WN is a Club for Women

Or:

Michael O’Meara vs. Greg Johnson

I was waiting at VNN Forum for another commenter to say something about Greg Johnson’s article, ‘Against White Nationalist Terrorism’, but nowadays there is not much discussion in Linder’s forum. It’s a shame because Johnson exercises moderation on Counter-Currents, so a real opposition to his pacifism will not be found in the comments section of his webzine.

The way to respond to Johnson is actually the simplest.

We live in the darkest hour for the white race since prehistory.

This means that almost one hundred percent of whites are degenerate, including those who should be the protectors of white women and children, Aryan men.

As David Lane said in his open letter to a dead race, if there are not 30,000 warriors hiding for some reason, the white race is lost. That means that our attitude must be Revolutionary, not reactionary. White nationalism and the Alt-Right are reactionary. It is a movement basically of women, not of men, in the sense of feminized western males, and therefore inefficient. If all WN forums we see today were actually run by women for women’s readership, I would not complain, but only males can actually defend them and their children.

That does not mean that, as men we are, we have to throw ourselves recklessly for the Revolution.

It just means that we should think like Revolutionaries.

If there were those 30,000 of whom Lane spoke, The Turner Diaries would have already replaced the Bible for these 30,000 men (similar to the 300 Spartans in real history).

But since the 30,000 are missing, the 3 warriors that want to take The Turner Diaries to the real world have to do some metapolitics to convince the other 29,997 to join the Revolution. And the best way to do that is to attack the Alt-Right as I’ve been doing in my latest articles, ‘Fuck white nationalism!’ and ‘On picketing WN meetings’.

Didn’t Norman Spear say that a Revolution needs only 3 percent of Aryan males convinced of the cause? So the job is to convince them by making fun of the Club for Women.

Johnson’s mistake is the mistake of all the degenerate bourgeois of the Alt-Right who believe that it is possible to save the race without endangering their lives.

But the trick is to tell the potential Revolutionaries that it is not yet time for fighting in the real world, as Revolutionaries are far from reaching 3 percent of Aryans.

The work of these cultured thugs that still can’t get out of the trenches is to channel our hatred for the ethnocidal System in unmasking these feminized bourgeois so that the young may join ranks with the Revolutionary cause, far from the forums for women.

It may seem unlikely what I am going to say, but if I had a way to contact these would-be Revolutionaries, I would say the same thing that William Pierce told Bob Mathews: that his plans for immediate action are premature.

We have to wait for the dollar to tank. These experts recognise that we live in an economic bubble that will soon ‘pop’, as can be heard from their lips at the end of the video.

Even after the American dollar tanks we have to wait a while until we reach 3% of Aryan males who are willing to fight.

Meanwhile, as I said, the task is to convince young people that white nationalism is a Club for Women, as it is impossible to seize power without a fight in a West that doesn’t even allow us to speak in public. Only the United States has the First Amendment, but even that country has an extralegal system of penalties to silence the dissident, as seen in Silicon Valley, ADL, SPLC and let’s not talk about what happened on my birthday in Charlottesville.

Yes, ‘Those who make peaceful revolution impossible will make violent revolution inevitable’ (John F. Kennedy) but today’s warriors must hold their fire because of what happened to Mathews. But the spirit of Mathews, not Johnson’s, is the one that will eventually save the race.

It is curious that the best author of original texts that Johnson has published, Michael O’Meara, finishes his book—the first book that Counter-Currents has published—with a call to arms.

Although O’Meara has not rushed like Mathews, in a discussion forum before retiring from white nationalism he said he would prepare for Revolutionary action.

That is the correct attitude.

It is time to troll the Club for Women called white nationalism in order to recruit the real men from its ranks.

Remember: the goal is three percent among the Aryan males of a nation. Some would say that one percent is enough, insofar the other two percent are blind followers of hardcore leaders.

The Fourteen Words

by Albus

‘We must secure the existence of our people and a future for White children’.

It seems to be uncertain that David Lane coined this phrase, and when. If he was the one, maybe he took the inspiration from Ben Klassen who had written in the year 1973 in his book Nature’s Eternal Religion, the founding work for the race religion Creativity:

It is the highest right, the foremost law in Nature to fight for our survival at all costs. We must secure the existence of the White Race on the face of this planet for all time.

Klassen, again, who advocated not less than strict segregation of the races, had read Mein Kampf in German, and wanted all good parts of the world to be populated only by white people. Hitler‘s words had been:

What we have to fight for is to secure the existence and propagation of our race and our people, the feeding of its children and to keep pure its blood…

My translation; in German: „Für was wir zu kämpfen haben, ist die Sicherung des Bestehens und der Vermehrung unserer Rasse und unseres Volkes, die Ernährung seiner Kinder und Reinhaltung seines Blutes (…)“; Adolf Hitler: Mein Kampf, Zwei Bände in einem Band, 172.–173. Aufl., Zentralverlag der NSDAP Frz. Neher Nachf., 1936, Erster Band, S. 234.

Sounds pretty similar to The Fourteen Words, doesn’t it? So who is the spiritual father?

Edwin’s arrows

 

On Guillaume Faye

Guillaume Faye outlines a compelling vision to the immigration problem in the last chapter of his book Archeo-Futurism. This is presented in the form of a utopian dream, and should be seen in part as a reaction against the doom and gloom despair of the French New Right. I might also add that fiction has the added utility of allowing a French writer to advocate more extreme solutions and avoid hate speech laws.

The basic narrative is straightforward enough, if short on details. Sometime in the mid-twenty first century, due to a series of environmental disasters and resource shortages, Europe is plunged into a series of internecine wars. America is gripped in an endless series of race riots and is unable to help. Into this chaos, Russia sends an army of liberators to restore order.

What follows afterwards is reminiscent of the more visceral moments of William Pierce’s Turner Diaries. Native Europeans regain a sense of their identity. A Nietzschean hypermorality is realized. The vast majority of non-whites are summarily liquidated over the course of a few months. The handful of non-white survivors are forcibly shipped en masse to the remote island of Madagascar.

A new European Imperium is created out of the ashes of the Old Europe. Picture an empire with explicit inequality enshrined in law, an agrarian paradise with a small bureaucratic elite lording over a continent of hobbits. Faye is obviously borrowing heavily from the American writer Francis Parker Yockey.

Curiously, Faye is dismissive of America, seeing it as a separate entity—culturally, spiritually, historically—from Europe. Indeed, America is seen as an occupying power, imposing its grotesque lifestyle and values on Europeans. It could even be said that a new European Renaissance requires the death of everything American, including America itself. I sense a certain amount of schadenfreude in Faye when he describes an American continent in a state of mass starvation with race riots in every major city.

But who can blame Faye in wanting to write off America as a lost cause? The white nationalists have a far more nebulous ephemeral definition of identity than their European ancestors (i.e., if a man gets a stamp certifying his whiteness then he is my brother is how your average WN reasons). Then there is the feminism, the patriotards, the rock music, the culture, the greed, the degeneracy, the conservatives… the problems never seem to end.

Faye is dead wrong, however, on the Jewish question. He regards the Jews as a part of the European social fabric and is a rabid supporter of Israel. Just like Jared Taylor, Faye believes that European Jewry will come around to his way of thinking. Indeed, Jews are a well integrated minority in Faye’s Imperium. This is simply unacceptable.

Just as problematic is Faye’s biological concept of a European. It’s clear in his writings that he makes no distinction between North and South, Mediterranean or Nordic, Germanic or Slav. Faye would have you believe that very limited racial mixing has taken place in Spain, Portugal, and Italy. Just close your eyes and pretend that all the Europeans living from Lisbon to Vladisvostok are pure White. Of course many white nationalists share this delusion. In Europe, the sand nigger from Malta, Norman Lowell and the Finn, Kai Murros, peddle similar nonsense.

What to make of Faye? I am rather ambivalent here. Not a good writer or a bad writer. His ideas need to be taken with a ton of salt.
 

On Tom Sunic

There is a distinct dualism in Sunic. An abyss between the radical and respectable that is not easily reconcilable.

There is Sunic as the erudite scholar, translator and academic. His two books Against Democracy and Equality and Homo Americanus are the most eloquent critiques of America from a European New Right perspective I have read. There is a sense of nobility, aristocracy, refinement, taste, beauty and greatness. I must admit that it was Sunic who first introduced me to the potency of National Socialist scholarship; and the importance of incorporating pre-Christian pre-Socratic pagan writings in European consciousness. Fundamentally, I see nothing wrong with him as a writer.

Then there is Sunic as the political imbecile. The man who promotes the path of “non-violence”, of kosher country club reactionary conservatism, of democratic demagoguery, of “taking back” the US, of endless qualifications, of the lowest common denominator, of outright craven cowardice: the American Freedom Party.
 

On Arthur Kemp

Kemp is the most outspoken public figure I noticed who advocates the desperate Orania-style solution (isolated Aryan outposts) in his book Nova Europa: European Survival Strategies.

Kemp’s solution is only viable if you agree with Alain de Benoist and much of the French New Right (Faye excluded) that it’s far too late to achieve any success through revolutionary party politics; that some sort of political accommodation with the hordes of non-whites now invading Europe like a swarm of locusts will have to be made.

I read the above mentioned book after being very impressed by March of the Titans. I came away bitterly disappointed. He’s actually one of the few men out there who has an accurate view of history yet he won’t fight.
 

On WN feminists

They accept every single triumph of the left on the woman question as a fait accompli. Covington is a prime example of this.
 

On Johnson et al

Johnson, Spencer, Sunic and other white nationalists retain traces of conservatism, a belief that a perfect argument exists that can convince Whites to suddenly “wake up”; that the correct presentation of the “facts”, on whatever issue, will make a difference to the wider culture at large; that only ignorance has prevented otherwise decent and level headed Whites from taking action thus far. Hence, the endless multiplication of essays, speeches and conferences. The post-modern radical suffers from a singular blindness: that action and words are the same thing.

The problem with Johnson and others of similar ilk is that they think winning can be done without a drop of blood being spilled. No one needs to dirty his hands by engaging in street politics. No one needs to get hurt. No one needs to die. All that is needed is a quiet infiltration of the existing institutions with men sympathetic to our views, and a bloodless counter-revolution will happen.

White survival can only be properly understood as a war, without any rules of conduct. We are not dealing with an opponent that understands the concept of fair play. There will be no smooth transition of power. Should it not be obvious by now that all pro-white groups active in America are harmless?
 

On Francis Parker Yockey

Yockey, like Julius Evola, held to a spiritual conception of race which he believed to be more important than the biological. Already in the 30s he observed white Americans behaving like blacks and Jews. He did not object to clever non-whites immigrating to America as long as they assimilated into white society.

Imperium is a clever eloquent mish-mash of Lamark, Spengler, Schmitt, Haushofer, National Socialism, and even trace elements of Catholic Scholasticism. Yockey wanted to “prove” that a “Germanic” European aristocratic element existed within America. He is not your garden variety white nationalist patriotard (hence his popularity), but the book is a failure.

But I agree with you: universalist religions like Christianity have no use for a purely biological conception of race. White Nationalists are deluded in this and Linder is correct that one must choose a side.
 

On Revilo Oliver

I take two important lessons from Oliver that most white nationalists would do well to heed:

1) A contempt for everything supernatural and conspiratorial. There is no “god” out there looking after the interests of Whites and ready to rescue them at the last moment. There is nothing written on the stars or in the book of life that says Whites must survive. Whites are as beholden to the laws of the universe as all the other animals. And the universe does not know “mercy” when confronted with degeneracy. (Some white nationalists envision a “Mad Max” scenario in which a system collapse presages a mass racial “awakening”. But this assumption is without hard evidence and a mass extinction is just as likely. That is, no political movement can guarantee victory.)

2) A disgust for the ordinary White American, the “ordinary Joe”. Whites are to be saved for sake of the handful who are wise, beautiful, noble, and strong. The white working class has no value apart from the few who are culture creators; they are to be treated as raw material by those who lead. To put it bluntly: most whites are not intellectually or physically impressive.

In my view, white nationalists should see Oliver as a source of inspiration. Will this happen? I highly doubt it.
 

On women

Reading this article reminds me of a passage written by William G. Simpson in his book, Towards the Rising Sun:

There is hardly one man in a thousand who will not put aside his ideals, his highest vision, everything which for him is God, in order to get the girl he loves or to be able to stay with the girl he has married. Moreover, there are all the ways which the wiles of woman have with a man. Nietzsche said, “Women always intrigue privately against the higher souls of their husbands,” and as a generalization his statement is true. And such must most women be.

For, again speaking generally, the instinct in man is to create, and the instinct in woman is to procreate. She is more physical than man, lives closer to the earth, and, naturally and justly since to her is committed the continuation of the race, once she is with child she is almost certain to be overwhelmed with a veritable tidal wave of sheer biological concern for security. And a reasonable degree of security both she and the child ought to have. And if you as would-be creator feel that you cannot do your work and provide that security, then you had better simply refrain from marrying.

Sadly, the numerous absurdities written by women and their male sycophants in the white nationalist movement to rationalize (encourage) weakness does not inspire much confidence.

A man’s focus is to create. A woman’s focus is to procreate. Nietzsche said, “Practically all problems a woman encounters can be solved by one solution: pregnancy.”

Of course we can imagine outliers or exceptions. Savitri Devi is known to have written: “I cannot love any man that chooses me over his ideals.” But Linder is correct in writing somewhere that such women are one in a hundred thousand…
 

On overmen

Nietzschean morality requires that superior men surrender all hope of personal gain for the sake of the cause: fame, money, wealth, respectability, hope for an afterlife, even a normal family life if need be. If they can die for the cause, living in penury if need be is mild by comparison. The German Idealists already pointed out that sincere authentic “virtue” requires a man to have no possibility for personal gain. Otherwise, what is the whole point of this struggle if whites merely end up as spiritual semites (inner Jews)?

Very few American Whites grasp this. Pierce and David Lane being the notable exceptions.

KD Rebel, 5

Editor’s note. With the exception of how Trebor’s pal, some time later according to the internal chronology of the novel, abducted his own Sabine woman I won’t reproduce the rest of the novel:
 

The country club golf course was surrounded by an eight foot high chain link fence. A gate providing access to a service road for maintenance vehicles and supplies was situated at the far end of the course from the club house. Opening the gate would be child’s play for Trebor. They would however have to leave the car parked outside the course and proceed on foot to Dory’s parents’ house in order to avoid detection by the groundskeepers, who would be watering and mowing fairways and greens all night long.

Wearing dark clothes and carrying their usual issue of weapons and tools, the efficient raiders arrived at the two story brick home which was their destination shortly before midnight. They could see no lights on in the house. Finding a pair of expensive cars in the garage, they surmised that the family was already asleep.

To their delight they discovered that a back door to the palatial home was unlocked. “Guess these rich folks feel pretty secure,” Eric whispered.

“Uhmmm,” was all Trebor replied.

Due to its isolation the house was too dark to explore without the aid of the small flashlights they carried. Reconnaissance of the first floor found it devoid of humans. After creeping silently up the stairs to the second floor, they found there were a half dozen doors, all of them closed. No way to know which door might lead to Dory’s bedroom, and it was too dark to explore rooms without using flashlights, which would likely awaken the occupants. This would have to be done the hard way.

Standing at one end of a hallway, they whispered. “Might as well start here at the first door,” said Trebor.

“Okay, I go in first,” Eric was eager.

“Okay.”

Slowly and silently Eric turned the doorknob of the first doorway and eased it open. It was pitch dark, and they couldn’t see a thing. Suddenly Trebor switched on his flashlight and illuminated what turned out to be some kind of studio or study. There was no one in the room but the raiders. Each heaved a sigh of frustration because the tension would have to be repeated.

A second door opened into a deserted guest bedroom. The third room was occupied, but unfortunately not by Dory. Trebor’s flashlight revealed a couple sleeping on a king-sized bed. The man, an overweight specimen perhaps fifty years old, awakened almost instantly, shielding his eyes from the light. He stammered, “What the hell, who are you?”

Eric flipped on the light switch and closed the door. Now both raiders stood revealed, holding 9mm handguns aimed at the bed. The woman woke up then, saw the KD raiders and screamed.

“Shut up,” Trebor warned in a quiet but menacing voice, aiming his handgun directly at the hysterical woman’s face. The screaming ended abruptly. “No telling who she woke up. You’d better look for your girl now,” Trebor advised.

As Eric hurried to find Dory’s bedroom, Trebor began to tie up her parents with duct tape around their ankles and wrists. Dory’s mother was a rather attractive woman despite showing signs of wear from a dissipated life. In a trembling voice she asked, “What do you want?”

“Just your daughter,” Trebor replied. He was disgusted to see the look of relief on the woman’s face. She had to know that horrible fates often awaited women who were abducted, but obviously she didn’t care so long as her own decadent carcass was safe.

“Why our daughter?” the overweight man asked.

“To save her,” was Trebor’s terse reply.

“Save her? Save her from what?”

“From dating and mating with non-Whites,” Trebor explained.

“There’s nothing wrong with that. We’re all equal. We can’t be racist!” The System line spouted by the slob made Trebor want to vomit.

The woman chimed in, “Hell, my oldest daughter is married to an African-American.” Although they didn’t know it, the two racial renegades had just sealed their own fates.

Meanwhile Eric raced down the hall, opening doors and flipping on lights. The first two rooms were empty. In the third he discovered that Dory had indeed been awakened by her mother’s scream. She had a phone in her hand and was just about to dial the police emergency number. He leaped across the room and struck the instrument from her hand.

The two sized each other up. Dressed in a short nightie that showed all of her shapely legs and the outlines of firm young breasts, Dory was a vision that aroused Eric despite the tension of the moment. A pert nose, pouty lips, and just a few freckles decorated a pretty face framed by flowing light brown hair. Despite the terror in her eyes, she was a fine figure of a woman.

What Dory saw was a stocky but well built, clean cut young man holding a gun that looked like a cannon to her.

“Please don’t hurt me,” she stammered.

Although his Aryan soul would have preferred to offer solace and comfort, Eric knew that a whole new mindset would have to be created in his captive, a mindset in which respect and compassion were earned by service to folk, mate and family, not by demands or pleas. So his response was brusque. “You have one minute to get dressed. I’d recommend jeans, a sweater and sneakers,” he advised.

When Dory hesitated, Eric began to count off the seconds aloud while pointing to his gun. At the count of ten Dory scrambled to obey, too terrified to consider the show she was putting on for the intruder. Eric didn’t miss a thing.

Moments later Eric and Dory arrived at the door to the bedroom where Trebor was talking to her parents.

“I’ll be downstairs in a minute,” said Trebor, indicating Eric should take his captive down there and wait. When they had left, Trebor turned to the pair on the bed.

“Untold thousands of generations of your ancestors struggled, fought and died so that beauty like your daughter’s would exist on Midgard today. Then you taught your daughters to defile their heritage by mating with Skraelings. This is justice.” With that he plunged his knife into their throats, first one, then the other, all in one swift motion.

Wiping his knife clean on a blanket, he muttered curses upon the very memory such vile creatures, then went to join Eric.

“Sorry, young lady, but we can’t take a chance on you screaming,” Trebor advised before placing a piece of tape across Dory’s mouth. Each of the raiders holding one of her arms, they escorted her across the dark golf course and placed her into the back seat of their car with Eric.

As Trebor headed the car for Kinsland, Eric removed the tape covering Dory’s mouth.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked in a quavering voice.

“Kinsland,” Eric told her.

Like Candy and Heather before her, Dory became even more terrified upon hearing such news. Certain that a fate worse than a quick death awaited her, she gasped, “Why, why me?”

“Because you are good genetic material and I need a mate.”

“You mean, like a wife?” Dory could not hide the astonishment in her voice. Eric merely nodded.

“What about him?” She indicated Trebor.

“Oh, Trebor just acquired two new mates very recently. He has no interest in you.”

“Two wives?”

“Sure. You have a problem with that?”

Anxious not to offend her captors, Dory quickly avowed that it was none of her business to judge. Now that it seemed she wasn’t about to be tortured or killed, she felt emboldened enough to ask questions.

____________________

KD Rebel is available from Daybreak Press: here.

KD Rebel, 4

Just short of Cohen’s driveway, Eric flagged him down. “Yeah, the Gods are with us,” he enthused. “It’s a huge ranch-style house with an attached 4-car garage. The freak started to leave about five minutes ago, but he had a fatal accident.” Eric tapped his knife and grinned, while Trebor chuckled. Eric continued, “The upstairs is dark but I can hear music at the windows. There is a little bit of light, apparently from a basement stairwell. I think they are in the basement. No dogs. There is a burglar alarm system. The back yard is surrounded by a privacy fence. Let’s do it!”

Moments later the two silent avatars of vengeance crept silently around the exterior of the immense garage. Trebor carried a canvas kit filled with tools and meters. Both were armed with 9mm handguns and razor-sharp knives.

Eric kept watch through the windows and around the perimeter of the yard while Trebor did his magic with the alarm system. Being a former electronics instructor at Red Rocks College, bypassing alarms was no problem for the elder raider, requiring only time and patience.

Twenty minutes later, the Aryan duo was inside the house, standing in the biggest kitchen Eric had ever seen other than in a commercial establishment. The music, if that’s what one could call the primitive noise, was not as loud as they had earlier estimated, but still sufficient to mask any slight sounds of their movements.

As Eric had surmised, the little available light emanated from a stairway to the basement. They inched down the stairs. At the bottom, a partially open door revealed opulent decadence beyond anything they had imagined. Except for one corner of the large room which contained an open communal shower and hot tubs, the entire floor was covered in snow-white, deep-plush carpet.

Pictures, too obscene to be called art, interspersed with floor-length mirrors, decorated the otherwise maroon-colored walls. The centerpiece was a bed that must have been custom-made for orgies. It was close to ten-feet-by-ten-feet-square, with video cameras mounted on posts at the corners. Hooks for restraints were strategically placed above and around, a shelf on the head-board held whips and sex toys, while the ceiling above was another mirror.

The KD raiders did not of course know about Sid’s vow to debauch the girls with the ultimate in submission. Nor did they know how desperately the girls were hooked on nose-candy. Evidently though, their addiction was sufficient that they had decided to cooperate, for they were both naked, one of them in restraints, the other in action. Turning the spectacle from raunchy to ridiculous was the sight of the depraved Sidney, himself naked, except for gold necklaces, bracelets and rings, with a pot belly hanging over withered legs. He was orchestrating the action with a whip of several short thongs.

The girls were too stoned to notice Trebor and Eric as they approached the scene. Sidney, whose back was to the door, was too engrossed. The first inkling the Porn Palace owner had of impending disaster was sudden and total. With a running thrust kick to the right kidney area, Trebor propelled the absurd looking degenerate onto the bed, where he landed across Candy’s back. For a moment there was astonished silence except for the music and an anguished moan from Sidney. Heather’s eyes were the first to focus on the KD raiders, and she let out a panicky scream, which she quickly choked off as Eric’s 9mm turned her way.

“Nobody makes a sound unless you’re asked a question, understand?” Eric’s voice left no doubt in anyone’s mind that obedience was advisable. Both girls nodded, but the moaning Sidney failed to acknowledge the order. Trebor reached over the bed and butt-stroked the creep in the nose with his gun. A howl of anguish was followed with assurances that the command was indeed understood.

Trebor grabbed a handful of the gold chain around Sid’s neck and yanked him from the bed, holding him erect at arm’s length.

“Okay, first things first,” he began. “You,” his gaze fell on Candy, “untie her,” he gestured toward Heather with his gun hand. “And you”—each time he spoke there was emphasis on the word you—“how do we turn off that damn racket you call music?” He yanked on the chains. Sniveling Sidney pointed to a control panel on the nearest wall. Heather was now released, and Trebor pointed at her with the gun, “You turn off that noise.”

Terrified despite her stoned condition, Heather scurried to obey. The resulting silence magnified the effect of Trebor’s menacing voice. “Now you two sit there,” he gestured to the nearest edge of the bed. Making no effort to cover their nudity, whether because of shock or the effects of cocaine, they quickly obeyed.

“Alright now, Mr. Cohen, where is the money you brought home?” Cohen started to deny that he carried money home, but was interrupted when Trebor drove a knee into his naked groin, nearly smashing his testicles. For long moments the disgusting creature lay on the floor holding his crotch and whimpering.

“My patience is running out Sidney,” Trebor warned.

“In there,” the oily degenerate gasped, pointing to a door at the far end of his playroom. Without a word, Eric strode to the door and disappeared from sight. A moment later, he returned with a briefcase which he flipped open on the bed. Inside were perhaps two or three thousand dollars in cash, along with some documents.

“Sidney, Sidney, Sidney,” Trebor intoned. “I am disappointed in you. I meant all the money you have brought home.”

“That is all,” Cohen gasped in a last effort to keep his ill-gotten wealth.

“Okay, if that’s how you want to play it,” the implacable raider warned. Several broken fingers, a lot of pain and two minutes induced total co-operation. Sidney revealed the location of a hidden wall safe in the same room from which Eric had retrieved the briefcase. And, of course, its combination. Under Trebor’s watchful eye and his gun, the three captives remained absolutely silent while Eric went to check the veracity of Sid’s confession. Minutes later, he returned, saying, “Yep, a real haul.”

Without further ado, Trebor holstered his gun, pulled his knife and in one swift move cut Cohen’s throat from ear to ear. Blood spurted from his severed jugular vein, splattering in gruesome abundance over the naked legs and torsos of the stunned girls. Reflexively, they jerked away from their seated positions, gagging at the sight of blood, which to their civilized eyes was a new experience.

Never even glancing at Sidney’s still-quivering body, the KD raiders proceeded methodically about their business, each doing what was necessary with a minimum of discussion. Eric stripped a pillow of its case, dumped the cash from the briefcase into it and left for the other room to fill it with the contents of the safe.

Trebor turned to the girls, “Go wash all that blood off.” He pointed to the communal shower. As is known to all who experience life-threatening situations, action eases fear. Paralyzed by what they had seen, Candy and Heather regained their co-ordination as they engaged in the familiar routine of showering.

Under the sound of running water, Candy whispered, “You think they’re gonna kill us?”

“No, why would he tell us to shower just to kill us?” was Heather’s logical response. “Maybe they intend to rape us?”

“Could be, that’s the least of our worries. It’s not like we are virgins or something.” “Sometimes rapists torture and kill women.”

“Will you shut up with the kill stuff, it scares me,” Heather scolded.

“Well, just what do you suggest we do?”

With the practicality of an experienced, worldly woman, Heather declared, “I suggest we fuck their brains out, or whatever they want, however they want, as long as they want, until we get a chance to escape.” They agreed on strategy. Finished showering, they attempted to be as sexy and alluring as two nude women can be, as they approached Trebor. However, if they thought their charms would control the situation, such hopes were rudely dashed as he brusquely ordered them to get dressed. The bewildered women exchanged confused glances as they struggled into their clothes. So far there appeared to be one man who could not be manipulated by sexual offers.

Eric had retuned with a pillowcase full of cash. “Think we should look the house over for valuables?”

Trebor looked at his watch, then mused out loud, “It will be daylight in an hour and a half. Figure a little over an hour to the turnoff, what the hell, give it a ten minute look-over. I’ll have to keep an eye on these two.” Eric bounded up the steps, while the girls heaved sighs of relief. It seemed they weren’t about to be killed anyhow.

So far neither man had spoken to the girls outside of brief commands, one of which was to keep silent. So both of them were afraid to initiate a conversation with their ruthless captor. They sat silently on the bed, hoping that the quiet man would say something to reveal their fate, and at the same time dreading what those words might make known. Seemingly endless minutes of fearful suspense dragged on in absolute silence. Finally Candy could not take it anymore.

“Can I ask something?” she ventured timorously.

“May I ask something,” Trebor corrected her grammar.

“May I?” Candy repeated, feeling like a chastised school girl.

“Okay, but first hand me one of those sheets off that bed.” As Candy and Heather removed an oversized sheet from the huge bed, Trebor reflected that sometimes a woman looked as good dressed as undressed. These two looked good any which way.

Candy handed him a sheet and he sat down on a chair opposite the bed. He pulled the knife from the sheath and began to cut the sheet into strips.

“What’s that for?” Candy asked.

“To tie you up with.”

“I guess that means you won’t let us go?”

“That’s right.”

“Are you going somewhere?”

“Yes.”

“You won’t kill us, will you?”

“No.” Trebor’s short replies weren’t very reassuring.

Candy tried a new approach. “Are you gonna make love to us?” “Can’t make love unless you’re in love,” was all Trebor replied.

“While Candy and Heather were digesting that in their minds, Eric returned. “Not much we can use, but he did have a .45 caliber handgun and four boxes of ammo in his bedroom.”

“Okay then,” Trebor said, “here’s what we do. I’ll drive, one girl sits in the front seat with me. The other sits in the back with you. With these strips we tie the girls together so neither one can jump out if we catch a red light.” Trebor addressed the girls, “You saw what happened to Sid. Can I assume that you won’t do anything stupid and get the same?” Shuddering, they both vowed co-operation.

Eric had Heather carry the pillowcase filled with money and held her slender wrist firmly in one hand as they exited the house. Trebor similarly kept a tight hold on the blonde. They re-arranged the gear from the back seat, tied the women together and proceeded toward home.

____________________

KD Rebel is now available from Daybreak Press: here.

KD Rebel, 3

Eric and Trebor blended in with the crowd, then ambled casually to their car. A little over two hours earlier, they had maneuvered the innocuous dark-colored 4-door sedan they were using into a spot at the back of the parking lot belonging to Sid’s Porno Palace. They had picked a place affording unrestricted sight of both the side and front entrances to the building.

As always when KD operated inside System territory, they drove a stolen car and kept a supply of purloined license plates in the trunk. With the advent of computerized identification capabilities in almost all police vehicles, no member of the resistance dared to submit even to routine stops by the authorities. They stole the kind of vehicles least likely to draw attention, made certain that headlights, tail lights, brake lights and signal lights were in working order, and obeyed all traffic laws.

On those rare occasions when a KD soldier was nonetheless signaled to pull over, whether by sirens, lights or bullhorns, they had no option but to fight. The standard procedure was to immediately stop, jump out with an assault rifle, and totally neutralize the enemy, then either change license plates or abandon the vehicle. There was no sense trying to outrun radios or helicopters.

In the back seat under a blanket were two backpacks containing emergency rations, water and first-aid kits, in case it did become necessary to abandon a vehicle. Also hidden under the blanket were two .308 caliber rifles and ballistic vests. The vest had custom-made pockets for extra ammunition clips, both for the rifles and for the 9mm handguns concealed on the KD raiders’ bodies.

Trebor unlocked the driver’s door while Eric used his own key to enter the passenger side. All members on a mission carried keys to all vehicles in case of separation or the death of the driver. As always, the dome light was disconnected to allow surreptitious entry and exit at night. After donning the vests beneath outer clothing, they relaxed, affecting that curious air of apparent unconcern so common to combat veterans, but their watchful eyes were ever alert for police, for anything unusual, and especially for the emergence of Sid Cohen from his gaudy night club. Eric, despite his youthful appearance, had participated in numerous raids over the last six years. His companion’s looks were equally deceiving. Dressed in grey slacks and a blue pullover sweater, he could easily pass for a doctor or college professor. In reality, he was one of the most feared and respected KD in all of Kinsland. Proficient in the most functional of several martial arts disciplines and absolutely ruthless with enemies, his exploits were legendary.

Eric was still curious about Trebor’s intentions regarding Candy and Heather. Passing time while they waited for Cohen, who undoubtedly was counting the night’s proceeds, he broached the subject in an oblique manner. “If we are going to stop those girls from performing again, how do we get their addresses?” he queried.

“Mr. Cohen will tell us.” The menace in Trebor’s voice had not diminished one iota when the subject was the porno king. A few years earlier, Eric might have shuddered when considering what awaited Sid Cohen in the near future, but now he was inured to the enemies’ fate.

“And after we get the girls’ addresses?” Eric persisted. “Then we make sure they never again display their charms to Skraelings.”

“Okay, damn it how?” Eric knew that Trebor was being obtuse on purpose, his way of teasing a younger comrade. The question was, would the girls be captured or executed?

Trebor pretended to ponder for interminable moments, then opined, “I reckon those two could make some fine babies for me.”

“Alright!” Eric enthused. “It’s about time you did your reproductive duty.” Eric had no interest in the pair for himself, as his heart was set on a high school girl that Trebor had agreed to help him capture. KD informants had picked her as a likely candidate. She was a pretty girl, unfortunately bewitched by universalist poison. Her teachers, parents, the media and every influence in her life had taught her that it was okay, even preferable for White girls to date and mate with Skraelings. She would have to be saved from her own folly before it was too late.

By quarter after two, 15 minutes past the closing time set by Colorado law for establishments serving alcoholic beverages, the parking lot was empty except for the KD raiders’ car and an ostentatious limousine parked directly outside the side entrance to the Palace. Soon the door opened and a hulking brute of a man of indiscernible racial origin emerged, followed by Sidney and, to the raiders’ surprise, by Candy and Heather. The huge man, whom Eric promptly dubbed “the freak”, was apparently a chauffeur and bodyguard. Deferentially he opened the rear doors for the other three, then took his place in the driver’s seat.

To the KD men, Sidney looked ridiculous, like a vain peacock, with tight pants, an open shirt and abundant gaudy jewelry adorning his pudgy body. From a distance the girls looked like teenagers, dressed in designer jeans and silky blouses.

The limousine pulled out onto Federal Boulevard and headed south, past sleazy bars, seedy motels and all the ugly effluvium of early 21st century American cities. The raiders followed a half block behind. It would be tricky keeping their quarry in sight without being spotted, but since their contacts in the Denver area had not been able to locate a private residence deeded to Sidney Cohen in the Denver County records office, this surveillance was necessary.

The limousine turned west on 6th Avenue, then south on Wadsworth. “Ah,” Trebor murmured, “Jefferson County, the Gods are with us.” Jefferson County sprawled many miles west of Denver, all the way into the mountains. Their route home would be relatively uncomplicated.

Eric figured that after Trebor’s comment, it would be a long night. Despite Trebor’s meticulous planning for guerrilla raids, he also seemed to believe in omens. If he said the Gods were with them, they probably were, or perhaps fortune just favored the bold.

Meanwhile, in the limo, all was not bliss. Even though this was payday for the girls, meaning they would get a week’s supply of cocaine and several hundred dollars in cash, their workday was not over. There was still the private performance that Sidney demanded on payday, once a week.

Sidney was not happy either, even though he looked forward to debauching the two White girls. The club had not been fully packed, and receipts were down. He blamed it on the two girls who were holding out for higher pay before they would agree to duplicate the most raunchy acts he required of them in private performances, including oral sex and copulation with simulated male sex organs. Well, tonight—he vowed to himself—they would pay for their obstinacy or no pretty white powder. Whipping naked women while they were tied up in fully exposed and helpless positions was his favorite sport.

The freak turned into the exclusive Green Gables subdivision. Now, late in April, immaculate lawns were just turning green as spring came late in the mile-high city. Palatial homes on huge lots stood up to one hundred yards apart, separated by trees, shrubs and privacy fences, making each residence resemble a secluded estate. The limo turned onto a long driveway, lined by bushes. The quartet, preoccupied with their own thoughts, never thought to look behind them where an unobtrusive sedan eased sedately past the driveway entrance. Nor did they know that the car stopped just yards from the driveway, out of sight behind shrubbery.

“This cheap car stands out like a sore thumb,” was Trebor’s first comment.

“Why don’t I get out and reconnoiter on foot. You can go somewhere and come back in fifteen minutes,” Eric suggested. There was agreement. Eric disappeared behind bushes as Trebor headed for more innocuous surroundings. It gave him time to reflect.

It was the knowledge that the beauty of the White Aryan woman might soon disappear from the earth forever that drove him to fight. Yet, despite all he had done to preserve their images, he had not enjoyed the favors of a woman for over fourteen years. He had no illusions about Candy and Heather. Because they were so remarkably beautiful they would be good breeding stock, but little else, at least until after a long period of re-education and discipline.

The last remaining young White women in System territory lived in hedonistic luxury undreamed of by the British monarch two centuries earlier. Drugs, cars, television roles, money and adulation were dumped in their laps while the inventions of White men, from washing machines to microwave ovens eliminated labor. Women do not voluntarily give up such pleasure and luxury no matter how earnestly White men might plead. That’s why abducting them was the only recourse. Undoubtedly this pair was even more spoiled and selfish than most. He would have to be harsh and ruthless with re-education and discipline, which wasn’t his nature with women. Yet he could not bear the thought of their genetic beauty not being passed on. He sighed deeply and headed back to meet Eric.

____________________

KD Rebel is now available from Daybreak Press: here.

KD Rebel, 2

 
Chapter 1: The First Day

Lights dimmed in the garish nightclub except for those illuminating the stage. A disembodied voice proclaimed, “And now the Palace is proud to present the featured act of the evening, the most erotic spectacle ever seen by mortal man!”

Two stunningly beautiful young women entered the stage, a statuesque blonde, identified by the announcer as Candy, and a willowy brunette named Heather. Their costumes were a welcome change from the tawdry lingerie worn by the dreary strippers, most of them Skraelings, who had humped and bumped their way through previous acts.

Tennis skirts extended just inches below the juncture of their elegant legs. Halter tops color co-coordinated to their skirts revealed taut, trim midriffs, while bobby sox and athletic shoes enhanced their fresh, youthful appearance. The impression was of two wholesome girls, just past their teens, prepared for a sports outing. Others might have found their charms reminiscent of high school cheerleaders, flashing glimpses of lithe limbs and blossoming female mysteries. The dichotomy of modesty and temptation was overwhelmingly provocative.

The audience erupted in boisterous, vulgar and deafening applause, dwarfing anything heard earlier. However, the reaction of two men seated near the back of the smoke-filled club was dutiful at best, just sufficient to avoid undue attention. They were not risking their lives inside System territory just to watch a striptease show. The younger of the two was stocky, clean shaven, dressed in jeans and a sport shirt. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties. In response to the thunderous applause he leaned closer to his companion and commented, “Seems like White women are still the most desired creatures on Midgard, huh, Trebor?”

Trebor, a whip-lean man fifteen years older, sporting a short, neatly trimmed beard, replied, “Yeah, what few of them there still are.”

As the raucous noise subsided, the sound of sensuous music could be heard. The two girls on stage faced each other within touching distance, and began to undulate in a provocative sexual dance, synchronized to the music. Their incomparable charms were blatant and undeniable. Equal in beauty, yet with complementary differences, they formed the ideal blend for visual erotica. The voluptuous Candy was the epitome of classic Nordic beauty. Her long shimmering tresses, the color of ripe, yellow wheat, swung freely around her shoulders. A trim waistline accentuated the matchless symmetry of her hips and breasts. Golden skin and flawless geometric curves of calves and inner thighs projected that effect which causes a man to literally ache with need and desire.

She was Aphrodite, goddess of love, sex and wanton lust, reincarnated in the flesh, reborn to command, perform and orchestrate primordial pagan fertility rites.

If Candy was the essence of Aphrodite, then Heather was a Vestal Virgin. Short brown hair framed a delicate face. A cute nose and expressive eyes proclaimed demure modesty. Her slender figure mirrored the nubile form of a nymph, just past puberty. Each exquisite inch declared the passion of first sexual awakening. She was girlish innocence, fearful yet eager, an irresistible invitation to be ravished and deflowered.

Looking deep in each other’s eyes, the curvaceous pair began to flirt. With hands resting intimately on each other’s hips, they performed in suggestive oscillation the primeval siren song of invitation and consummate carnal lust. To music they parodied the timeless amatory game of domination and submission, or seducer and quarry, of hunter and prey, that generates and underlies intense sexual arousal. Enhancing the fantasy with the allure of the illicit, the blonde goddess revealed herself as a sexual predator. Her hands roamed the velvet-smooth contours of Heather’s bare sides and back, then strayed elsewhere, as if by chance or accident, brushing lightly over breasts and flanks.

Impertinent fingers undermining inhibitions while retaining deniability.

The lissom Heather played her role flawlessly, appearing unsure whether to welcome, or resist, the tantalizing and pleasurable caresses once forbidden to another of her own sex. She trembled in eager but apprehensive anticipation of increasingly intimate intrusions on sacrosanct female anatomy. Like a delicate exotic bird, hypnotized by a swaying cobra, the lovely image of innocence submitted to the immodest familiarity and impudent violation of maidenly decorum.

The young man sitting with Trebor asked, “Do you think they really are lesbians?” “No, Eric, it’s highly doubtful,” Trebor declared.

“I agree,” said Eric, “but why are you so certain?”

Trebor pondered a moment, then expounded, “Men are programmed by nature to be voyeurs. A beautiful woman’s body, performing the primal choreography of sexual temptation and arousal is the ultimate aphrodisiac. But men are also programmed to be jealous of other males. So two women performing together doubles the erotic effect with no threat from another male. These girls are paid to please a male audience. In this age, it’s doubtful they had many inhibitions to start with, but if so, drugs probably overcame them. I’d bet my life savings that what we see is just an act.”

“That’s exactly my guess,” Eric agreed, and then kidded, “What life savings?” Trebor only grunted in reply. Eric’s question was reasonable, though. It was common knowledge that Trebor donated most of the plunder from his raids into System territory to needy Kinsland families. So it was doubtful he had any substantial savings. To date, unlike other KD veterans who had already captured a wife or more wives plural, Trebor had never taken time off from guerrilla warfare for the pleasure of female company. Instead, even as they spoke, Trebor’s eyes roamed the room, and the younger man followed his example.

Pretending interest in the show, they circumspectly surveyed the crowd, hoping to spot the owner, one Sidney (Sid) Cohen. KD sympathizers in the Denver area had fingered Sid Cohen as a likely target for retribution and plunder. In addition to the Porno Palace, Cohen owned a chain of pornographic bookstores and theatres. Reliable sources reported that Sid was also a major cocaine distributor who used that drug to procure and control his stable of striptease dancers. Because the stars of Sid’s stable were White women, he was a logical target for retribution. Past experience had shown that men like Cohen usually kept substantial sums of cash in their homes, hidden from tax collectors. Invariably the pervert could be “persuaded” to reveal the location of his money, and when necessary the combination to a safe.

Cohen didn’t appear to be in the club at the moment, so the avenging duo settled back to wait for closing time.

“What percent of the guys in here would you say are White?” Eric asked his comrade.

Trebor considered for a moment, then replied, “Maybe twenty percent.”

“That’s what I estimated,” the younger man agreed, adding, “This audience sure mirrors 21st century America: eighty percent Negro, Mexican, Oriental and mixtures.”

“Yeah, and still the media calls them minorities,” Trebor snorted.

While they had been talking, the action on stage increased in intensity. In the ancient, time-tested manner of all of her sex, Heather presented token resistance to Candy’s amorous intrusions, knowing instinctively that female favors too easily obtained are seldom deeply treasured.

These subtleties were beyond the comprehension of the boorish spectators, who nonetheless responded with wild approbation to the unfolding drama.

Candy was always the aggressor, initiating each new step in the unveiling of feminine privacies. The coquettish squirming of Heather’s supple body betrayed a growing urge to taste the honeyed fruits of verboten pleasures. The disrobing each of the other proceeded with artful elegance. Heather’s saucy breasts, although less prominent than Candy’s buxom mounds, were ideally proportioned to her slender figure, and equally stunning. Pert nipples projected in arousal from tempting aureolae, begging silently to be touched, savored and tasted.

The effect of such incredible beauty, enhanced by duality, now revealed in natural splendid glory, was so arousing of fundamental, primal lust that the crowd moaned collectively in awe and desire. Eric seized the moment of relative quiet to comment, “Damndest thing I ever saw.”

“And hopefully their last such performance here,” Trebor growled. “But you said it’s all an act,” Eric protested, assuming Trebor’s comment to mean the two girls’ life expectancy had just been shortened to hours at best.

“It is an act. I was speaking of those White girls exposing their goodies to Skraelings.”

The conversation still left Eric unsure of Trebor’s intentions. In the past, his comrade had been absolutely ruthless in exterminating White male race traitors, but he had been forgiving of wayward White women unless their treason was exceptionally blatant. Trebor often said that defense of the race was men’s responsibility. Wayward women should be captured, taken to Kinsland, re-educated and impregnated. Indeed, such was now standard procedure for KD.

On stage, the girls’ repertoire changed from subtle and suggestive seduction to shameless crudity, much to the delight of the vulgar spectators. Heather abandoned the last iota of modesty, the last pretense of inhibitions. In the throes of passion she sealed her own debauchment, inciting the blonde femme fatale to molest her writhing body, teasing with thrusting pelvis and coquettish wiggles of her shapely derriere.

Candy explored every inch of the captured brunette’s charms with hands now devoid of tenderness. It was closer to rape than love. Her hungry hands violated the once-demure girl’s charms with the most intrusive of indecent liberties. Soon the brunette’s exquisite body was writhing in apparent rapture, punctuated with moans of ecstasy, concluding with the involuntary convulsions of intense orgasm.

The show was over. The girls separated and waved to the crowd, responding to thunderous applause. A cascade of wadded-up cash was thrown at the stage. As the girls retrieved the money and their clothes, a short, frizzy-haired, middle-aged man bounded onto the stage.

“That’s Cohen,” Trebor said. The menace in his voice was palpable. With a hand-held microphone, Cohen exhorted additional applause for the girls. Finally he and the strippers exited the stage, into what appeared to be a dressing room. The lights brightened and bouncers began hurrying customers out of the club.

____________________

KD Rebel is now available from Daybreak Press: here.

KD Rebel, 1

 

When the laws of men decree the death of one’s race, then the laws of nature demand rebellion.

—The 10th Rejoinder

The life of a race is in the wombs of its women. A race whose males will not fight to keep its women will perish.

—The Precepts

From time immemorial, those out of power have raised armies with promises of plunder, revenge, and the seizing of women.

—David Lane

 

INTRODUCTION

The time is early in the 21st century, within the borders of the former United States. Generations of “dark is handsome” propaganda, unceasing promotion of inter-racial mating, open borders, anti-White programs, combined with unending demonization of the “evil White male”, has accomplished its intended effect. Less than one percent of earth’s population were White women of child-bearing age or younger, and not mated with non-Whites.

For many decades, America had denied the White race its own nations, schools, organizations, and everything necessary for racial survival, while at the same time race-mixing was promoted and enforced with fanatic fervor.

Passage of the “Harmony Laws”, giving large cash grants to all inter-racial couples involving a White woman were the last straw for many disenfranchised White males. Several thousand of them, mostly young, migrated to the Colorado Rocky Mountains.

At the time of the events chronicled here, these rebels had established tenuous control over portions of Western Colorado, Utah, Idaho, Montana and Wyoming. They call this Kinsland, and they use the initials KD as a short appellation for a guerrilla army of Kinsland Defenders.

Futilely they had pleaded with the dwindling number of young White women to join them, but with only a few exceptions their anguished pleas were scornfully rejected with the System’s mindless buzzwords, like racist, sexist and bigot. So, since the first two prerequisites for the survival of a race are territory and breeding stock, history repeated itself.

Over twelve hundred years earlier, some Aryan folk migrated to Scandinavia to escape the race-denying, universalist, alien tyrannical religion from Rome and Judea. Only thus could they keep their race alive. From Scandinavia they went “a-viking”, raiding occupied Europe for mates and for the necessities of life. Kinslanders of the 21st century followed the example of heroic ancestors.

Most Kinslanders are Wotanists (Odinists), whose speech reflect the indigenous religion of the White race. With words like Midgard (earth), Valhalla (hall of heroes), Norns (goddesses of fate), Sons of Muspell (the racial-religious tribe that rules the world and sentenced the White race to death), and Skraelings (non-Whites).

This account relates a period in the life of some Kinsland folk.

____________________

KD Rebel is now available from Daybreak Press: here.

Two novels

Yesterday I watched a popular video with Ben Shapiro sitting beside a trans-man who claims he’s a woman. Samantha Schacher, host of Pop Trigger, said that we should expand our inclusiveness and compassion to these machos that pose as women.

This morning I had to pick up a bill from a hospital. Since the parking lot is expensive I parked the car a few blocks away from the hospital and the walking gave me the opportunity for a little soliloquy about the video in which, by the way, the muscular tranny threatened skinny Shapiro with violence as the latter said that transgenderism is a mental disorder.

But what made me think was Samantha’s impassioned speech that we should start mainstreaming transgenderism.

This is the conclusion of my peripatetic self-conversation: Women are, biologically, sexual objects. Just look at the fairest specimens of Homo sapiens and it’s all-too clear that Nature wants that we impregnate them all. Their brain is hard-wired not only to have lots of babies, but to nurture and raise them with empathy.

Once we tell women that they are not objects but ‘souls’ in the Christian and Neo-Christian sense of the term, free-will entities that just happen to inhabit a woman’s body, little women will forfeit Mother Nature by not having babies.

The psychological toll of forfeiting motherhood is apocalyptic. Feminism becomes a weapon of mass destruction not only for the fair race, but for the fair sex as well. For the liberated woman, her hard-wired sense of compassion starts to be transferred onto apparently unprotected humans that are not her own babies. That’s how the Negro and the Homo and the Tranny became like the new babies for the childless woman or even those who, like Samantha, only have one child.

I call the process pathological transference of compassion and presently it is affecting almost all western women, including those feminised males and manly females in white nationalism that are scared of the humorous ‘white sharia’ meme.

The cure for the disease is simple. Forget the white sharia meme for the moment. Use a Western meme instead. Just wait until the convergence of catastrophes makes the holy racial wars possible and the founders of a New Rome will abduct and rape the fairest Sabines as described in David Lane’s novel KD Rebel. (By the way, wouldn’t it be nice if I start publishing Lane’s novel in this site?)

And believe it or not: the pretty Sabines will be the lucky ones. Those who are not fair, e.g. fat women well after their teens and early twenties like Heather Heyer will face justice in the Day of the Rope. To quote Pierce’s novel, ‘There are many thousands of hanging female corpses like that in this city tonight, all wearing identical placards around their necks. They are the White women who were married to or living with Blacks, with Jews, or with other non-White males’.

And thus the feminist problem is solved.

The empire of the yin

The following is the introduction to the sixth part of the forthcoming 2017 edition of The Fair Race’s Darkest Hour.

______ ______

 

Part VI:

Sparta vs. feminized western males

FROM THE EDITOR’S DESK:

The empire of the yin

White nationalists are waking up. But they are cowards: they are not organizing to do anything in a concerted effort. They are still thinking like civilians, not as freedom fighters. As the creator of our fourteen words put it in the following article, “Unless we have an unseen army of total barbarians devoid of pity, of compassion, of compunctions, of restraining moralisms, we are doomed.”

In this section I have chosen the example of virile Sparta, another long text by Evropa Soberana, to shame nationalists a bit with the antithetical example of their pussy ways. Sparta is located at the farthest polarity of Yang that the white race has reached.

Like the rest of whites, the feminized nationalists I have interacted with are still living in the Empire of the yin. Whites have become so emasculated that they are no longer fighting for sex, preferring masturbation or porn instead. The feminization of western males comes hand with hand with feminism: the sinful masculinization of western women. Many white nationalists do not hate feminism, which should be hated with more vehemence than their hatred of the Jews.

After the essay on Sparta I excerpt texts from two disparate sources in still another long article. The first source are excerpts from John Sparks’ Battle of the Sexes in the Animal World (1999). Sparks, who uses very elegant language, studied animal behavior at the Zoological Society of London. After the fundamentals to understand the dialectics of animal yin-Yang I quote from a YouTube blogger, Turd Flinging Monkey whom I refer simply as “the blogger.” He is one of the most radical voices of the MGTOW movement (Men going their own way). The blogger uses profanities and I imitate his style in that section. Underlined words mean keywords for the scientific case against feminism, like dimorphism, gynocentrism, hypergamy, etc.

But first I must reproduce the letter of David Lane and the book on Sparta that I translated from Spanish.