were not ours—except in the case of New York City, which received a barrage first from Vandenberg and then from the Soviet Union.

Baltimore, Detroit, and the other American cities which were hit—even Los Angeles—were all the victims of Soviet missiles. Vandenberg AFB was the only domestic target hit by the U.S. government.

The cataclysmic chain of events began with an extraordinarily painful decision by Revolutionary Command. Reports being received by RC in the first week of this month indicated a gradual but steady shift of the balance of power from the military faction in the government, which wanted to avoid a nuclear showdown with us, to the Jewish faction, which demanded the immediate annihilation of California. The Jews feared that otherwise the existing stalemate between the liberated zone and the rest of the country might become permanent, which would mean an almost certain victory for us eventually.

To prevent this they went to work behind the scenes in their customary manner, arguing, threatening, bribing, bringing pressure to bear on one of their opponents at a time. They had already succeeded in arranging the replacement of several top generals by their own creatures, and RC saw the last chance disappearing of avoiding a full-scale exchange of nuclear missiles with government forces.

NUKED-US-CITYSo we decided to preempt. We struck first, but not at the government’s forces. We fired all our missiles from Vandenberg (except for half-a-dozen targeted on New York) at two targets: Israel and the Soviet Union. As soon as our missiles had been launched, RC announced the news to the Pentagon via a direct telephone link. The Pentagon, of course, had immediate confirmation from its own radar screens, and it had no choice but to follow up our salvo with an immediate and full-scale nuclear attack of its own against the Soviet Union, in an attempt to knock out as much of the Soviet retaliatory potential as possible.

The Soviet response was horrendous, but spotty. They fired everything they had left at us, but it simply wasn’t enough. Several of the largest American cities, including Washington and Chicago, were spared.

What the Organization accomplished by precipitating this fateful chain of events is fourfold: First, by hitting New York and Israel, we have completely knocked out two of world Jewry’s principal nerve centers, and it should take them a while to establish a new chain of command and get their act back together.

Second, by forcing them to take a decisive action, we pushed the balance of power in the U.S. government solidly back toward the military leaders. For all practical purposes, the country is now under a military government.

Third, by provoking a Soviet counterattack, we did far more to disrupt the System in this country and break up the orderly pattern of life of the masses than we could have done by using our own weapons against domestic targets—and we still have most of our 60-kiloton warheads left! That will be of enormous advantage to us in the days ahead.

Fourth, we have eliminated a major specter which had been hanging over our plans before: the specter of Soviet intervention after we and the System had fought it out with each other.

We took an enormous chance, of course: first, that California would be devastated in the Soviet counterattack—and second, that the U.S. military would lose its cool and use its nuclear weaponry on California even though, except for Vandenberg, there was no nuclear threat there to be knocked out. In both cases the fortunes of war have been at least moderately kind to us—although the threat from the U.S. military is by no means over.

Alley_library_sideWhat we lost, however, is substantial: about an eighth of the Organization’s members, and nearly a fifth of the White population of the country—not to mention an unknown number of millions of racial kinsmen in the Soviet Union. Fortunately, the heaviest death toll in this country has been in the largest cities, which are substantially non-White.

All in all, the strategic situation of the Organization relative to the System is enormously improved, and that is what really counts. We are willing to take as many casualties as necessary—just so the System takes proportionately more. All that matters, in the long run, is that when the smoke has finally cleared the last battalion in the field is ours. […]
 

October 28

Just back from more than a month in Baltimore—what’s left of it. I and four others from here hauled a batch of portable radioactivity-metering equipment up to Silver Spring, where we linked up with a Maryland unit and continued north to the vicinity of Baltimore. Since the main roads were totally impassable, we had to walk across country more than halfway, commandeering a truck for only the last dozen miles.

Although more than two weeks had passed since the bombing, the state of affairs around Baltimore was almost indescribably chaotic when we arrived. We didn’t even try to go into the burned out core of the city, but even in the suburbs and countryside 10 miles west of ground zero, half the buildings had burned. Even the secondary roads in and around the suburbs were littered with the burned hulks of vehicles, and nearly everyone we encountered was on foot.

Groups of scavengers were everywhere, poking through ruined stores, foraging in the fields with backpacks, carrying bundles of looted or salvaged goods—mostly food, but also clothing, building materials, and everything else imaginable—to and fro like an army of ants.

And the corpses! They were another good reason for staying away from the roads as much as possible. Even in the areas where relatively few people were killed by the initial blast or by subsequent radiation sickness, the corpses were strewn along the roads by the thousands. They were nearly all refugees from the blast area.

Close to the city one saw the bodies of those who had been badly burned by the fireball; most of them had not been able to walk more than a mile or so before they collapsed. Further out were those who had been less seriously burned. And far out into the countryside were the corpses of those who had succumbed to radiation days or weeks later. All had been left to rot where they fell, except in those few areas where the military had restored a semblance of order.

MoscowDevistationWe had at that time only about 40 Organization members among the survivors in the Baltimore area. They had been engaged in sabotage, sniping, and other guerrilla efforts against the police and military personnel there during the first week after the blast. Then they gradually discovered that the rules of the game had changed.

They found out that it was no longer necessary to operate as furtively as they had before. The System’s troops returned their fire when attacked, but did not pursue them. Outside a few areas, the police no longer attempted to undertake systematic searches of persons and vehicles, and there were no house raids. The attitude almost seemed to be, “Don’t bother us, and we won’t bother you.”

The civilian survivors also tended to take a much more nearly neutral attitude than before. There was fear of the Organization, but very little overt expression of hostility. The people did not know whether we were the ones who had fired the missile which destroyed their city, as the System broadcasts claimed, but they seemed about as disposed to blame the System for letting it happen as us for doing it.

The holocaust through which the people up there had passed had clearly convinced them quite thoroughly of one thing: the System could no longer guarantee their security. They no longer had even a trace of confidence in the old order; they merely wanted to survive now, and they would turn to anyone who could help them stay alive a while longer.

Sensing this changed attitude, our members had begun recruiting and organizing among the survivors around Baltimore in semi-public fashion and meeting with sufficient success that Revolutionary Command authorized the attempt to establish a small liberated zone west of the city.

The 11 of us who had come up from the Washington suburbs to help pitched in with enthusiasm, and within a few days we had established a reasonably defensible perimeter enclosing about 2,000 houses and other buildings with a total of nearly 12,000 occupants. My principal function was to carry out a radiological survey of the soil, the buildings, the local vegetation, and the water sources in the area, so that we could be sure of freedom from dangerous levels of nuclear radiation resulting from fallout.

We organized about 300 of the locals into a fairly effective militia and provided them with arms. It would be risky at this stage to try to arm a bigger militia than that, because we haven’t had an opportunity to ideologically condition the local population to the extent we’d like, and they still require close observation and tight supervision. But we picked the best prospects among the able-bodied males in the enclave, and we do have quite a bit of experience in picking people. I’ll not be surprised if half our new militiamen eventually graduate to membership in the Organization, and some will probably even be admitted to the Order.

Yes, I think that, by and large, we can count on our new recruits. There’s still a great deal of basically sound human material left in this country, despite the widespread moral corruption. After all, that corruption has been produced largely by the instilling of an alien ideology and an alien set of values in a people disoriented by an unnatural and spiritually unhealthy life-style. The hell they’re going through now is at least knocking some of the foolishness out of them and leaving them quite a bit more receptive to a correct world view than they were before.

days-afterOur first task was to weed out and eliminate the alien elements and the race criminals from the new enclave. It’s astounding how many dark, kinky-haired Middle Easterners have invaded this country in the last decade. I believe they have taken over every restaurant and hot dog stand in Maryland. We must have shot at least a dozen Iranians, just in our little suburban enclave, and twice that many escaped when they realized what was happening.

Then we formed the people into labor brigades to carry out a number of necessary functions, one of which was the sanitary disposal of the hundreds of corpses of refugees. The majority of these poor creatures were White, and I overheard one of our members refer to what happened to them as “a slaughter of the innocents.”

I am not sure that is a correct description of the recent holocaust. I am sorry, of course, for the millions of White people, both here and in Russia, who died—and who have yet to die before we have finished—in this war to rid ourselves of the Jewish yoke. But innocents? I think not. Certainly, that term should not be applied to the majority of the adults.

After all, is not man essentially responsible for his condition—at least, in a collective sense? If the White nations of the world had not allowed themselves to become subject to the Jew, to Jewish ideas, to the Jewish spirit, this war would not be necessary. We can hardly consider ourselves blameless. We can hardly say we had no choice, no chance to avoid the Jew’s snare. We can hardly say we were not warned.

Men of wisdom, integrity, and courage have warned us over and over again of the consequences of our folly. And even after we were well down the Jewish primrose path, we had chance after chance to save ourselves—most recently 52 years ago, when the Germans and the Jews were locked in struggle for the mastery of central and eastern Europe.

We ended up on the Jewish side in that struggle, primarily because we had chosen corrupt men as our leaders. And we had chosen corrupt leaders because we valued the wrong things in life. We had chosen leaders who promised us something for nothing; who pandered to our weaknesses and vices; who had nice stage personalities and pleasant smiles, but who were without character or scruple. We ignored the really important issues in our national life and gave free rein to a criminal System to conduct the affairs of our nation as it saw fit, so long as it kept us moderately well-supplied with bread and circuses.

And are not folly, willful ignorance, laziness, greed, irresponsibility, and moral timidity as blameworthy as the most deliberate malice? Are not all our sins of omission to be counted against us as heavily as the Jew’s sins of commission against him? In the Creator’s account book, that is the way things are reckoned. Nature does not accept “good” excuses in lieu of performance. No race which neglects to insure its own survival, when the means for that survival are at hand, can be judged “innocent,” nor can the penalty exacted against it be considered unjust, no matter how severe.

Immediately after our success in California this summer, in my dealings with the civilian population there I had it thoroughly impressed on me why the American people do not deserve to be considered “innocents.” Their reaction to the civil strife there was based almost solely on the way it affected their own private circumstances. For the first day or two—before it dawned on most people that we might actually win—the White civilians, even racially conscious ones, were generally hostile; we were messing up their life-style and making their customary pursuit of pleasure terribly inconvenient.

Then, after they learned to fear us, they were all too eager to please us. But they weren’t really interested in the rights and wrongs of the struggle; they couldn’t be bothered with soul-searching and long-range considerations. Their attitude was: “Just tell us what we’re supposed to believe, and we’ll believe it.” They just wanted to be safe and comfortable again as soon as possible. And they weren’t being cynical; they weren’t jaded sophisticates, but ordinary people.

The fact is that the ordinary people are not really much less culpable than the not-so-ordinary people, than the pillars of the System. Take the political police, as an example. Most of them—the White ones—are not especially evil men. They serve evil masters, but they rationalize what they do; they justify it to themselves, some in patriotic terms (“protecting our free and democratic way of life”) and some in religious or ideological terms (“upholding Christian ideals of equality and justice”).

One can call them hypocrites—one can point out that they deliberately avoid thinking about anything which might call into question the validity of the shallow catch-phrases with which they justify themselves—but is not everyone who has tolerated the System also a hypocrite, whether he actively supported it or not? Is not everyone who mindlessly parrots the same catch-phrases, refusing to examine their implications and contradictions, whether he uses them as justifications for his deeds or not, also to be blamed?

I cannot think of any segment of White society, from the Maryland red-necks and their families whose radioactive bodies we bulldozed into a huge pit a few days ago to the university professors we strung up in Los Angeles last July, which can truly claim that it did not deserve what happened to it. It was not so many months ago that nearly all those who are wandering homeless and bemoaning their fate today were talking from the other side of their mouths.

Not a few of our people have been badly roughed up in the past—and two that I know of were killed—when they fell into the hands of red-necks: “good ol’ boys” who, although not liberals or shabbos goyim in any way, had no use for “radicals” who wanted to “overthrow the gummint.” In their case it was sheer ignorance.

But ignorance of that sort is no more excusable than the bleating, sheep-like liberalism of the pseudo-intellectuals who have smugly promoted Jewish ideology for so many years; or than the selfishness and cowardice of the great American middle class who went along for the ride, complaining only when their pocketbooks suffered.

No, talk of “innocents” has no meaning. We must look at our situation collectively, in a race-wide sense. We must understand that our race is like a cancer patient undergoing drastic surgery in order to save his life. There is no sense in asking whether the tissue being cut out now is “innocent” or not. That is no more reasonable than trying to distinguish the “good” Jews from the bad ones—or, as some of our thicker-skulled “good ol’ boys” still insist on trying, separating the “good niggers” from the rest of their race.

metro-lastLightThe fact is that we are all responsible, as individuals, for the morals and the behavior of our race as a whole. There is no evading that responsibility, in the long run, any more for the members of our own race than for those of other races, and each of us individually must be prepared to be called to account for that responsibility at any time. In these days many are being called.

But the enemy is also paying a price. He’s still got a grip on things here, more or less, but he’s just about finished outside North America. Although the government is blocking most of the foreign news from the networks here, we have been receiving clandestine reports from our overseas units and also monitoring the European news broadcasts.

Within 24 hours after we hit Tel Aviv and half-a-dozen other Israeli targets last month, hundreds of thousands of Arabs were swarming across the borders of occupied Palestine. Most of them were civilians, armed only with knives or clubs, and Jewish border guards mowed down thousands of them, until their ammunition was exhausted. The Arabs’ hatred, pent up for 45 years, drove them on—across mine fields, through Jewish machine-gun fire, and into the radioactive chaos of burning cities, their single thought being to slay the people who had stolen their land, killed their fathers, and humiliated them for two generations. Within a week the throat of the last Jewish survivor in the last kibbutz and in the last, smoking ruin in Tel Aviv had been cut.

Fucking the Red Woman

melisandre-4


I have a very obscure past. After I left my parents’ home for horrendous, soul-destroying abuse, I fell in a sort of New Age cult which promised me to develop paranormal powers. Even after I quit the cult the internal damage was done and I spent the most precious springs of my life in a futile search of power through a “psi-development system,” as I used to say in my twenties. (I use the term “psi” in the sense of the purported paranormal abilities studied by parapsychology.)

Presently I not only disbelieve the existence of such abilities. After reading tons of skeptical literature debunking the claims of the paranormal, I have become one of the staunchest skeptics of religion and the paranormal in the pro-white blogosphere.

Notwithstanding such obscure origins, I still can enjoy cinematic experiences on how to “develop psi” as, say, Yoda teaching Luke Skywalker how to levitate a small ship in The Empire Strikes Back. More recently I enjoyed watching even darker “magic” as a powerful scene in Game of Thrones featuring Lady Melisandre: the priestess of fire who, always dressed in dark red, is in service of the phlegmatic Stannis Baratheon.

Melisandra-1

Stannis is the character of these series who, by right after his brother died, can claim the throne of the kingdom usurped by Geoffrey. In season two Lady Melisandre promises Stannis a son. Stannis has sex with Lady Melisandre on a table, scattering the war models onto the floor. Davos Seaworth (the “Onion Knight”), Stannis’ most loyal hand, vehemently dislikes black magic and always calls Melisandre “the Red Woman.”

In a later scene, Davos enters a cave in the cliff with a pregnant Lady Melisandre. Stannis had ordered him to watch an occult ritual. Davos, alone with the witch, says that it is strange that her Lord of Light asks her to work in the shadows. She counters that shadows cannot live in the dark and are servants of the light. He finds their way barred and says that the bars are new. Melisandre says that their passage cannot be barred and opens her robe. She appears nude and heavily pregnant and Davos calls on the seven gods for protection. Melisandre tells him that there is only one God and that He only protects those who serve him. Davos’ lantern glows with increasing intensity startling him as Melisandre takes off all her clothes. He backs along the wall of the cave as Melisandre lies down on her robe. Laying down on the cave’s floor she begins to moan to give birth and something shifts under the skin of her belly.

smoky

Her moans and gasps intensify as Davos looks on. A shadowy, black demon’s hands grip Melisandre’s legs while the dark figure pulls itself free of her womb. It stands before her for an instant before passing between the bars. Davos watches in horror. (As soon as detected, YouTube deletes all illegal clips of Game of Thrones but a guy video-recorded the above scene directly on his TV screen with no electronic fingerprint to be detected: here.)

The smoky demon infiltrates Renly’s camp and assassinates Renly (like others, Renly, Stannis’ younger brother, illegally claimed a right to the throne). Thanks to such powerful sorcery Stannis regains control of the majority of his army that his homosexual brother Renly used to command. Catelyn Stark and Brienne of Tarth are in the tent with Renly when the smoky, unkillable creature stabbed Renly right into his heart. (YouTube clip: here. Later in the same season Catelyn is not sure what she saw, but Brienne is sure that the phantasmagorical creature resembled Stannis.)

?????

Davos is so disturbed by what he saw in the cave that he convinces Stannis not to bring Lady Melisandre along when their fleet and army attack King’s Landing to reclaim the throne that rightfully belongs to Stannis. Davos wants a clean victory with no involvement of black sorcery at all.

Leaving these fantastic HBO series aside, this “one handy demon per fuck” to assassinate your enemies, even your brother if he misbehaves, reminds me my extremely recurrent fantasy of disturbing the whole anti-white System by means of killing a single human per day.

I confess that, after becoming racially conscious, I’ve indulged in similar fantasies before watching Game of Thrones, especially when trying to get some sleep. Psi or black magic probably don’t exist, but if they existed behold my list for targeted assassinations through ungraspable smokeys:

All heads of states in the West, starting with Chimpanzee

All moguls that own the mainstream media

All headmasters of Western universities

The Pope and all of his Cardinals

All evangelical protestant leaders

Hate groups led by the tribe

Of the last point I meant the head persons, and their millionaire sponsors, of all Europhobic groups that promote cultural Marxism in their endeavors to exterminate the goyim.

In season three of Game of the Thrones Stannis asks Lady Melisandre to make him another “son” to slay Joffrey, the monstrous king—monstrous in soul; physically he’s very young and good-looking—who had ordered the beheading of Ned Stark, thus usurping Stannis’ throne.

Melisandre-5

The witch refuses explaining that creating still other shadow-creatures may kill him. She needs to use Stannis’ own life-essence to fuel the entities, but this hugely drains him. (In the books more than one smoky demon is created inside Melisandre, and Davos notices that Stannis looks ten years older than before the Battle of Blackwater.) The use of assassins conjured from the witch’s womb is thus limited: the creation taxes the creator to the point of death.

Well… according to the traditional tales of black magic, I would die. But I would gladly give my life to see at least some justice performed out of my above list.

Just curious: Knowing that you would also die in such an effort, would you also fuck the Red Woman, the “mother of demons” as Davos once called her in impotent fury? If so, who would you add to your own black list?

Melisandre-3

Give up Christianity.

Transvaluate all Christian values in your heart.

Only real hate will save the white race from extinction…

From Breivik’s desk

“The nation is divided, half patriots and half traitors, and no man can tell which from which.”

—Mark Twain


Anders_Behring_Breivik

Traitor – classification system – Category A, B and C traitors

This classification system is used to identify various individual cultural Marxist/multiculturalist traitors. The intention of the system is to easier identify priority targets and will also serve as the foundation for the future “Nuremberg trials” once the European cultural conservatives reassert political and military control of any given country.

Any category A, B or C traitor is an individual who has deliberately used his or her influence in a way which makes him or her indirectly or directly guilty of the charges specified in this document: 1-8. Many of these individuals will attempt to claim “ignorance” of the crimes they are accused of.


Category A traitor

- Political leaders (NGO leaders included)

- Media leaders (chief editors)

- Cultural leaders

- Industry leaders

Category A traitors are usually any current Heads of State, ministers/senators, directors and leaders of certain organisations/boards etc. who are guilty of charges 1-8. Category A traitors consist of the most influential and highest profile traitors.

10 per 1 million citizens.
Punishment: death penalty and expropriation of property/funds


Category B traitor

Category B traitors are cultural Marxist/multiculturalist politicians, primarily from the alliance of European political parties known as “the MA 100” (parties who support multiculturalism) and EU parliamentarians. They can be elected and non-elected parliamentarians, their advisors and any public and/or corporate servant who has been and still are indirectly or directly implicated in committing the following acts.

Category B traitors can also be individuals from various professional groups (but not limited to): journalists, editors, teachers, lecturers, university professors, various school and university board members, publicists, radio commentators, writers of fiction, cartoonists, and artists/celebrities etc. They can also be individuals from other professional groups such as: technicians, scientists, doctors and even Church leaders. In addition, individuals (investors etc.) who have directly or indirectly funded related activities. It’s important to note that the stereotypical “socialists”, collectivists, feminists, gay and disability activists, animal rights activists, environmentalists etc., are to be considered on an individual basis only. Not everyone who is associated with one of these groups or movements is to be considered as a cultural Marxist/multiculturalist.

Former category A traitors; Heads of State, Ministers/Senators etc., directors and leaders of certain organisations/boards etc. can be re-classified as category B traitors for practical targeting reasons (they have lost influence and will not yield the same target value/effect as current category A traitors).

Certain ANTIFA leaders or organisers related to ANTIFA movements (and other dedicated members) are considered category B traitors. Non-essential members are considered category C traitors. Many professionals such as for example journalists, influential sociologists or university professors etc. are considered and categorized as category B traitors as we consider them political activists and not merely professionals. They will of course claim ignorance and state that they are apolitical. This strategy might work for them until the day where they are visited by a Justiciar Knight—their judge, jury and executioner.

1000 per 1 million citizens.
Punishment: death penalty and expropriation of property/funds. Punishment can be reduced under certain circumstances.

Category C traitor

Category C traitors are less influential and lower priority targets (often individuals who have facilitated category A and B traitors) but who are still guilty of charges 1-8.

10 000 per 1 million citizens.
Punishment: fines, incarceration, expropriation (considered as acceptable indirect casualties in larger operations where WMDs are involved).

Category D individuals

Category D individuals have little or no political influence but are facilitating category Band C traitors and/or MA 100 political parties/media companies through various means. They are not guilty of charges 1-8 but work with or for individuals who are. The classification is of relevance when calculating/estimating indirect casualties concerning larger operations where WMDs are involved, as any category D individuals is not considered an innocent “civilian” but rather as a secondary servant/facilitator.

20 000-30 000 per 1 million citizens
Punishment: none (not considered civilian)

Number of Category A and B traitors on Western Europe

There are approximately 400 000 category A and B traitors in Western Europe using the current classification system (1010 per million).

France 65 650

Germany 82 820

United Kingdom 62 216

Netherlands 16 665

Belgium 10 807

Sweden 9393

Austria 7839

Norway 4848

Switzerland 498

Luxembourg 7777

Spain 47 167

Italy 60 600

Portugal 10 807

Denmark 5555

Ireland 6060

Greece 11 312

Finland 5353

Iceland 322

Cyprus 800

Malta 417

________________

Source: Breivik’s manifesto

Crucify them!

Spartacus 's followers are crucified

This is my response
to J. Varlaan in yesterday’s thread:





Oh man, I must be with you and others like us in the aftermaths of the days of the rope! This is why I believe that white nationalist Christians are obsolete animals. Unlike Pierce, Covington and Linder, white nationalist Christians don’t harbor this sort of fantasies. These nice guys are incapable of indulging themselves in hate because their fucking religion, especially the Protestant branch, forbids them such sentiment.

Seriously man, my big dream is to mark the end the Christian Era that is killing us by exposing, for a hundred years, thousands upon thousands of crucified white traitors along the roads from Paris to Berlin and from Washington to Atlanta. The rotten corpses on the crosses that were killed long ago in the revolutionary days would produce the visual shock that the white race so desperately needs.

That’s why I lean much closer toward Pierce’s seminal novel than to Covington’s quintet. The fanaticism required in the white psyche to survive the darkest hour must go far beyond Dave Duke’s bullshit YouTube propaganda of being fair to non-white peoples and their shitty cultures. Instead of the gospel, the coming overman must find inspiration in Thus spake Zarathustra and in The Turner Diaries.

If conquering the world for the race is the ultimate objective, one must first crucify the most notorious members of wickedest generation of history, and give the strong message to the survivors that Constantine’s abolition of the crucifixion practice in the year 337, out of veneration of a Galilean, is over.

Let the hammer speak!

The interregnum is about to end

The excellent recent video-post in Murderbymedia was re-blogged on Mindweapons in Ragnarok, which commented: “Kai Murros saying exactly the same thing this blog harps about—liberalism and its project of remaking White Human Nature into a race of submissive doormats is going to fail hard as the economy contracts and people are in a struggle for survival. Struggle will bring out White Human Nature at it’s finest; red in tooth and claw.”

Published in: on June 23, 2013 at 9:49 pm  Comments (3)  

Northwest Volunteer Army’s

WingedNVA

General Order Number Four:

“No Jew or other non-white person, no homosexual, and no white person engaged in interracial sexual activity shall reside within the boundaries of the Northwest American Republic, or within any area of NVA operations. NVA field commanders shall deal with violators of this General Order at their discretion…”

For the context of General Order #4 see here; for excerpts of the whole book see here; for obtaining a copy of the book or joining the Northwest Front, visit the webpage (see first comment below).

The Brigade excerpts, chapter I

by Harold Covington


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


Covington in uniform
“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/

The Brigade excerpts, chapter III

by Harold Covington


“In Shadow”


Covington in uniform
“It always helps to have allies and exterior sources of aid, true,” agreed Morehouse. “A lot of people across the world want to see the United States go down, and they’ll be willing to help once they observe that our men have the right stuff and we are seriously pinning down American forces which would otherwise be used against their own countries. The Russians in particular won’t have any objection to stepping back up to superpower status while we mangle ZOG from within. Bear in mind that there are certain advantages in fighting from within the belly of the beast. For all the incipient collapse and waste of the past three generations, this is still the richest country on the face of the earth. Everything we need to fight and win is right here; we just have to take it.”

Coyle nodded. “You’re right, Red. It’s all there just waiting for us to stiffen our spines and take it. We need weapons and ammunition? We don’t need gun-runners from outside. There are enough guns left in private hands in this country to get us started, guns we can beg or buy, or just take. The Old Man always said that gun control was never really that important an issue. There was no point in having a right to keep and bear arms if we were never going to use it. How many right wing cranks have we all known down through the years who had a whole rec room full of guns, all gathering dust and rust, not one of them ever used to fire a single shot in anger at the real racial enemy?

“We need safe houses, training and staging areas?” Coyle continued. “The Pacific Northwest is huge; the Feds simply won’t have the manpower to put a soldier behind every Douglas fir tree… The NVA [Northwest Volunteer Army] does not fight on the defensive. They do. They don’t hunt us. We hunt them… This is a spiritual problem, not a material one. What we need are men and women with enough balls to pull the triggers and live the life.”

“The size and terrain of our new country is in our favor,” pointed out Morehouse. “A completely self-contained revolt might have small chance of success in some small and overcrowded country like England or Belgium, or some tiny state like Vermont or New Hampshire here, where the occupation forces can monitor pretty much everything and bring their superior forces to bear on any point quickly. This is the problem the Palestinians have always faced. They’re trying to fight in a strip of land the size of a postage stamp, crowded in like sardines with their own people. But here in the Northwest we’ve got room to maneuver.”

“Maneuver exactly how?” asked Hatfield.

“What the Army Council finally decided on is a series of small crews raising as much hell as possible in the cities. For the first year or so, in addition to direct operations against all federal authority and personnel in general, we want the combat crews to concentrate on gofers.”

“On what?” asked Zack, puzzled.

“General Order Number Four,” said Coyle. “GO-4 enforcement actions. Gofers. Get it?”

“Uh, refresh my memory,” said Zack.

“Oh, that’s right, you haven’t yet seen the NVA General Orders. General Order Number Four orders all non-whites and homosexuals to leave the three basic Homeland states and anywhere else we’re operating. Henceforth all non-whites, especially Jews, are considered to be legitimate military targets and are to be destroyed on sight, in theory. In practice, your job will not be to run around slaughtering blacks and Mexicans en masse. Your task is to drive them out, if you see the difference.”

“Oh, they’ll get gone,” said Tommy Coyle grimly.

“It is absolutely vital that we whiten up the Northwest, and fast,” said Morehouse. “Every non-white, every Jew, and every bugger boy is a potential enemy asset, a pair of eyes and ears for the Feds, a potential enemy soldier who by the very nature of who and what they are can only seek to do harm to us and to our people. That’s in addition to all the problems they cause with their usual crime, violence, drugs, and monkey music. Right now the federal government has a vast pool of millions of willing assets, activists, and soldiers, living right here among us. We have to drain that swamp. But what’s more important, the white people of the Northwest need to see a difference, a visible improvement in their lives. Fewer Mexicans especially. They need to no longer hear the babble of Spanish or ching ling ding in the local Safeway. They must no longer be confronted with sullen clerks and attendants in business places who don’t speak English. They have to notice that all of a sudden there are jobs available once again. They should be able to open their windows on a summer evening and not hear jangling salsa music from a boom box or a passing low ride.”

“They have to understand that we are doing with the gun what the American politicians promised for 50 years and never delivered,” concluded Zack. “How do we go about it exactly?”

“Blacks are simple,” said Morehouse with a shrug. “You shoot a few and make it clear to the rest of them that remaining in the Pacific Northwest is hazardous to their health. Let them know the Boss Man is back, as the Old Man said in his nationwide address on October 22nd. You’ll get some who’ll go on television and swagger and beat their chests like King Kong and go booga booga booga about how brave they are, and how no cracker woodchuck racists gonna run dere black asses outa nowhere, all that happy horse shit. You shoot them, too. It won’t take long for the message to sink in.

“Mexicans are a more complex problem,” Morehouse went on. “There’s an economic factor there. Mexicans are here because capitalists employ them. Some of those employers are rich white people who want their pools cleaned, and their lawns trimmed, and their children nannied while they go out every day dressed for success, sure, but mostly it’s the big corporations who have brought in all this mud, everything labor-intensive from flipping burgers to stacking pallets to mass farming in agribusiness.”

“Which is one reason why whites are so poor these days,” pointed out Coyle. “Whites aren’t eligible for affirmative action.”

“The employers are the key” said Morehouse. “To get rid of the beaners we don’t just go around blasting them on the corner, although there needs to be some of that, of course, to get them motivated. We go for the employers, without whom there would never have been any problem to begin with. We need to deprive capitalism of this vast pool of cheap Third World labor they’ve imported into this country and force them to start investing in real human resources again. They’ll try all the usual crap, outsourcing and eventually shutting down their companies and trying to flee the Northwest for Guatemala or someplace rather than employ white people at a living wage. They’ll think we can’t find them and wire something to their car ignitions in New York or St. Louis.

“That’s for the future, though,” Morehouse went on. “Right now, what you guys on the ground need to do is deal locally with direct managers. You just go into a place that employs Mexicans or Chinese or whatever, wearing your ski masks at first, then later you won’t need to because no one will dare to try and stop you. You politely explain to the boss or the manager that come Monday morning there had better not be a single brown face in his establishment, or else there will be all kinds of physical experimentation done upon his carcass. If he tries to pass the buck to the head office or something like that, explain to him that the head office isn’t going to go upside his head with a baseball bat if he doesn’t do what he’s told. Do not burn down or blow up the factory or the business unless it seems really necessary to make your point. Remember, white people need those jobs the illegals will be vacating, and there will be some white employees there whom we don’t need blaming the NVA for losing their jobs. No need to get too heavy about it. We’ve already littered the landscape with enough corpses so they’ll know we’re serious. There’s nothing like killing people to convince others that they’d damned well better listen to what you have to say.”

“It won’t last,” said Hatfield grimly. “What little is left of the Constitution will go right out the window and the iron heel is going to come down hard, and soon. Okay, now, my favorite and most anticipated part of the evening. What about our local lefties and anti-fascist scum?”

Washburn grinned and pulled out a list. “That was easy, thanks to the public library and a stroll through our four or five lefty bookstores and coffee bars in Astoria. These 55 names are just about everybody in our three counties who has ever written an anti-racist letter to the editor, organized some left-wing demonstration or event, run some lefty activism group, or worked for the Hillary Clinton campaign.”

“Surely there’s more than that?” asked Ekstrom. “In Astoria alone there’s some liberal airhead under every rock.”

“I removed overlaps from the other lists,” said Washburn. He pulled out a second paper. “This one is bugger boys and dykes, 112 names. I won’t say that’s all of them, but damned near. And finally,” out came a third list, “119 Jews. May I make a suggestion? We don’t burn these lists. We should find some way to blow them up poster-sized, and then when we’ve popped a couple of Reds or sodomites or hebes, we start posting them around town in the dead of night with the appropriate names crossed off. Psychological warfare.”

“Bet you by the time we’ve killed half a dozen of them, the rest will scatter like quail,” said Ekstrom.

“But first I need to go over the Army Council’s policy on target selection with you,” said Donner. I’m sure Red and Tommy have already mentioned to you that we don’t just want to run around slaughtering everybody with a dark face.

“That said, a lot of your work will still be gofers, GO-4s, General Order Four enforcement. It may look to outsiders like we’re just gunning down non-whites at random, but actually the whole issue of target selection is very complex. The selection of targets will primarily be the duty of the company commander, with the assistance of the XO [Executive Officer] in his intelligence gathering capacity, but anyone can propose an enemy target for the CO’s [company commander] consideration. Every target that we destroy, human or material, needs to have some kind of clear and visible value to the Zionist occupation government. The public needs to be able to see and understand why we shot so and so or blew up or burned down such and such a place.

“The NVA tactical philosophy is that the minute hostilities commence in any operational area, we need to start hitting those targets, not sit there admiring our lists for the neat typing. The NVA must always hit, hit, hit! We must keep the feds off balance, never knowing when and where we will strike next, but knowing it will be damned soon. Right now they’re still trying to maintain business as usual, trying to pretend that we’re just ordinary criminals. They’re doing full CSI workups, forensics, and legal documentation on each incident. We must present them with so many incidents that their ordinary procedures of criminal investigation and apprehension will be stretched to the breaking point and then snap under the strain, thus forcing them to fall back on brute force and institutionalized terrorism. Remember, normal law enforcement in America is already so swamped with ordinary crime, drug-related messes and the thousand-and-one problems that come from massive numbers of Third World people living in a Western society, that in many areas the system can barely function as things are. We need to tip the system over the edge. We have to hit them so hard and often that they can’t keep up, so that all they can do is just follow along behind us and keep on picking up the dead bodies we leave for them.”

“Sounds good to me,” growled Hatfield.

“But still, there are some guidelines. Some very important guidelines,” warned Donner. “First and foremost, no kids!

“If they’re old enough to have a shitty little moustache or visible tits, they’re old enough to do harm to white people and they’re fair game, although personally I’d say play it safe by concentrating on adults. One obvious exception would be blacks or Mexicans in high school that can’t seem to lay off chasing white girls. We need to get the word out: that shit comes to a screeching halt, now!”

“Mmmm, Larry, what about bombs?” asked Hatfield. “I recall that the one thing that probably screwed the pooch for the Provisional IRA more than anything else was their seeming inability to pop the top in Belfast without blowing up some poor mother and baby in a stroller passing by.”

“Yeah, and those dumb Paddies would also do crap like shooting a man down in front of his children, shooting teachers in front of a class full of kiddies, so forth and so on,” said Donner in disgust. “What the hell were they thinking? I admit, one of our big nightmares is that some white child is going to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and get killed by one of our detonations. The white people they accidentally kill will disappear. Any witnesses will be silenced, their families will be bought off, and the media will make those incidents drop off the radar like they did in Iraq. The United States can afford collateral damage, but we can’t.”

“Got it,” said Hatfield.

“Okay, second no-no in target selection,” Donner went on. “Christian ministers, priests, and for the moment, church buildings themselves. This one may change later, depending on how serious a threat the evangelicals and others become to us. Remember, we have to get the silent support of a majority of the white population here at least to the extent that they do not inform or actively collaborate with the occupation.”

“Understood,” said Hatfield.

Donner continued, “Obvious targets like racially mixed couples and faggots. That shit stops! It stops now! No more! If you know where any live, waste them and burn them out, just make sure you don’t kill any cute little mulatto kiddies.”

“They’ll be on the 6 o’clock news crying for their mommy and daddy,” rumbled Ekstrom with a scowl.

“Who else is on the hit parade?” asked Washburn.

“Basically, we hit anyone who is part and parcel of maintaining federal authority in the Northwest. Start with lawyers, judges, and anyone to do with the courts. It is absolutely essential that the enemy court and judicial system come to a grinding halt. From now on courts do not sit, unless it’s behind a Bremer wall, and not for long even then, until we get at them somehow. These courts do not judge us, or anybody else. They are no longer lawful and the government they serve no longer rules in this land. We do. If someone in the community is causing a real problem with drugs or genuinely anti-social behavior, the NVA will deal with them, not the American law and not the American courts. All attorneys are considered officers of the court, and the court is an alien and enemy power occupying our land. All attorneys are therefore legitimate military targets. All judges will immediately resign and leave the Homeland, or die. We thus force the enemy to fall back on military tribunals or simple arbitrary internment.”

“That’s coming anyway,” remarked Hatfield. “Let me hear some more about the goddamned lefty media.”

“Media personnel are much more delicate,” said Donner. “We not only need to neutralize them as enemies, we need to make use of them for our own purposes, no matter how reluctant they may be. We can do this by punishing a few of their more excessive individual personnel, but letting the rest continue to function so long as they provide balance in their coverage. For example, if they have to report federal government press releases and statements, fine. But they also report statements by the NVA, verbatim, and they do it with a straight face and no unseemly comments. They give us the same air time and they refrain from any snide side remarks or manipulation of the news. Oh, and by the way, they don’t use the term ‘terrorists.’ They call us the NVA, or Northwest Volunteers, or white separatists, or even insurgents is fine, but terrorist is the ZOG word for us, and the media will not use it.”

“You mentioned something you called floats?” asked Hatfield.

“Floats are the most dangerous of all NVA operations, because they’re more or less spontaneous and unplanned,” said Donner. “That’s when some of the boys lock and load, pile into a couple of cars, and go out cruising to try and find somebody to shoot. The drawbacks are obvious; there’s a possibility you will run into something you can’t handle or get jammed up in traffic with the cops after you, something like that. But they’re a valuable tactic for the same reason.

“There’s no real hard and fast rule here,” Donner continued. “You guys are going to have a more independent command out here in the great north woods than our urban units, and you’re going to have to play a lot of it by ear. The basic operating principle for now is this: we cannot allow the enemy to maintain any pretense of business as usual, any pretense that they are still the law and we are criminals of some kind. From the moment of the Declaration of Northwest Independence in Coeur d’Alene, from the night the Old Man gave that address to the world on TV, we are the law and we are legitimate. They are the criminals and the interlopers. Be good cops for the Republic and take ‘em out, boys.”

“No, you don’t understand, I’m not proposing to hit the monkoids themselves,” said Hatfield. “Read on.”

“Hmmm….” Donner said, pursing his lips. “Says here that Mr. and Mrs. Jacob Goldman donated their own personal beach house indefinitely to these poor Affikin-Amurkin refugees from racist fascist terror, and Mrs. Irene Goldman tells us she thinks that Oregon needs more diversity in the face of this growing threat from us evil white boys. Do they live around here?”

“Big Victorian mansion up on the hill in Astoria,” said Hatfield. “He’s retired from some New York merchant bank, he’s a wheel in the local Democratic Party and a known ADL asset, and she runs the most upscale art gallery in town. Big contributors to every known Jewish and liberal charity, including hosting our annual Israel Bonds dinner at the Elliot House. Both of them really tight with the local evangelicals who of course fall down and adore them as God’s Chosen People. I can’t think of any opening target that will send our message louder or more clearly. The Goldmans, their kind, and their day are done in the Northwest.” Donner looked up, his lip curled in a sardonic smile, and he raised his hand and quickly drew his finger across his throat in a slashing motion.

“It’s done,” said Hatfield grimly.

“When?” asked Donner.

“Give us another few weeks. I’d kind of like to give the Goldmans a very special Valentine,” said Hatfield with a chuckle.

“Okay, this fits in really well with something else,” said Donner. “Brigade has a strategic objective we need your help with. If you watch the news, I’m sure you’re aware that both First and Second Portland Brigades are both starting to strike on a regular basis. We’ve taken out some blacks and gooks and Mexicans, and the city is already beginning to get noticeably whiter. We’ve also taken down a few Portland cops, mostly of the black and brown persuasion, and we’ve popped the top on a couple targets, mostly Korean stores, the Holocaust memorial, petty shit like that. But the one thing we haven’t been able to do yet is to take out any FBI or Homeland Security. Our friends in the silk suits are getting antsy, and they’ve gone cautious as hell on us. They know they’re being hunted. They’ve fortified the federal building on Southwest Third Street and all the offices and facilities they use. They’ve created a whole huge Green Zone in the Justice Center surrounded with Bremer walls and razor wire and every electronic security device known to man as well as an army of police and federal security guards. It now takes a triple-threat security clearance even to get upstairs. Most of them have sent their families out of the city and in most cases out of the Northwest. They’ve taken over the downtown Holiday Inn for most of their staff, and they take armored shuttle buses to and from work. Those who still live in their own homes now drive bulletproofed cars and vary their routes to and from the office, etc. etc. I guess these assholes did learn something in Iraq. We’ve come close enough to pop a few rounds at them from a distance, but no hits. That’s given them something to think about and made them even more nervous, but we haven’t been able to nail any of them yet. The fact is that in the city, they’re hard to detect and follow. We know who some of them are but not all, and they’ve started to shift their agents around every couple of months so there are a lot of new people we don’t know. What we want to do is flush the FBI or U.S. Marshals out, get some of them out in the open, out here in one of these small towns or on some rural road where they’ll stand out like statues and we can get a clear shot at them.”

“The assassination of two very prominent left-liberal Jews in Astoria sure sounds like a hatecrime to me,” said Hatfield. “The FBI would pretty much have to investigate something like that, would they not? Especially with the Blue State establishment in this county howling like banshees demanding immediate action?”

“I think the FBI would understand that their absence from the scene would be a very bad message to send, politically, especially after they sloughed off your killing of those two lesbo bitches. Their absence from the scene of a second double hit would look very much like they’re scared of us,” agreed Donner. “They are, of course, but they don’t want to be seen to be scared of us. Anyway, when you do get a fix on them, this will probably have to be done as a float. You won’t have the chance to rig a bomb or booby trap, you’ll have to take them on the wing, tail them and nail them as targets of opportunity. Are you going to be able to handle that?”

“I think this will be a good opportunity for Cat-Eyes Lockhart to make his NVA debut,” said Hatfield. “I’ll be his driver and spotter myself.”

“I agree,” said Donner with an enthusiastic nod. Most of our jobs are done like a Mob hit. Get in close, two in the head to make sure they’re dead. Make sure you see the brains, as gross as that sounds. Then beat feet out of there and get rid of the weapon.”

“Shoot and scoot,” said Washburn.

“You’ve got it.” Donner leaned over to them. “Gentlemen, there’s something else I need to mention here, and I suppose this is as good a time as any for it. Now, what we have been talking about this evening sounds very bad and brutal. It is bad and brutal, but let’s be very clear: this is the only way that this society and this foul world we grew up in is ever going to change.

“We live in a system that is specifically designed to prevent change. ZOG has turned this country into one great steel cage to keep us and our children penned like livestock all our lives. America has robbed white people of any hope, any future. They drag our sons away to be slaughtered in Iraq and Iran. They poison our children’s minds and turn our kids into stupid white niggers, grown fat and lazy on fast food and computer games, trashed out on drugs and hip hop, while our daughters present us with mulatto grandchildren.

“The tyranny under which we live may still wear a velvet glove on occasion, but it is unspeakably evil and brutal, and only greater violence and brutality will bring it down. This was their choice. They made it this way, not us. You guys have to understand that in order to win through to freedom, we Northwest Volunteers are going to have to become hard, hard men. The hardest history has ever known, because that hardness of soul is one of the few weapons we can muster against an incredibly powerful enemy who holds all the cards. Compassion and mercy are all very well, but they are luxuries that are possible only in a basically decent world, and that world is not this one. You are embarking on a journey that will become horrible beyond measure, but our fathers and grandfathers sloughed it off onto us. We dare not pass it on to our own children, because we are the last generation that will have a chance to do anything about all of this.”

The Brigade excerpts, chapter IV

by Harold Covington


“Valentine’s Night”


Covington in uniform
“This is going to be a doozy of an opening number for D Company, and we’ve got one week to work out all the details,” Hatfield told them all in a cheerful voice. “We’re going to try for two major takedowns within 24 hours, the second one flowing from the first. This means we’ve got to plan and carry out the Goldman hit in such a way as to leave us windows of opportunity for the FBI attack. I’ve thought about this, and I think the best place to hit the feebs would be at the same place we do Jake and Irene. I am basing this on the assumption that the FBI, when they do show up to investigate this nasty horrible hatecrime, will be constrained to at least put in a token appearance at the actual crime scene and pretend they’re Sherlock Holmes looking for clues and dogs that didn’t bark in the night.

“I want to do the Goldmans up close and personal, with handguns, so that the FBI and the cops don’t get an inkling that we have somebody of Volunteer Lockhart’s skill and stature on our side. We’ll introduce ’em to the boy on bigger targets than a couple of Jews.”

“I was in there once,” said Ekstrom. “Took Eva there for dinner, and unfortunately we’d already sat down before I saw the prices on the menu. I had to max out my one remaining Visa just for salad and a couple of sandwiches.”

“It’s a trés chic watering hole for our Blue State élite, all right,” agreed Hatfield. “One of those places where if you have to ask the price of something, you can’t afford it.”

“Yeah,” continued Charlie. “Wapner isn’t officially on our Jew list, although with that name I’m suspicious, but he’s on the liberal scumbag list. He toadies to the Goldmans and their ilk, probably because he makes his living off of them.

“It seems Wapner doesn’t speak Spanish, so he asked Conchita to run down his Valentine’s night program with his kitchen and wait staff. The Goldmans were a big part of it. They’ve got a special private dining room reserved, but get this—they’re not going to be eating off the regular menu. Goldman has ordered in a special ten-course glatt kosher dinner for two, flown in from, get this, some high-toned restaurant in Jerusalem. This special nosh is going to be coming in from Israel by chartered Lear jet and helicoptered in from Portland to our little airport, and then rushed to the Beanery by taxi, where Wapner will give it a quick warm in his ovens and microwave, specially rabbincally kosherized for the occasion, and serve it up to the happy hebes. Plus all the trimmings, kosher wine and hors d’oeuvres and whatnot, and the whole dining room covered in sheaves of roses. Total cost for this evening of conspicuous consumption, including a handsome backhander to Wapner himself for using his restaurant while not deigning to eat the same food as the rich goyim eat, will be over $60,000.”

“Mother of God!” gasped Campisi. “I’ve never even seen $60,000 in one place. My family has to make do with meat twice a week, and that’s with me and my wife both working.”

“If we do this right there shouldn’t be any shooting except the holes we put in Jake and Irene,” said Hatfield. “Charlie, once you see the targets leave the house, you call us and give us the signal. Tony and I will then pull the Yukon out onto the platform and into the parking area, get into position, and wait.”

“Do we take them before or after their big imported kosher banquet?” asked Tony.

“Before, on their way into the restaurant. We don’t need to be waiting around for a couple of hours with guns in our pockets. Besides,” Hatfield continued in a grim voice, “I don’t want one single sixty thousand-dollar kosher morsel flown in all the way from Jerusalem to go down those kikes’ gullets. I want that vile slap in the face to my people to sit there on the table getting cold and gooey while the roses fade and the petals fall to the floor. Call it a symbolic act. The Goldmans’ day is done, in every sense of the term.”

“Lieutenant, you have the soul of a poet!” laughed Lee. “What if there are people around who might see the whole thing?”

“Then they see the whole thing,” said Zack with a shrug. “We’ll be masked. We shoot them both, triple tap, first bullet dead center to put them down and two more into the head to complete the execution. We walk at a quick pace, but do not run, back to the Yukon and we drive at a normal speed off the pier, and then we rendezvous at Shangri-La.” Shangri-La was a code name for a vacation-rental RV on a scenic bluff overlooking the river in the nearby crossroads village of Knappa.

“Sounds simple enough,” said Len.

“Yah, but the simplest plan can go haywire because of the smallest missed detail or unexpected occurrence,” said Hatfield. “We need to get into the habit of going over these things two dozen times, extrapolating anything that might cause a hitch or go wrong. Now for hit number two, the one that will put D Company on the rebellion’s map. Those dead FBI agents we promised Brigade. That’s where you come in, Cat.”

“Christ Almighty!” he exclaimed. “An M-21!”

“Sniper version of the old M-14, semi-auto, with complete cleaning kit and accessories,” said Ekstrom proudly.

“We had a familiarization course on these at sniper school at Fort Benning, and I think I remember most of it, but I never thought I’d get to use one in action!” said Cat-Eyes Lockhart, balancing and presenting the rifle. “The older guys in the sniper school swore by them. They were all pretty much out of service by the time I went through. Where the hell did they get this beauty?”

“No idea, and I didn’t ask,” Ekstrom told him. “The Commandant just said our brigade’s best sharpshooter needed our best weapon.”

Cat was examining the barrel. “You know, they trained us for kills up to 800 yards at Benning with the M-24, but if I recollect correctly some of the old guys in ‘Nam claimed they killed at a thousand yards with this. In a good covered position, with enough ammo, I could hold off an infantry company. They’d have to bring up copters or artillery.”

“You won’t be standing anyone off, Cat,” said Hatfield. “Shoot and scoot, remember. Don’t risk yourself. If ever it looks like it might be too dangerous, I want you to fade. Remember General Order Number Eight.”

“Well, that’s one thing I wanted to talk to you about, sir,” said Lockhart. “When I was in Iraq, we all had cards or some kind of mark we used to put on or near our kills. Signing our work, so the hadjis would know who was on their tail, a psychological warfare thing. I was the Jack of Diamonds. I was wondering if it would be allowable for me to do the same here? When I can do so safely, of course? Maybe leave the card in my firing position for them to find?”

“Wouldn’t that be just broadcasting your identity to the enemy?” asked Hatfield.

“Look, they’re not dumb. I’ve already got a record for horrible evil racism and male chauvinism and God knows what else,” reasoned Lockhart.

“You realize that will make you one of the most hunted men in the Pacific Northwest?” demanded Hatfield.

“They’ve already hunted me out of everything,” said Lockhart bitterly. “This filthy society has hunted me out of my wife, my children, my future, my dignity, and my hope. Good honest bullets will make a nice change.”

“Then we’ll start you off with each one of us buying a Bicycle deck and giving you the Jack of Diamonds, only let’s all make sure we wear gloves when we handle the cards. No sense in deliberately leaving the enemy a fingerprint. Now, once again assuming the feebs will show at Rigoletto’s, what about firing positions? Cat, you know that big hill overlooking 39th Street, the heavy woods?”

On Valentine’s night, Zack Hatfield and Tony Campisi sat in the front of a battered old GMC Yukon, parked behind a loading dock just off 39th Street. The night was dark and cloudy, and there was a light drizzling rain, a perfect cover for the Volunteers. The cell phone on the dashboard rang. Zack answered it. “Hello?”

“Is this Luigi’s Pizza?” asked Charlie Washburn on the other end.

“No, I’m sorry, you have the wrong number,” said Zack in an exasperated voice, in case anyone was listening in. He folded the phone. “Okay, they’ve left the house. Charlie and Lee will be behind them. He’ll let us know if there’s any delay or change in their destination he detects, but we need to get into position.” Hatfield started the Yukon and turned on the lights, and a moment later he rolled onto the long, curved 39th Street Pier. He pulled up into the parking lot on the former cannery platform and found the one available remaining space, which he carefully backed into. The restaurant was crowded, no doubt with Valentining couples. They could hear the noise and clinking of dishes and voices even through the rain.

“Where the hell are the Goldmans going to park?” asked Tony, looking around. “They’re chock-a-block in there, it looks like.”

“We will kindly give up our space, of course,” said Hatfield with a chuckle. “Okay, we’ve got a few minutes. Check your weapon, once, and then leave it alone until it’s time to use it.” Tony took out a .38 snub and broke the cylinder, and saw the five .38 Special Black Talon rounds. He closed the cylinder. Zack did the same with his old police-issue Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum. They were both using revolvers so as not to have to go scrambling around looking for ejected cartridge casings.”

“How you holding up, Tony?” asked Hatfield, noticing a slight shake in Campisi’s hands.

Campisi understood what he was talking about.

“You’ll do fine,” said Zack with a smile. “Just remember, let me fire first. I’ll take the yenta, you take Jake. Call it psychology. I’ve killed women before, here and in Iraq, and so has Cat-Eyes, and it doesn’t bother us, but for their own self-image and emotional strength I think every Volunteer’s first kill needs to be a man, and a clear racial enemy, a Jew or a nigger or a fed of some kind. God knows all the horrible ambiguities of war will set in for us all, in time.” The phone rang again. Zack opened it. A silly child-like voice said, “Is your refrigerator running?”

“Dickhead,” said Zack, and closed the phone. “They’ve just turned onto 39th Street.” Zack started the Yukon’s engine but kept the lights off. “Gun in your left hand, keep your right to open the door.” Campisi took out the .38 and complied. They could see the lights of the Lincoln rolling slowly across the pier toward them.

“Oy, honey, look, that nice man is leaving us his parking space!” mocked Campisi in a girlish voice. The Lincoln slid into the vacated space, and the lights turned off. Zack hit his windshield wipers; the rain was light but steady. He stopped the Yukon at the edge of the bridge. “No one is coming. Couldn’t be more perfect. All right, let’s do it. Masks.”

When they were five feet behind the two expensively dressed people, some sound or sense made the Goldmans both turn. They stared at two men coming out of the darkness just beyond the pool of friendly light and laughter, masked so that only the black of their eyes could be seen, and leveling revolvers at them. The two gunmen said nothing, but Jacob Goldman gasped out in a strangled cry, “You!”

A timeless drama was once again about to be played out, an ancient debt was once more to be paid, and blood was about to be spilled once more in humanity’s longest war.


http://northwestfront.org/

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