Being and the 14 words


The blindness discussed in my previous posts, and Greg Johnson’s second thoughts on Harold Covington, have moved me to relocate this entry originally posted elsewhere.

An old comment of Michael O’Meara:

This [Johnson’s book-review of Covington’s Quartet] is an extraordinary article on an extraordinary subject.

I am constantly amazed by the fact that the Quartet has been virtually ignored in our community. Part of this, I imagine, is due to the fact that the present generation of racialists, like their unconscious cohorts, no longer reads. Anything that’s more than two or three thousand words long and lacks illustrations is practically inaccessible to them.

A second reason I imagine the Quartet has been ignored is probably due to Covington himself, who is apparently an uncompromising individual and certainly one who has acquired a great many enemies. I don’t personally know Covington, so I have no way of evaluating the various charges made against him.

In any case, even if the nasty things said about him by his enemies are true, it still distracts not in the least from the quality of his works, which are virtually unparalleled in our community. This gets me to the third reason I think the Quartet is ignored. Both white nationalism and race realism are largely cyber phenomena. If you take Covington seriously, however, you would have to tear yourself away from the computer monitor and act in the real world—with all its attendant inconveniences. The thought of political activity, though, is apparently too much for most of us. We too, even if we have remained unmoved by the system’s racial fictions, seem to behave in ways not unlike the rest of the sheep. Will we also go quietly to the slaughter?

I think it’s significant that the spontaneous uprising depicted in the Quartet at Coeur d’Alene, which provoked the war leading to the eventual formation of the Northwest American Republic, was something of a mystery. This rings true to me.

We may no longer be the men who defied the might of the British Empire in 1776 or 1916, but there are other forces that might save us from ourselves.

The greatest of the “conservative” thinkers, Joseph de Maistre, pointed out long ago that the French Revolution led the revolutionaries rather than was led by them. For he believed that certain Providential forces rule our lives. These forces he saw in Christian terms, but others, like Heidegger, for instance, saw them in terms of Being, over which humans have no control. In either case, the force of Providence or Being or Destiny has a power that has often made itself felt in our history [italics added by César Tort]. For this reason, I have little doubt that Europeans will eventually throw off the Judeo-liberal system programming their destruction. I’m less confident about we Americans, given the greater weakness of our collective identity and destiny. But nevertheless even we might be saved from ourselves by this force—as long as we do what is still in our power to do.

Why I am not a neonazi

This is my "Final report" about my compilation
of articles in The Fair race's Darkest Hour:

Virtually all white males have been brainwashed about what really happened in the Second World War. To boot, they have been feminized. Characterologically they are basically the antipodes of the Spartans, the Vikings or Himmler’s SS men. Even white nationalists are reluctant to repudiate the conquests of “feminism,” and by this I don’t only have in mind allowing women to vote (keep in mind the last paragraphs of Yockey’s essay), but allowing their “right” to inherit wealth or property (also keep in mind what we said about Austen’s novels and the causes of Greco-Roman decline in Pierce’s long text).

The humiliating empowerment of white women throughout the West is directly proportionate to the cretinization of white males. Now that I reproduced my translations about the prime example of polar Yang in Aryan history, Sparta, I would like to qualify that what we need is Aristotle’s proverbial golden mean. Sparta produced the best soldiers in world history but perished because it ignored what we now know: that enslaving non-whites is fatal in the long run. What we need is the Hegelian synthesis between yang Sparta and yin Athens: a sort of modern Rome. That is exactly what National Socialism was all about. Inspired in Rome, and let us remember the virile Roman salute, the Third Reich incorporated and eliminated—Hegel’s aufheben—the contradictions in both extremes: it was highly cultured as well as a tough military state.

I consider myself a spiritual inheritor of the Nationalist Socialist legacy. But I reject neonazism. Why?

Because neonazis are basically white nationalists plus Nazi paraphernalia. We have already seen that, unlike the NS men, these groups love degenerate music, Judaized Hollywood and non-reproductive sex. Many of these décadents are also anti-Nordicists who would dismiss the command cited in the very first lesson of Stellrecht’s Faith and Action already quoted in previous pages: “But if your blood has traits that will make your children unhappy and burdens to the state, then you have the heroic duty to be the last.”

The surreal thing is that even the pure Aryans hate Nordicism. Conversely what I love about Himmler is that, precisely because he was not handsome, he admired the hyper-Nordics of a Norwegian town he visited and harbored the thought that its people could become a paradigm for the Reich. Remember Stubb’s words about white nationalists:

Not only does it [Nordicism in general and National Socialism in particular] retrigger all the anti-racist conditioning they thought they’d gotten rid of, but it makes them ask “where does it end?” “At what point can we finally stop paying attention to each others genetic (and non-genetic) flaws?”

The answer is that it doesn’t end: that all life is struggle and hierarchy and that the Aryan race will never be perfected nor entirely freed from threats. But that’s not what they want to hear. Pierce made eugenics the core of his religious outlook as a means of protecting the eugenically-selecting society. But I see little concern for the subject among modern white nationalists. Can you imagine a racial state with a comprehensive eugenic policy which didn’t consider the reversal of mongrelization to be a major objective? [Stellrecht’s “heroic” advice] That it wouldn’t make its population look more like Swedes and less like Sicilians, as time goes on? It’s hard to do so, which is why I believe “anti-Nordicism” in white nationalism has, among other things, shut down much of the discussion on the subject.

On September 2013, in Harold Covington’s Northwest Front blogsite, several commenters subscribed politically correctness by bashing Covington in order not to offend the feelings of contemporary Greeks. A saner Northwest Front commenter said, “Those among us who don’t have the ability to look at a picture of half-Turks and tell they’re not White weren’t ever going to amount to anything on behalf of the White race.” The other side, the “revolutionary” neonazis, ignored that DNA tests have even revealed nigger genes among quite a few of the Portuguese; and we have already seen El Greco’s painting of crossbreed Spaniards as well as Pierce’s statement that “a 5 percent decline in average IQ would cause our civilization to collapse,” which applies to Sicily and Greece even before the Turkish invasion.

This cowardly lack of recognition of the very Letter A in Indo-European studies is not the only thing that annoys me about the embryonic movement known as white nationalism. Over the internet boards I find it bothersome when typical neonazis demand that I dismiss the Holocaust stories as hoax; and that if I fail to do it my morals are beyond the pale.

As someone who has spent many years studying controversial subjects (the pseudoscience in both parapsychology and biological psychiatry), I know perfectly that you must spend at least a decade of your life trying to digest the scholarly literature of both sides of an academic debate. I am in my middle fifties now and don’t have the time nor the motivation to research the Holocaust claims and counter-claims. For me it is enough to point out that two former Holocaust revisionists, Mark Weber, the director of the Institute of Historical Review, and David Irving, our best historian of the Third Reich, have changed their minds over the years, both accepting now that a few millions of Jews probably died during the war. Irving’s forthcoming book on Herr Himmler quotes historical records proving that, even though the six-million figure is an invention, a couple of millions of Jews probably died as a result of harsh Nazi treatments.


David Irving in 2012

But I would like to go beyond Irving’s scruples. Rephrasing a passage of Peter Helmkamp in Controlled Burn, an Irish commenter stated in my blog: “The truth is that the glad stirrings of genocide lurk in the heart of every man, yet only the Nazis had the courage to acknowledge the truth.” Another commenter, a Swede, went even further:

What is certain is that the Holocaust would not have produced any debilitating psychological effect on non-Christian whites. (By Christianity I mean “Christian morality.” Most atheists in the West are still Christian, even if they don’t believe in God or Jesus.) Being emotionally affected by the Holocaust presupposes that you think:

1) Victims and losers have intrinsically more moral value than conquerors and winners
2) Killing is the most horrendous thing a human can do
3) Killing children and women is even more horrendous
4) Every human life has the same value

None of these statements ring true to a man who rejected Christian morality. In fact, even if the Holocaust happened, I would not pity the victims or sympathize with them. If you told the Vikings that they needed to accept Jews on their lands or give them gold coins because six million of them were exterminated in an obscure war, they would have laughed at you.

It must be comical for the Nietzscheans of the North that, unlike the monocausalism ubiquitously present in the neonazi and white nationalist movement, Himmler acknowledged other factors: “Our people’s thinking was misled by the forces of the Church, Liberalism, Bolshevism, and Jewry.” And let us never forget Hitler’s own words in one of his table talks: “The heaviest blow that ever struck humanity was the coming of Christianity.” If neonazis were true Nazis and had transvalued Christian/Neo-Christian values they would be trying to demonstrate that Himmler’s Posen Speech in 1943 is genuine, not a hoax as they claim, and even find genocidal inspiration from the speech.

Of course: they will never do it because all of them are Neo-Christian pseudo-Nazis. Speaking with a little humor I would say that neonazis, white nationalists, and American southern nationalists subscribe what we may call the Harry Potter approach to the Jewish problem. Throughout those novels for children, the female author presents us a Harry who never uses “Avara Kadavra,” the killing spell against the bad guys; Harry only uses the disarming charm, “Expelliarmus.” But only in novels and movies for kids the good guys, who never are depicted as cold assassins, can win. In real life you have to make a transition to the dark side, to Himmler’s ways, to become a soldier.

I have read The Turner Diaries twice. When I read it for the first time, or rather listened the audio version with Pierce’s own voice, I was still struggling with the last remnants my Neo-Christian programming. I didn’t like the Breivik-like cruelties such as dispatching an entire group of pro-white warriors for not taking care of the Jewish problem in Toronto. And in the novel’s Day of the Rope I was troubled by the description that many innocent young whites also die. Then I read most of Covington’s Quintet and sensed a moral difference. Covington’s characters are not so bloodthirsty, not so genocidal exterminators. I could imagine myself doing the things in Covington’s novels but in the past some passages of the Diaries made me wonder…

But now that I have definitively left behind Christian axiology I can see that Pierce was ultimately right. As NS soldiers in the coming racial wars, altogether imbued in the martial qualities of gravitas and severitas, we must behave. The huge difference between the Quintet and the Diaries is that in Pierce’s world not only an ethno-state is born: in the final pages it is described that only the white race shall inherit the Earth. In Covington’s world that is dismissed because it would mean genocide on a scale not even performed by the Bolshevik Jews. But as Pierce said in Who We Are, already cited way above:

The hard lesson taught by the different results of the European colonization of North America, Latin America, Australia, New Zealand, India, and southern Africa is that the only type of colonization with lasting significance is racial colonization; and that racial colonization can succeed only when Whites are willing and able to clear the land of non-White inhabitants and keep it clear.

This item of both Who We Are and the Diaries is so strong meat that I will elaborate on it only in Day of Wrath, and in the autobiographical books in Spanish that I’ll write after the completion of the present one.

Feminist quotas in the Northwest Front

Rockwell was assassinated in 1967; Pierce died of natural death, more than thirty years later. None of them were properly white nationalists. (“White nationalism” is a term introduced in the middle 1990s for the internet.) Their worldview was much closer to the thoroughgoing Yang reaction in National Socialism against the feminizing forces of degeneracy.

Presently in the American racialist scene Harold Covington, called “The Kid” in the times of Rockwell and Pierce, is considered the most radical (“Yang”) element as ideologically he is a revolutionary, not a mere reactionary. But Covington does not believe that millions of Jews died as a result of harsh treatment by the National Socialist Germans. Unlike us, he is stuck in Neo-Christian values. (I would dare to say that the stirrings of genocide should lurk in the heart of every transvalued white, which means accepting as grim necessity what seventy years ago happened to the subversive tribe.) In Covington’s quintet the purpose is not to reconquer the whole United States for the race, but to form an ethnostate within a few Northwestern states by means of secession; leaving the rest of the US territory to the blacks, mestizos, Jews, and white traitors. In fact, in Covington’s plan the nuclear weapons of mass destruction are left in the power of the federal government of the United States!

In thousands of pages the plots of Covington’s quintet—The Brigade, A Distant Thunder, A Mighty Fortress, The Hill of the Ravens and Freedom’s Sons—are situated in a balkanized, anti-white and dying America until freedom fighters create an independent White Republic in a corner of the territory. In 2010 I purchased copies of the first four novels of the saga and devoured them with uttermost interest (The Brigade particularly contains good advice as to how to conduct a racial war in the 21st century). While I felt uncomfortable that the last pages of A Mighty Fortress featured a female director of movies in the newly created Republic, I let it pass because National Socialist Germany also allowed the career of filmmaker Leni Riefenstahl. But Riefenstahl was the exception, not the rule. In NS Germany women were generally not allowed to carry out official functions: they were excluded from positions of responsibility.

In Covington’s saga the ethnostate is clearly depicted as a self-styled National Socialist state, even during the revolutionary period before the creation of the Republic (“‘You a Nazi, sir?’ ‘I am’”—page 278 of The Hill of the Ravens; “…a lot of us are outright Nazis”—page 74 of The Brigade). And I cannot agree more with what Covington said on page 53 of A Distant Thunder, “When a race of people loses its women, it loses everything.” (This, incidentally, is what moved me to reproduce a Maxfield Parrish illustration of an ethereal nymph on the cover of this book.) On pages 187-189 of the Ravens Covington even enumerates his “Ten Principles of National Socialism,” some of them cited below:

Be Honest. A National Socialist faces a fact whether he likes it or not. Dishonesty is the mark of the enemy, who has falsified man’s conception of life, past and present. National Socialism represents the truth of life in its purest form.

Be Faithful to your Race. No one must be allowed to spoil what nature created in eons of racial evolution. Your highest purpose in life must be to carry on that evolution toward a better, stronger more beautiful mankind. The purity of the highest race is basic requirement for ever-higher evolution.

Fight for your Race. Fight for the holy ideals of National Socialism, which is the heart of our great race.

Nothing is Impossible. Where there is a will, there is a way. Everything falls before the man of indomitable will. It is necessary for us to suffer many cruel sacrifices because we must harden ourselves for the most decisive struggle in history.

Reject Decadence. Everything must be judged in relation to the survival and improvement of your race. Anything and anyone who hinders either the existence of our race or its perfection must be rooted out and destroyed.

But Covington violated this last principle by playing rock music in some of his radio podcasts. Furthermore, in his last novel, the only one that I did not purchase (Covington kindly sent me a PDF draft), he makes huge concessions to runaway feminism. Page 16 of the draft he sent me states: “A number of Nationalist soldiers wearing NDF tiger-stripes—mostly female…” On pages 18-19 a feat is described about one of these female tigresses, and on page 38 it is stated that “The new government department consisted of 342 people plus himself, about evenly split between male and female.” The most offensive line in Freedom’s Sons is found on page 50 which contains a dialogue: “A lot of Christians and general Neanderthal male chauvinist type want to go back to an all-male army.”

I confess that as a potential revolutionary I used to listen Covington’s Radio Free Northwest shows, and loved his urgent plea to invite all conscious whites to move to the Northwest corner in preparation for the civil war. However, when Covington included the voices of a couple of women in his podcasts I completely lost interest…

More than a year passed and I learnt that one of these women betrayed Covington. She flipped sides to the point of becoming anti-white, and in her website she even disclosed what happens in some “Secret Nazi Meetings” attended by the supporters of Covington: male supporters who had indeed taken the trouble to move to the Northwest in preparation of Covington’s civil war.

The Old Man had violated his first principle, “Be Honest,” because a National Socialist honestly faces the biological fact that women are simply not interchangeable with men and that, in genuine NS, positions of responsibility belong to the Boys Only Club. Covington’s big tent may have won some female adepts for his cause, but in me he lost a real soldier.

* * *

White nationalism is only a stone in the middle of the rapid-flowing waters of a dangerous river; an over-the-water large stone that can help us in our endeavor to jump to the other side. I myself used that flat stone in my crossing from Christianity and Liberalism to National Socialism. In fact, I could even write down such a spiritual odyssey in a text that might be titled “From St Francis to Himmler.”

But even accepting my metaphor that the stone is not meant to be a permanent residence let me say that, on a very generous estimate, the contents of this book are incomplete. Its intellectual content must be balanced with another book about what happened before, during and after the Second World War: a book that will detonate an emotional bomb in the reader’s mind: Hellstorm: The Death of Nazi Germany, 1944–1947 by Thomas Goodrich (reviewed way above).

Only after assimilating Hellstorm, together with the present book, will the reader be ready to take the final leap across the river.

Harry Potter’s niglets

Operation Order Number Five:

“Anyone, man, woman or child
with skin the color of shit
is to be shot on sight.
They had their chance to
leave over the past five years.”

In Harold Covington’s fantasy novels, after the ethnostate was created “the theaters were showing virtually nothing made after 1965 or so,” and a technique was developed to fix a few films made from the late 1960s to the first decades of the 21st century. The technique allowed the film industry to replace black faces with white faces in those famous movies for kids that merited inclusion in the reformed theaters.

I stole the subtitles under the following images from Robert Berry, who analyzes the black student body of Hogwarts Academy in the very first of the Potter films:


This is Lee Jordan. With a good two minutes of screen-time in this movie, he’s the most prominent black character in the film. While some students focus on potions, spells, or the dark arts, Lee is apparently attending Hogwarts on a sports scholarship.


Next we have an unnamed boy whose function at the school is almost limited to giving funny looks when someone says something startling. As the closed caption excerpt shows, he at least gets a line of dialogue, which makes him the only other black character in the movie that does.


This mysterious Gryffindor Quidditch player has a few cool action scenes, and scores some points for her team, but doesn’t contribute much else after she’s knocked unconscious from her broom. Though not named in the film, the books identify her as Angelina Jordan.


The rest of the roles are merely extras. Here we have the same unnamed boy mentioned above, with two girls among the first year inductees.


And at the Hufflepuff table, if you blink, you’ll miss this
black chap talking with his buddies, near the movie’s end.


Here there are three more during a slightly chaotic
scene in the banquet hall.


And here’s a girl just waiting in the hallway,
staring at Harry mysteriously as they walk by.


The gent on the right looks like
Gary Coleman’s pal “Dudley” from Strokes!


Here’s the only appearance from this lighter skinned black
student during the “Sorting Hat” sequence at the film’s start.


And when it appeared that all the black students were a part of the Gryffindor group, a quick eye can catch two Slytherin students during the big Quidditch match.


And here’s another, but she seems to be the least enthusiastic of the bunch. Kind of hard to be too excited, I imagine, when the leader of the Aryan Nation, Draco Malfoy (the blond at the center: the bad kid of the film), is the most dominant student in the class.


Two girls that you’ll never see again in the film.


A boy who appears for this split second during the mail delivery
scene as a member of Gryffindor, only to never show up again, either.


There are a few black adults in the faculty as well. Here’s a gender neutral wizard to the right of Dumbledore in a rare shot in which candles aren’t hovering in front of her/his face.


And seated next to Professor Snape are two other black
faculty members. We never see them again, either.

The above pics come, as already said, from the first Potter film. But in that very film outside Hogwarts I remember an adult black face in the Leaky Cauldron pub, and another face with skin the color of shit in Diagon Alley.

When the producers of the series changed directors after the second Potter film, the inclusion of niglets and black adult wizards became even more apparent. The sixth film, when the characters reach full-blown adolescence, was the most offensive: a beautiful teen English rose, Ginny Weasley, one of the main characters of the series, is engaged with a black student and even kisses him passionately on the mouth.

But the perpetrator here was none other than the author herself, J. K. Rowling. Indeed, compared to Rowling’s book, in the movie comparatively little of Ginny’s relationship with the young negro is depicted.

Chechar’s ten must-reads

1. Hellstorm (excerpts here)

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

2. Who We Are (excerpts here)

3. March of the Titans (excerpts here)

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

4. A People that Shall Dwell Alone

5. Separation and its Discontents

6. The Culture of Critique (prologue here)

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

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

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

7. The Turner Diaries (excerpts here)

8. The Brigade (excerpts here)

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

9. Toward the White Republic (excerpts here)

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

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

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

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

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

Tom Sunic on Covington’s novels

One must mention the name of Harold A. Covington, a postmodern novelist whose works represent a good Bildungsroman for any White nationalist. Over several thousand pages, Covington uses the classic approach in the description of postmodern heroes who always try to surpass themselves—in the face of cosmic vagaries.

However, the plots of his best-known war novels are not situated in ancient Greece or Rome, but in a balkanized and dying America. Covington is also an author of several historical novels whose plots revolve around 15th- and 16th-century Europe. His war novels, therefore, may be the reason why his message may be closer and more comprehensible to a modern reader than Homer and the ancient classics.

Let us leave aside the political plausibility or post-historical veracity of Covington’s novels dealing with the war of White independence at the beginning of the 21st century in the Pacific Northwest. What needs to be singled out in Covington’s prose is his language, his ability to construct both real and surreal plots, and above all his skill to administer a good dose of empathy with his diverse characters.

And indeed there is a whole gallery of diverse characters in his novels—from disfranchised poor Whites from the South who were once victims of positive discrimination and who have now landed in the embattled Northwest, to ritzy and sold-out WASP politicians in DC, vying to be more Jewish than the Jews themselves. Each of his numerous characters is carefully situated in his own timeframe, each carrying his own clusters of conflicting memories, often haunting him for the rest of his life.

Covington, as much as he dissects the mindset of his warring heroes does not just examine their self-proclaimed racial awareness, but focuses instead on their historical consciousness. The reader won’t find characters blaring “White power!” or sporting swastikas, or endlessly debating about the ominous Jews. The frequent monologues by his characters bear witness that their individual memories are seldom sweet. Even in a pristine environment of the Northwest Republic, residents are immersed in their own Shakespearean dilemmas of being vs. not being.

In most cases the racial awareness of Covington’s characters is coupled with their reminiscences of the haunting times of bygone eras. Thus, in his latest novel Freedom’s Sons depicting the nascent Northwest Republic, we come across a man who serves as one of the chiefs of the Northwest secret police. But this man has also a past; he is not just an empty White slate. His grandparents, back in the mid-20th century had fled communist Czechoslovakia and settled in the city of Chicago—only to discover another form of paleo-communist aka liberal insanity. Their progeny, the future settlers in the Northwest, realized that in the land of the free and the home of the brave, they were not just subjects to the terror of affirmative action, but also victims of serial burglaries and rampant Black crime. Finally, after much procrastination they decided to move to the Northwest, encountering on their way both physical and psychological roadblocks which in many ways reflected the predicaments they had once encountered in communist Europe.


Tom Sunic’s full article can be read here and here.

Fuck Hollywood!

Now that we are talking about why overt, out-of-the-closet homos such as James O’Meara (who must not be confused with Michael O’Meara) and Jack Donovan should not be given platforms in white nationalist forums, a recent comment in a previous post moved me to collect the following comments in related threaded discussions.

I refer to Greg Johnson who, under the penname of Trevor Lynch, extraordinarily reviewed Quentin Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction (below I changed textual references to “Lynch” as “Johnson”). Johnson’s review was sectioned in two parts. Let’s start with the second.

For obvious reasons, the first commenters to jump on that thread were O’Meara and Donovan. I was the third one to comment, the dissident voice. Pay special attention to my words way below in this post in the context of what I recently said in Gitone’s magic (“Just compare this homosexual shit [two whites raping a Negro] with the Platonic love for Tadzio in Death in Venice: one inspires the sensitive soul and the other trashes the god Eros”).

After the cheers that Johnson got from O’Meara and Donovan for his favorable review of this filthy film, the most frank criticism I found about Johnson’s bizarre review came out from Howard.

John Norman Howard commenting on Johnson’s review…

 “Yes, Pulp Fiction contains interracial couples, villainous bumbling whites, and noble, eloquent blacks. One just has to look beyond the casting to the story itself.”
[in Johnson’s review]

The eyes are the window to the soul. The outward appearance of the characters is anything but superficial: one would have to look beyond the casting, the scenes, and the dialog as well. Sorry, but Fail one.

 “Pulp Fiction is only superficially anti-white. On a deeper level, it can aid us in rejecting modernity and recovering the spiritual foundations of something better.”
[in Johnson’s review]

Fail two. It’s overtly anti-White or at best, pro-diversity: which in the end analysis is White genocide. Big talk of “honor” yet admitting it was merely an opportunistic double-cross in the end? Can’t have it both ways, mate. And the whole “watch in the rectum” thing was just another of Tarantino’s gratuitous homosexual jokes. Just like the whole hillbilly pawnshop luridness. Whether you want to credit him for using Walken in the way Walken seems to work best, well. Funny in the usual South Park manner, but certainly not “genius”.

Greg Johnson said…

Your eyes might be the windows to your soul, which is what that saying means. But it certainly does not mean that your eyes are the windows to other people’s souls, or that they penetrate to the essence of whatever surface they light on.

John Norman Howard said…

I know what the saying means. My point is, the outward appearance of the characters in the movie are said movie’s “eyes”, as it were. Hence, one can readily see the indisputable “soul” of the movie. Leastwise, those of us with eyes to see, and without the scales of our pet theories, notions, and pseudo-intellectual baggage covering them.

I said…

I cannot conceive any good film featuring a black married to a white girl [as in Pulp Fiction] unless the film has an explicitly pro-white message, which obviously every film by this repulsive being [Tarantino] lacks.

The film starts with a white man with his white girlfriend assaulting a restaurant: the opposite of what usually happens in the real world, as revealed by color of crime stats. At the end of the film we see a flashback in that very restaurant with a spiritually powerful black man lecturing the weakling white robbers. Other instances of inverted travesties in Pulp Fiction could be cited, but it is unnecessary.


True filmic art, like Death in Venice or Andrei Rublev inspires people. But in this decadent century only a handful of Hollywood films have inspired me. Ninety-nine per cent of them are so replete with anti-West, multicult messages that almost every time I visit the theaters I feel morally raped.

In the other thread I said that one of my sisters sings classical music hymns. When Pulp Fiction appeared instead of finding inspiration she felt visually raped. My sister is very sensitive, and the scene of the silent masked man referred to as “the gimp” (the one who was awakened up from a S&M dungeon to watch a tied-up Butch) shocked her deeply. Just compare this homosexual shit with the Platonic love for Tadzio in Death in Venice: one inspires the sensitive soul and the other trashes the god Eros. The same with Tarantino’s violence: unlike the gratuitous violence in Pulp Fiction a group of Tatars raid the city of Vladimir in Andrei Rublev: a historically accurate and shocking yet inspiring sequence for white viewers.

It could be argued that art depicting a decadent culture is still art, for instance Polanski’s Bitter Moon; the film by the Mexican director Alfonso Cuarón, Children of Men and, according to Johnson, Pulp Fiction.

My trouble with this approach is that all of these films have contributed to debilitate the spirit of the westerners. Like the character Vincent in Pulp Fiction, Bitter Moon reflects how the extremes of the hedonistic lifestyle in Paris are leading the French to ethnical suicide, literally. Like Pulp Fiction, in Children of Men the message is traitorously inverted: the white hero must save a black baby from extinction in a dying world that is no longer breeding any babies.

Yes: there is art in both Polanski and Cuarón’s films. But since their message hurts the Western soul Howard’s reply to me in the other thread is worth reciting: “Exactly… and kudos on mention The Brigade for its much-needed hammer on Hollywood and how to handle that sewer”.

Johnson deleted this comment by Howard.
In the other thread about the same film,
Part 1 of Johnson’s review:

Joe Owens said…

Whatever moral message Pulp Fiction is supposed to convey is well and truly lost in all the filth it’s wrapped up in. I’m sure we can find some moral reasoning in all this twisted rubbish. Yes, what about Inglourious Basterds or Hostel: Part II by Quentin Jerome Tarantino? Come on, time to leave this filth to the cranks and Jews who produce it!

Uncle Fritz said…

Good heavens: I thought it was just me!! I couldn’t even get through the damned film—after two attempts. Maybe too much philosophical immersion really is a dangerous thing…

John Norman Howard said…

Exactly. Pulp Fiction is the product of an unsound mind, and bestowing it with all this metaphysical mumbo-jumbo accolades is laughable.

It’s natural that a generation raised upon South Park would find it “deep” and “innovative”. But the bottom-line is this: The only thing remarkable about the film is that it marks a true line of demarcation in American culture (such as it is) whereby trash cinema passes as art, and an overt “up yours” to Whitey previously witnessed only in the most prurient blaxploitation junk of the seventies.
I’ve always found it serendipitous that this film’s release and subsequent lionization occurred at about the same time as the O.J. murders. Another stark line of demarcation in America’s racial demise.

Iranian for Aryans said…

Amen! The same can be said of everything popular, especially what passes for music.

Joe Owens said…

Why are you spoiling the pages of Counter Currents with this rubbish??? Shabbos Goy movies shouldn’t be praised by white nationalists. Come on, let’s get back to basics, Greg Johnson, I think you’re partying too much!

I said… (responding to Meh)

“Anyone expecting explicitly pro-white movies in this era might just as well stop watching movies.”

Ergo, I have stopped watching films—though as a big fan of the seventh art I still continue to watch the classics. Yesterday for example I saw the original, black-and-white version of The Hunchback of Notre Dame.

“Art, even decadent art, can be worth something…”

Rubbish. Please, see “The Philosophy of Beauty”, a six-video series in the playlist presently featured at The Occidental Observer.

I was born in a family of artists. Real artists I mean. So it’s easy for me to distinguish real art from “decadent art” (an oxymoron).

If I had children I would never allow any of them watching how two white males sodomize a Neanderthalesque nigger [see the Pulp Fiction photo above]. Never. How grotesque! (Not grotesque of the sublime kind, like the shots of Quasimodo at the upper balcony of the cathedral, saying to the gargoyles, “Why was I not made of stone, like thee?”) What a travesty of what is really happening in America (blacks raping whites)!

In The Brigade Covington makes a point: when secession war begins, the only thing that could defeat white revolutionaries is… Hollywood! Actually the climax of the novel is the way the revolutionaries finally hit Hollywood.

I would recommend all nationalists to stop watching modern films and use that time to read The Brigade.

Postscript note:

In Covington’s latest novel about how our new country will look like, all of this Hollywood rape scenes, which can only turn on our decadent nationalists, will be forbidden for our budding families (“The theaters were showing virtually nothing made after 1965 or so”). Instead, inspiring films, the polar opposite of the Tarantino degenerate scum, will be exhibited in the theaters such as Frank Capra’s It’s a Wonderful Life.

Let me finish this post with another comment that Johnson deleted when, last year at Counter Currents, I dared to criticize another silly review of another Hollywood movie.

When Johnson argued that his deep philosophical interpretations of the movies were pertinent, my response was: “I prefer Covington’s approach,” and quoted directly from his last novel:

“The once vibrant city of San Francisco, officially deeded by the Aztlan government to a huge ‘gay community,’ had lost two thirds of its population owing either to death from phosgene and sarin gas, or else through flight away from the V-3s. The section of the white and Jewish entertainment industry that had remained in Hollywood and their mansions in Beverly Hills, Santa Monica and Carmel being sacked and plundered by mobs of campesinos.”

That’s the spirit! That’s the way all true nationalists should handle the Hollywood foe once our nation is established…

Pure dynamite

The following is a book-review of The Hill of the Ravens that I wrote for Amazon Books. I am reproducing it here because Amazon’s automated filter or whatever forced me to rewrite the review a few times before it was accepted. Harold Covington’s book is dedicated—:

“To those who shall come after: from the time of struggle, we greet you”

According to the internal narrative of the story, The Hill of the Ravens is the fourth book of the Northwest Quintet, though it’s the first novel of the Quintet that Covington wrote. The Ten Principles of National Socialist Thought on pages 187-89 are a gem for white nationalists, of which I’ll excerpt just a few lines:

I. National Socialism above all represents living truth in its purest form

III. No one must be allowed to spoil what Nature created down through aeons of racial evolution. Your highest purpose in life is to carry on that evolution toward a stronger, better, more beautiful mankind

VIII. Every aspect of life must be judged in relation to the survival and improvement of your race; anything hindering these attainments must be ruthlessly rooted out and destroyed

X. Where there is a will, there is a way. Everything falls before the man of indomitable will. Suffering and sacrifice are necessary. We are hardening ourselves for the most decisive struggle in all human history

These noble principles for elemental racial preservation explain a dialogue on page 278:

“You a Nazi sir?”

“I am.”

Now that Counter-Currents Publishing has released this week the best essay on Hitler, which demystifies decades of anti-German propaganda, it’s time to reconsider Covington’s interpretation of National Socialist doctrine for an American readership.

In a book-review I cannot explain what Vinson has explained so well. But I can say that as long as we cannot openly say in the West that we are Nazis, the West, and especially the Kwa (Amerikwa: “the fount and wellspring of all that is evil in our time” as Covington put it on page 110) is crazy and suicidal.

Just consider #3 of the Principles of National Socialist Thought. Compare its living truth to what’s happening to the white race today. The fact is that in the Kwa and in Eurabia white birthrates have suffered a catastrophic decline in recent decades. During this same period, ours has become assuredly the most sex-obsessed society in the history of the world. As Roger Devlin has demonstrated, two such massive, concurrent trends are hardly likely to be unrelated. This is what The Hill of the Ravens, page 103, says: “The whole history of our race and our culture tells us that when women of child-bearing age remain unmarried and babies aren’t being born, then that is a sign that something is gravely wrong.”

Which explains why in the novel’s Day of the Rope right after the revolution, mixed couples, mostly white women and their beasts of pleasure (the Neanderthalesque non-whites) are targeted for destruction.

Why? Because destruction of the white phenotype through miscegenation with colored primitives is the sin against the holy ghost of life. But not only the perpetrators of this gravest of all crimes got what they deserved in Covington’s novel. The traitorous media is beautifully handled as well.

The Old Man, an alter ego of the author, declared reporters and media personnel to be enemy combatants and therefore legitimate military targets. Once these insects understood that they would be held personally responsible for the content of their reportage, then all of a sudden they got a lot more restrained. “They would either see the Party’s point of view, or else they’d see me.”

The Hill of the Ravens is pure dynamite. It helps the newcomer of white nationalism to explode the taboos with which the System has been brainwashing us through seventy years of anti-white propaganda.

“They’re not going to suspect a foxy bitch”

The Brigade excerpts, chapter VII

by Harold Covington

Someone Who Knows Who They Are

No ellipsis
added between
unquoted paragraphs:

“For almost a year now,” said Martínez, “there has been a full-blown armed insurrection against the United States going on here in the Northwest. Never mind the fact that those morons in Washington and our own bosses are too damned stupid to see it for what it is, or too blind and stubborn to admit the fact if they do!

“Where are they getting weapons and supplies and money? Who are their intelligence sources, their spies and agents, some of whom we both know damned well are in this very building with us as we speak?”

“Okay, and after tonight?” asked Jarvis. “We gonna be running a long term undercover like dis, Rawlinson will have to be brought in on it, and a lot of other people as well.”

“I know there will have to be others,” said Martínez, “We’ll need a whole task force. But we need to keep them to a minimum and compartmentalize everything, especially her identity. I don’t trust Rawlinson. He’s white and male and heterosexual, and by definition that means he’s politically unreliable. His definition of hatecrime has always been a little too lenient for my taste, especially when it comes to hatespeech. He doesn’t seem to understand that hatespeech is a dead giveaway for thoughts and attitudes that lead to hatecrime, and that once we know that hate is in a white male’s mind we need to nip him in the bud before he can act on those thoughts. It’s the only way to protect women and minorities. I don’t want him in on this, and I don’t want him knowing who Kicky is. And I don’t want Roscoe or any of your compadres in corruption knowing what’s going on, either. You just tell Roscoe it’s all taken care of and you leave it at that, got it? I’m going to move Ms. McGee into a conference room upstairs now, and get her paperwork on this murder charge off the computers and out of the system now, before it gets too complicated.”

*   *   *

“Kicky, look, you know as well as I do where you’ve been and what you’ve done,” said Lainie. “You know how to handle yourself on the streets and in prison. If you didn’t have some moves you wouldn’t have survived, you wouldn’t be here. And you won’t have to do anything proactive, no fishing for specific people or things, although needless to say, we’re very interested in Mr. Lockhart. You don’t have to ask leading questions or act overly curious. Just go with the flow and sound enthusiastic about their great racist revolution. We will be recording you every step of the way, and our intelligence people will be doing all the analysis and figuring out what the hell their scene is from the raw data you bring in. You’ll just be a fly on the wall, so to speak, a listening post. Do whatever they tell you to, convince them you’re just a bimbo, and of course use your sexual skills, which I’m sure you’ve picked up in your professional life.

“These men are brutes, granted, but like all men they’re nothing but dumb thugs who think with their cocks, and they’re not going to suspect a foxy bitch with neat tits who gives them good head.”

Published in: on January 10, 2012 at 11:59 pm  Leave a Comment  

“Being a sex trade worker, I am in a politically protected category”

The Brigade excerpts, chapter VI

by Harold Covington

The Mami and the Monkey

No ellipsis
added between
unquoted paragraphs:

“You back on the pipe, Kick?” “No, I’m not back on the pipe!” Kristin “Kicky” McGee snapped back. “I’m clean as a whistle, and I been clean for six months now!”

“Yeah, well, I guess I shouldn’t have called the cops on you. That wasn’t, like, playing the game,” muttered Lenny. “Then again, maybe if I wanted to jam you up I should have turned you in for hatecrime. I know you don’t like dark meat, but that’s prejudice, even in a whore.”

“The term is sex trade worker, thank you,” said Kicky primly. “And it’s not prejudice, it’s a preference. Being a sex trade worker, I am in a politically protected category, sort of anyway, and I’m allowed to have preferences. Remember, no means no. Even for hookers.”

While the two of them were haggling, a nondescript older model Ford Explorer pulled up outside Jupiter’s Den. It was a warm summer’s day, and the SUV’s two occupants had the windows rolled down. The driver was a tall and powerful man with a seamed boxer’s face, a shaved head and goatee beard. The pro wrestler look wasn’t Big Jim McCann’s personal choice, since he was a master electrician by profession, but he needed to alter his appearance because his face was on a few too many wanted posters, web sites, and television screens as of late. McCann was quartermaster of the NVA’s First Portland Brigade. His passenger was Jesse “Cat-Eyes” Lockhart, who after much debate amounting to a passionate argument between Tommy Coyle and Zack Hatfield, had been transferred from D Company to First Brigade A Company and put on sniper duty in the big city. As reluctant as Zack had been to let him go, and as reluctant as Lockhart himself had been to leave his old friends and comrades in Clatsop County, the fact was that Cat was running out of major targets in D Company’s area of operation, and he was too valuable a resource to waste out in the sticks plinking away at Mexican dock workers and the local Chamber of Commerce. In the short time he had been in Portland, the Jack of Diamonds had already bagged a city councilman, a U.S. Army colonel, the head of the African-American Democratic Club, another FBI agent, and several police officers. His presence in the city was known, and he was driving the local politically correct establishment into hysterics. “You want me to go in with you?” asked Lockhart.

“Naw,” said McCann. “Gillis is a nervous little cuss, and he might get spooked if he sees somebody he don’t know. I just need to find out from him where he’s got the stuff stashed, and set up a pickup so we can get the gear and pay him. Then we need to get you to the Mayflower Hotel.” It was time for Cat to change safe houses, and McCann had been the only transport available. McCann’s phone beeped. He took it out of his pocket and flipped it open. “Yeah?” He listened for a few moments. “Okay.” He closed the phone. “That was our escort vehicle. Van Gelder says there’s a patrol coming down Sandy Boulevard, two units and an armored car. Unmarked, probably Portland Rapid Response, but maybe BATFE or FBI. They’re cruising slow. The way they’re coming, looks like they’re gonna turn onto 82nd in about a minute.”

“I don’t think they’re looking for us specifically,” said Lockhart. “They’ve been doing that a lot lately, keeping goon squads on the street as rapid response teams, moving around, trying to cover the city so they can move in fast with a lot of firepower on any of our naughty shenanigans. Ace and me got chased by one of those crews last time out.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want them driving by and looking in here and recognizing you,” said McCann. “You’d better come inside after all. Just hang back at the bar while I have my chat with Lenny, and then we’ll move on after Van tells us they’ve passed.”

Kicky turned around and saw one of the men who looked like a wrestler or a biker walk forward to talk to Gillis. They met at the end of the bar nearest to where Kicky sat in the booth. Reading men was a vital survival skill in Kicky’s lines of work both legitimate and otherwise, and with these two she immediately read muscle of some kind, heavy muscle. There was just something about the way they carried themselves, not with a criminal swagger or thuggish biker lope, but controlled and fast and efficient, no wasted motion.

She got up and went to the ladies’ room, in a small corridor near the bar. After she finished she quietly slipped down to the door of the men’s room at the other end of the short hallway and studied the younger man in the long mirror behind the bar. The bartender brought him a diet soda in a can with a plastic cup, and when he turned to pour it Kicky saw his face and profile clearly. Damn, she thought, I know him from somewhere. Who is he? She ran over her long list of male personal and business acquaintances. No, not one of them. She rummaged through the past few years of her disorderly life. No, nothing. Was he on TV or something? Recognition suddenly slammed into her. Jesus H. Christ! she whistled to herself. It’s him! That sniper every cop and Feebie in the Northwest is looking for! Well, well! Lenny’s coming up in the world, looks like. What the fuck kind of business is he doing with the spuckies? Bet it’s guns.

Kicky left the club and returned to her battered single-wide mobile home in a rundown trailer park about two miles away. She didn’t have a car of her own, the cab company wouldn’t allow her to take her cab home, and the buses were full of Mexicans who always dirty-mouthed her in Spanish and pawed all over her, so she walked. She was so sick inside herself at what she was doing that it was all she could do to go home and not go out hunting the streets for some rock, but she knew full well that if she went back to the drugs as well as back to the sex trade, she would be dead or back in prison within a year, and her daughter would be scooped up by It Takes A Village like a barracuda snapping up a minnow.

The prospect of committing sexual acts with drunken and usually unhygienic strange men, even white men, filled her with such disgust that she wanted to vomit even at the thought, but she understood that she had reached the point in her life where her always limited range of choices had virtually disappeared. Kicky knew that America had one rule above all else. Get money. It didn’t matter how you did it, you got money, end of story, or else you ended up like the white-haired bag women Kicky saw pushing their possessions up and down 82nd Avenue and Sandy Boulevard in shopping carts. No welfare or affirmative action or diversity programs for poor white chicks. Poor white chicks either stole or put out, or they got left behind. If you had a white skin, you got money or you fell below the point of no return. Never mind all that crap you saw on TV, that lovely diverse, racially mixed society where there was still a middle class and still material things and all was jolly. That was television. It wasn’t real. 82nd Avenue was real.

“You goin’ back to whoring?” snorted the old lady.

Kicky didn’t attempt to evade the question. “I got to get money, Mom,” she said simply. “I have to get Ellie out of Oregon, out of Child Protective Services’ reach. Otherwise they’re going to take her and sell her to some rich bastards. I know she’d be better off with them…”

“Mommy!” shouted a small golden-haired personage of eighteen months, wearing nothing but a Pamper, who gallumphed into the room from the bedroom and hugged onto Kicky’s leg. “Up!” she demanded. “Up me!”

“Hi, baby girl,” said Kicky with a smile, picking up the child. “Ooh, pooh, baby made a boo-boo! You need a change! Come on, let’s fix that!” She snagged another Pamper from the torn bag on the cracked Formica kitchen table and headed for the bathroom, trying not to think of what she would be doing later on.

*  *  *

She was wearing short hot pants and gleaming vinyl boots with elevated although not quite high heels, a low-cut halter top with no bra (she knew a lot of her potential customers found her tattoos erotic), a wide leather belt, and carrying a shoulder bag purse containing such items as extra condom packs and sex toys. It also contained a canister of pepper spray in a special holster sleeve.

Kicky looked around for Lenny Gillis, but couldn’t see him anywhere on the floor. She shoved through a door marked “Employees Only”—well, she was kind of an employee now—and looked in his office, which was also empty. She slipped outside into the alley.

The shouting was coming from just on the other side of a dumpster. Kicky crept up and peeked around the side of the receptacle. Lenny Gillis was being held up against the wall by a large, black, uniformed Portland police officer. Shit! thought Kicky to herself in shock. It’s the Monkey!

Like any street girl, she had immediately recognized Detective Sergeant Jamal Jarvis of the Portland Police Bureau’s Hatecrime and Civil Disobedience Squad, the feared police unit that constituted the muscle arm of Portland’s ultra-liberal and politically correct establishment. The word on the street was clear and unambiguous: black, Mexican, and Asian hookers paid Jarvis off in money or sometimes in drugs, but white girls paid in trade. Kicky was not the only white working girl who still retained some vestige of decency and personal standards, and the fate of those who refused or evaded Jarvis’s demands was not encouraging. Such bigoted ladies of the evening tended to end up facing bogus charges and many years in prison, or getting a coffee cup full of acid in the face, or in some cases their dead and violated bodies were found floating in the Columbia River or jammed into a culvert. No one cared much about a few dead white skanks here and there, but there had eventually been such a rash of that kind of thing that even the politically correct Portland Police Bureau realized that they had to do something to avoid embarrassment.

Jarvis was in the process of assaulting Lenny with a heavy, flat, leather-wrapped implement about a foot long, known in police circles as a slapjack. It was just as heavy and painful, but the flat surface left less telltale bruising than a traditional blackjack. “Whutcha gonna do, Lenny?” Jarvis droned on, slapping Gillis’ head back and forth with the cosh, each blow a dull and sickening thud that sprayed blood from Gillis’s mutilated and bleeding face, his broken nose and bleeding eyes. “Whutcha gonna do, Lenny? Gib Roscoe his money, fukkin cracka, gib Roscoe his money.”

“I haven’t got it!” screamed Lenny hysterically. “I can get it Friday! I can get it Friday! Jesus God!”

“Friday ain’t today, muthafukka!” rumbled Roscoe. “Gimme my props, muthafukka! Gimme my thousand!”

Kicky realized with horror that Jarvis was high, on drugs and on shedding white blood. He didn’t really care about the money. He just liked to beat white boys. She also realized that Lenny had suddenly stopped screaming.

“Aw, shit, Jamal, you a fool!” yelled Roscoe angrily. “We was takin’ a grand a month off this ofay mutthafukka!”

“So we finds us another piece of white trash to pin it on,” said Jarvis carelessly. In her hiding place behind the piled cardboard boxes of trash, Kicky McGee suddenly realized her own deadly peril. She tried to back away quietly, and needless to say she managed to back into another stack of piled boxes and knock it over, the glass and cans and junk inside cascading into the alley floor with a clatter.

Jarvis and Roscoe were calloused and brutal men, but their animal instincts were sharp and when need arose they could both move fast. They were on her before she could get ten feet down the alley in her sprint for the door.

*  *  *

Kicky was still unconscious when they brought her in. She didn’t even know for sure where she was. It might have been some station house, but most likely she was somewhere in the bowels of the downtown Portland Justice Center on Pioneer Courthouse Square.

Originally built as a modish complex of brick, glass, and concrete to adorn a stylish and politically correct power structure, decorated with murals and sculptures by trendy Portland artists, the Justice Center had taken on a much more grim and stark appearance and function since the Coeur d’Alene rebellion had broken out the previous autumn. Other areas had been slow to realize the danger and had accordingly suffered courthouses and police stations burned, bombed, and invaded by the NVA, who sometimes torched big stacks of legal and law enforcement papers and records on rural courthouse lawns. Not Portland. The multi-structured complex of the Justice Center’s several buildings containing the courtrooms both state and federal, offices, and the headquarters of the Portland Police Bureau, had immediately been transformed at great taxpayers’ expense into a fully fortified and secured Green Zone, based on plans drawn up by consultants from Israel and the United Kingdom.

But the Center had become a place of fear and nightmare not just in its outward appearance. Inside were the headquarters not just of the police, but of the FBI and Department of Homeland Security. These agencies had considered their pre-10/22 offices too exposed, and they had taken over a large portion of the administrative floors of the federal courthouse and sealed it off. There were rumors of excavations being done in secret by specially imported construction crews of Asian and Mexican laborers as more offices, soundproofed interrogation cells, and holding cells were dug deep beneath the complex. Then there were the stories of the torture chambers deep beneath the earth or high in windowless rooms, padded to muffle the screams. It was known that more white prisoners entered the Justice Center than ever emerged. What happened to them no one knew, but it was rumored that there was a covert crematorium in one of the walled-off courtyards of the complex. The Justice Center cast a long shadow over the city of Portland, a warning to any who might dare think of rebelling against the United States, and a source of anger and hatred that glowed secretly in the recesses of men’s hearts and minds, burning steadily brighter as time went on and more and more white people’s family members disappeared into the Green Zone.

It was all gone. She was white, she was poor, and everything she knew from her very birth told her that no one on earth would lift a finger to help her. She had always held the bitter belief that she had nothing, but now that it was all gone she understood how much she’d really had before, the trailer where she could at least lay down her head at night alone if she chose, the sad drunken woman who had borne her but at least had not left her, and above all the little golden child she would never see again except maybe through the glass on visiting day. This couldn’t be happening. It was surely a nightmare. She had them sometimes. Surely she would wake up soon. She closed her eyes and desperately willed herself to wake up, but when she opened her eyes, she was still in the god-awful puce green room with the cloying and overpowering smell of fresh paint, a smell that was making her sick.

Outside, behind the two-way mirror, although Kicky could hear nothing through the soundproofed walls, Jamal Jarvis was having a spirited discussion with his partner, Detective Sergeant Elena Martinez. Lainie Martinez was the Mami half of the Portland detective team commonly known as the Mami and the Monkey. She was a tall, slim, thirty-something woman with clear olive skin, straight black hair, brown eyes and a figure that looked fine indeed in a bathing suit and turned many heads both male and lesbian in the indoor swimming pool in the police gym where she worked out every couple of days and swam 50 laps afterward. Unlike her quondam FBI counterpart, the late and rather unlamented Rabang Miller, Lainie was actually respected, if not liked, by her superiors and her fellow officers in the PB for her competence and her occasionally brilliant detective work. No one remembered ever having seen her smile.

She wasn’t smiling now. “Oh, for God’s sake, Jamal, how many of these messes do you think you can get away with making until Internal Affairs has finally had enough?” she snapped.

“Hey, it ain’t my fault a white boy’s candy ass is so fucking fragile he cain’t take a little beat-down,” muttered Jarvis defensively.

“Look, I know how the game is played,” said Lainie in irritation. “Until police salaries come up to something commensurate with the work we do, and the risks we take, especially now with a bunch of racist crazies gunning for us every time we step outside the door, then every officer with any initiative is going to have something going on the side.”

A Mexican uniformed officer came down the hall toward them, holding a larger manila file folder and handed it to Jarvis. (He had once made the mistake of addressing Sergeant Martinez in Spanish with a flippant “Hola, Mami!” and had almost found himself hauled up on sexual harassment charges.)

“Hey, Jamal, here’s the file on your puta blanca with the tattoos in there,” he said. “Lookin’ good, my man. Seems Lenny Gillis filed a complaint with us a few months back when she assaulted him, hit him in the head with a beer bottle. He dropped the charges, but it’s on record. She’s got priors for solicitation and holding, and she did fourteen months in Coffee Creek on a two to five for larceny and possession of stolen goods.”

Lainie was thoroughly Americanized, and she spoke Spanish only on these occasions when it was required in the line of work. Her one secret neurosis and obsession, not even admitted to the Bureau shrink during her periodic required evaluations, was that she wanted more than anything else to be white. Not just any white; Elena Martinez dreamed of herself as Nordic white, with creamy skin and golden hair. Like the girl in the interrogation room, only without the tattoos. Her unconscious longing had long ago sublimated itself into an almost insane hatred of white people in general, white racialists in particular, and blonde white women even more particularly.

Jamal Jarvis was sharp enough to realize that Lainie was smarter than he was, and he sensed that hers were good coattails for him to ride on, so he generally acted as the brawn of the team while she was the brains. It worked surprisingly well, and their high clearance rate and general rep for getting results in the form of confessions from suspected racists and other thought criminals had done them both good, departmentally speaking. But Jarvis sensed that Lainie was what the Hispanics referred to as a “cocoanut,” brown on the outside and white on the inside.

*   *   *

Kicky looked up as the door opened and the two detectives entered the room. Jarvis had a thick file in his hand that she presumed were her yellow sheets. She looked at Lainie, Levantine sleek and arrogant and dressed to the nines in a blue serge skirt and jacket like some kind of model in the Lady Cop Chic section of Vogue. She knew full well that any faint hope she had of ever getting out of this depended on her crawling and groveling like a whipped dog to these two, and yet something in her that she didn’t understand seemed to take on a perverse life of its own. “I see the Monkey, so I guess you must be the Mami,” she snarled at them.

Martinez leaned over the table, and like lightning she lashed out in a vicious slap across Kicky’s face, almost knocking her out of the chair. “Inmates in this Justice Center are prohibited from using racial or ethnic slurs, derogatory references to anyone based on race or sexual preference or national origin, or other hateful language, Ms. McGee,” she said. “It’s not only a violation of JC regulations, it’s a violation of the hatespeech section of the penal code. If you do so again you will be charged with felony hatespeech in addition to first degree murder. I suggest you take heed. You’re in trouble enough.”

“Watch yo’ mouf, bitch,” added Jarvis.

Martinez took the file and slammed it onto the desk in front of Kicky. “We’ve got you cold. Your previous assault on your pimp with a blunt instrument is the icing on the cake. You’re gone, girl. I’m offering you one chance for a deal. One only. You will plead guilty to voluntary manslaughter in the death of Leonard Gillis and I can arrange it with the DA so you get twelve to twenty. As an added sweetener, since I’m feeling generous this morning, I can arrange for you to serve your sentence in a medium security facility so you won’t have to go back to Coffee Creek. This is as good as it’s going to get, Kristin. Take it or leave it.”

“They call me Kicky,” said the girl sullenly.

“Of course they do,” sighed Martinez.

Don’t I get a lawyer?” she demanded.

“Technically speaking, since 9/11 the state no longer has to provide you with one, depending on whether we want to file this as a security case under the Patriot Act, but in Portland the powers that be do like to keep up appearances. So yes, if you want I can get you a legal aid attorney,” explained Lainie. “Any such attorney will almost certainly be black, Hispanic, Jewish, gay, female, or some combination of the above, and probably will hold as little brief for white trailer trash crack whores like you as I do, and they will advise you to take the deal I’m offering.”

“I suppose the fact that I didn’t kill Lenny doesn’t have a damned thing to do with anything?” Kicky demanded bitterly.

“No, of course it doesn’t,” responded Lainie with another sigh.

“What about justice?” cried Kicky.

“This is a legal matter. Justice has nothing to do with it,” explained Lainie irritably, irked at the girl’s stubborn stupidity. “I can’t believe you’ve been on the streets as long as you have, and you still don’t know how it works.”

Kicky’s self-control finally snapped. “No!” she screamed in uncontrollable rage. “Fuck you! Fuck both of you! I didn’t do anything, God damn you both to hell! I didn’t do anything! I didn’t kill Lenny, that nigger standing there did! You know it! I didn’t do anything!”

Martinez stood up and slapped Kicky across the face again, but more or less pro forma, without anger or enthusiasm. “Suit yourself, you stupid little twist,” she said in disgust. “Don’t you ever say I didn’t try and help you. First degree murder and a life sentence it is. I suggest you watch your language in Judge Feinstein’s court. He’s not going to believe any wild stories you come up with about a respected and decorated police officer killing your pimp, and if you keep on using racial slurs and try to offer perjured testimony against an African American officer, you need to remember that hatecrime carries life without parole. So go ahead, jump up in court and yell out your stupid lies, and really fuck yourself over forever. Hell, maybe it’s for the best. Wealthy and decent couples all over the U.S.A are going to be lining up around the block for that little girl of yours. Maybe you’re doing the right thing after all by permanently taking yourself out of the picture.” She and Jarvis turned and opened the door to leave.

Kicky stared in horror. She knew that the door wasn’t just closing on the interrogation room. It was closing on her, her whole life, on her daughter. They were going to take Ellie now. She had lost. They were going to take Ellie.

As the door closed, Kicky jumped up and screamed at the top of her lungs, “I can give you the NVA! Fucking spic bitch, you hear me? I can give you NVA! I know where they are! I can give you that sniper, that guy they call the Cat! I can give you two the NVA, you bitch, you baboon! Just let me go! Please, God, I didn’t do anything, please let me go, please don’t take my baby!” She collapsed onto the table top, weeping hysterically.

The door opened.

Published in: on January 3, 2012 at 12:01 am  Leave a Comment  

“…and stuck a second Jack into her mouth”

The Brigade excerpts, chapter V

by Harold Covington

Hunting The Hunters

No ellipsis
added between
unquoted paragraphs:

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

“Does Marie know?” asked Hatfield.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Which is?” asked Charlie.

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

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

“Because they’re stupid,” said Ekstrom.

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

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

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

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

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

*   *   *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dispatch,” said a female voice.

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

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

*   *   *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“FBI,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They were tipped off somehow,” said Lockhart.

“I can’t believe it!”

“Do we abort, sir?” asked Lockhart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” said Rabang. “Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Published in: on December 29, 2011 at 12:01 am  Comments (1)  

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