Blackwater

‘Blackwater’ is the ninth and penultimate episode of the second season of HBO’s medieval fantasy television series Game of Thrones. The Blu-ray edition of the complete seasons contains the option to listen the commentary of Martin himself, who recounts the differences between the television interpretation and his novel. Martin really liked the way the directors adapted his text for this battle. Those who don’t want to see the entire series or even a season, can watch this particular episode in isolation to appreciate it from a strictly cinematic point of view. It’s the first time that the series shows us, in detail, a battle.

From the battle at Blackwater Bay I would just like to collect a couple of dialogues. The first one, some words from Cersei who has been drinking wine, addressed to Sansa Stark. Both were in what the very voice of Martin calls ‘a fortress inside the castle’, Maegor’s Holdfast. The noble ladies are interned there under the supervision of Ser Ilyn (pic below).

His orders: kill the ladies of the fortress inside the castle if the city falls (to prevent them from being raped). His orders may seem barbaric but invader Stannis has fallen under the spell of what Ser Davos calls ‘the red woman’, a witch whose religion prompts her to burn her enemies or infidels alive. When Sansa hears the following words from Cersei she’s scared:

‘Do you have any notion of what happens when a city is sacked? No, you wouldn’t, would you? If the city falls, these fine women should be in for a bit of rape. Half of them will have bastards in their bellies come the morning. You’ll be glad of your red flower then…’

‘When a man’s blood is up, anything with tits looks good. A precious thing like you will look very, very good. A slice of cake just waiting to be eaten…’

Sansa then flees into her room to prevent Ser Ilyn from killing her if the city falls. Unaware of Tywin’s reinforcements coming, Sandor Clegane, popularly known as the Hound, has also fled the battle in which King Joffrey’s defensive forces are badly outnumbered by Stannis’ attacking forces. Sansa finds him in her bedroom and the Hound proposes to put her to safety:

The Hound: ‘I can take you with me. Take you to Winterfell. I’ll keep you safe. Do you want to go home?’

Sansa: ‘I’ll be safe here. Stannis won’t hurt me’.

The Hound: ‘Look at me! Stannis is a killer! The Lannisters are killers! Your father was a killer! Your brother [Robb, recently the King of the North] is a killer! Your sons will be killers someday! The world is built by killers’.

Nothing truer! But unlike all their ancestors, white nationalists who ‘want’ to create a white nation don’t talk about killing the enemy. They are like the ladies sheltered in Holdfast praying to the old and new gods that the city does not fall. And I don’t mean that they must fight right away. But nationalists haven’t even begun to devise a revolutionary ideology through pamphlets to encourage a civil war in the future.

Incidentally, this Hound and Sansa are the same ones whose image I picked up in a recent post when this vicious warrior rescued her from being raped by the mob.

The old gods and the new

‘The Old Gods and the New’ is the sixth episode of the second season of HBO’s medieval fantasy television series Game of Thrones. In the image we see the warrior nicknamed Hound carrying Lady Sansa as if she were a doll, when in the episode he saved Sansa from the rabid mob that wanted to rape her. (The image evokes the rape of the Sabine women that I have talked so much about on this site.)

The Spice King, one of Qarth’s ruling Thirteen, tells Dany a great truth: ‘The silver hair of a Targaryen’, addressing the black man who wants to marry her, another member of the Thirteen, ‘she is far too lovely for a glorified dockworker like yourself’. But the feminist messages continue in this episode. Feminism isn’t only what we have been seeing, putting women as capable as men in physical and intellectual matters, but hiding some historical facts.

In the gloomy castle Harrenhal, feudal lord Tywin Lannister chooses the adolescent Arya, a prisoner, as his cup maid (or cup server): a poetic euphemism since Homer for acquiring a loving ephebe (Zeus with Ganymede) or a girl as a sexual servant. But despite the soft porn that we have seen in the first seasons, so often of very bad taste (like Littlefinger’s brothel or the homo scenes I’ve already talked about), in a situation that really lent itself to sexually use the ‘cup server of my study’, the feudal lord doesn’t do it. And he fails to do it because of the plot armour for Arya not only in the following seasons when blood runs, but because the feminist figure par excellence of the series, the one destined to kill the Night King in the last season, cannot be erotically touched without her consent.

Many fans believe that the series is realistic because of the deaths of three of its main characters, Ned Stark, and his wife and son in the Red Wedding, but nothing is further from the truth. You just have to understand the motivation of the screenwriters to realise that this girl was, on HBO, what on Netflix recently was Beth in The Queen’s Gambit. In both cases the reversal of reality was absolute (in real life the woman cannot surpass the man in physical—Arya—or intellectual—Beth—combat).

Robb Stark returns to see Lady Talisa in the military camp, in Westerlands. From here a relationship starts between them. That means that all the scenes in this and subsequent episodes with Robb and Talisa piss off the viewer that is a priest of holy words. If Robb had kept his word to marry the one hundred percent white girl from House Frey, he wouldn’t have lost the war as he lost it by the end of the next season.

But at least this fictional relationship between Robb and Talisa leaves a moral for us priests: we should never let ourselves be carried away by the needs of our cock, but by the head.

Published in: on March 11, 2021 at 11:56 am  Leave a Comment  

Baelor

‘Baelor’ is the ninth and penultimate episode of the first season of the HBO medieval fantasy television series Game of Thrones. As I did in the last entry, I won’t be reviewing everything that happens in it but I use the episodes to express my philosophy: in this post, what I think about the psychosis suffered by the white race, including those who claim to defend it. Thus, I will focus on a single scene in Baelor.

Lady Catelyn appears before the feudal lord Walder Frey, the head of House Frey and Lord of the Crossing (a bridge) to negotiate the crossing of the troops of his son in their war against the Lannisters, who are about to execute Ned Stark. Although Lord Frey is an old man (the actor who played his role was known for playing Argus Filch in Harry Potter), he still maintains a very active role in managing his household.

After the West collapses, the white man will find himself at a crossroads. Both paths will lead to the return of patriarchy, as feminism is but an astronomical and massive psychotic breakdown that cannot be sustained for more than a century (the group that suffers from it is extinguished as their women cease to breed). The Jew Lawrence Auster was right in saying that liberalism, in the sense of the principle of non-discrimination that includes antiracism, feminism and sexual orientation is the most destructive ideology of all times.

Well then: before the crossroads of the two roads that lead to the return of patriarchy, the white man will have to decide what form of patriarchy will return: if his white women will belong to the Muslims of Europe and the blacks of America, or if the Aryan finally regains his sanity and reclaims them for himself.

In the episode Lord Walder Frey, opposite Lady Catelyn Stark, grabs his wife’s buttocks and then spanks her when he goes to negotiate privately with Lady Catelyn. After clearing a room full of his descendants, Lord Frey addresses the surprised Catelyn with these words:

‘You see that? Fifteen, she is. A little flower [licking his lips in lust]. And her honey’s all mine [chuckles]’.

In my soliloquies I call that delicious honey a Caperucita, and it is a shame that the supposed defenders of her race don’t see the naked truth of what Catelyn replied:

‘I’m sure she will give you many sons’.

A decade ago, when I still subscribed to white nationalism, I didn’t understand why some of their articles left me depressed. It didn’t take me long to realise that many nationalists had betrayed their principles by subscribing to at least some form of feminism. Ten years ago I reproduced the response of a critic of Alex Kurtagic since the latter dared to label ‘defectives’ those from the racial right who didn’t subscribe to feminism. Looking back, it seems clear to me that the only defective was Kurtagic himself, who like me was raised in Latin America. Now I can say that except for Andrew Anglin white nationalists continue to blind themselves as to how we should treat women.

If the white man chooses the right path when he reaches the crossroads, after the Day of the Rope he won’t behave like the men of Murka II in Covington’s fiction (see ‘Freedom daughters’ in my Daybreak). Since the pendulum has swung to the extreme left its inertia will carry it to the extreme right, and if whites wake up the warlords, the new Walder Freys, won’t be the exception but the rule. And even if the white man chooses the wrong path women will still be subdued, but this time like the Muslim women I saw the year I lived in Manchester.

Part of the feminisation of the white man lies in not wanting to even fix his own bedroom. Before killing the enemy he must control his women, at least through an internal transvaluation of values as the police would stop any actual transvaluation. He who doesn’t fuck won’t fight and many white nationalists don’t do it because, as good neochristians they are, they believe they should ask permission.

Sex is to be taken as the feudal lord Frey took it, at least in the most primitive stage of civilisation: what looms again after the collapse. There is already this situation with the massive rapes of Caperucitas in the UK, but the System only allows non-white wolfies to eat them.

Much of the revulsion I feel for white nationalism lies in that they tolerate this reversal of values. The critic of feminism, Roger Devlin, speaks like a conservative; not like the MGTOW people do and much less as I speak. A man who in one of the forums in which Devlin discusses would talk like Walder Frey, licking his lips while imaginarily savouring a Caperucita, would be annihilated by the thousands of Kutragics that swarm today’s racialism, and they would not answer any of the most elementary realities about the subject of feminism that I have linked so many times on this site.

That’s why I will continue to say that white nationalism is a fraud, and that to recover our lands we must first wage a great internal jihad that allows us to think as we were before, even in medieval times: as Martin’s prose about the lands of Riverrun.

The Iliad, book I

As we saw in the essay on Sparta in The Fair Race, around 1200 b.c.e. the Achaeans besieged and conquered Troy in a crusade that united the Hellenes in a common endeavour, so prone to war with each other. In The Iliad Homer describes them as a gang of barbarians with the mentality and appearance of Vikings who sweep the refined and civilised Troy.

The first book of The Iliad begins already after nine years of war between Achaeans and Trojans, when a plague breaks out on the Achaean camp. The soothsayer Calchas, consulted about it, predicts that the plague will not cease until the girl Chryseis, who Agamemnon had kidnapped, was returned to her father Chryses of Troy. Achilles’ wrath stems from the affront inflicted on him by Agamemnon, who, by yielding Chryseis to her father because of the threat of the soothsayer, now snatches from Achilles’ share of the spoils the young priestess Briseis. (In our times of feminised western males that feel no wrath when seeing a Negro with an English rose, how I wish the return of this blond beast of yore…!)

After all this, Achilles retires from the battle and ensures that he will only return when the Trojan fire reaches his own ships. He asks his mother Thetis to convince Zeus to help the Trojans and Zeus accepts.

More than once I have said that what must be studied are the phenomena that has captured, in a massive way, the popular imagination of the white man. In modern times, those who complain only about Jews look to, say, the Frankfurt School. But to understand the soul of the white man they should pay more attention to what whites have read voraciously; for example, the literary phenomena that marked recent centuries. I mean the gigantic bestsellers of the past that portray the suicidal infatuation of English speakers about Jews (for example Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe and Lew Wallace’s Ben-Hur) or about blacks (e.g., Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin).

In our century, white madness is also noted in their delusional empowerment of women. As I have also said on this site, it is alarming that almost no one tore his garments at the most nefarious presentation of the ‘girl power’ ideology in Game of Thrones, exemplified in Arya Stark. Game of Thrones fans are such an alienated and degenerate folk that they disowned the grand finale, which is a masterpiece, and instead liked the empowerment of the girl Arya in previous seasons. Such feminism even reached a now-deceased neonazi novelist who wanted to create an Aryan republic in his state, as we saw in Daybreak’s ‘Freedom’s daughters’.

As a child I enjoyed Ivanhoe and Ben-Hur although never watched Uncle Tom’s Cabin that I saw advertised in the newspaper. I was ten years old then. Nowadays, from the current bestsellers of George Martin I would only rescue how the author portrayed Bran Stark.

But back to The Iliad, the monumental bestseller of the Greco-Roman world, although recited in private rather than read. Going into the details of the first book is important because it takes us back to the gods of the Homeric Greeks, so different from the meek Jesus. The first thing that strikes the attention in The Iliad compared to our meek times is that it represents the most absolute antithesis of the ethno-suicidal feminism that most westerners now accept, represented in Game of Thrones and in a myriad of other television series.

For example, in this first book of The Iliad the abducted girls Chryseis and Briseis have no voice or vote before their abductors: it is the men who fight for them and who complain, either the father of the kidnapped girl or the god Apollo who listened to such complaints; as well as Agamemnon and Achilles, the alpha males who can enjoy the spoils of war: young and pretty girls. Briseis, Achilles’ sex slave that Agamemnon later snatches from him, is called ‘the fair-cheeked one’ and ‘the one with a cute waist’.

Also notable in this first book of The Iliad is that the Homeric Greeks were very white people. Five times Hera is called ‘white-armed Hera’. Also ‘light-eyed Athena’ grabs Achilles ‘by his blond hair.’ Eos is ‘the one with the rosy fingers’, and ‘silver-footed Thetis’ is the mother of the main character of Homer’s tale.

With women like that it really makes you want to abduct one of them and breed…

The transvaluation explained

Stefan Molyneux was recently expelled from YouTube and his thousands of videos, deleted. Yesterday, they also kicked him out of Twitter. For one thing, that’s fine, as Moly, whose mother was Jewish, was always a gate-keeper on the Jewish question. And it is impossible to understand what happens to the West unless someone expands the JQ into what we have been calling CQ, the Christian Question.

However, the day before yesterday, before being expelled from Twitter, Moly was interviewed by a Christian who still has his YouTube channel. Moly said something in the context of parent-child abuse, a topic that I consider my forte: ‘People used to have their fathers’ wounds heal with their relationship with God’.

Very true! And what is happening now in the Aryan collective unconscious is that, since they took away their (((god))), now they have no choice but to imitate, albeit secularly, Jesus through their own self-immolation as in the recent negrolatric events.

Speaking of Twitter, Will Westcott has been a white advocate who uses that platform and says very sharp things. Yesterday for example he said: ‘Liberalism is a state backed religion. Dissent and freedom of speech is not allowed. Heretics will be dox’d, fired from their job, arrested, and charged with a hate crime’.

I don’t mind the word liberalism, but I would have said it this way: Neochristianity, or following Jesus through secular self-immolation, is a state-backed religion. Dissent and freedom of speech are not allowed. Apostates of neochristianity will be dox’d, fired from their job, arrested, and charged with a hate crime.

Westcott recently also tweeted, putting up an image of the Constantine statue, ‘Constantine at York statue is incredibly powerful. The authority, the glamour, the supremacy of the Imperator is so far beyond any leader of our current age who would be worthy of such representation’.

I strongly called Westcott’s attention, leaving him a link to the PDF of The Fair Race and suggesting that he read the first part of the book, which is about how Constantine should be considered the greatest imaginable villain in the history of the ancient world.

Unlike Westcott, Robert Morgan does have a clear notion of the damage that Christianity did to the white race. In his most recent comment he wrote:

The fish doesn’t perceive the water he swims in; or as Ellul put it, when a propaganda has triumphed completely, it disappears from view as propaganda. Then it becomes the normal, replacing whatever existed before with itself. Christianity conquered the West so completely and uprooted paganism so thoroughly that nothing remains in the culture that opposes it. There are only various Christian heresies, some of which, like Marxism, accept the Christian moral outlook on the so-called “brotherhood of man”, but relegate belief in Jesus to an optional accessory, or even oppose it. Gone with paganism is the white man’s primeval joyousness, his celebration of himself as depicted in the sculptures of ancient Rome and Greece. Gone is his sensuality and love of life; gone his love of victory; gone his pride. He learned from Christianity to despise himself, be ashamed of sex, and look forward to death.

And in another comment he added:

A prominent feature of today’s totalitarianism is a 1984-style Anti-Sex League. This operates synergistically with the Puritanical view of sex fostered by Christianity, and now persists as Christianity’s cultural residue even among those who aren’t religious, or even consider themselves anti-Christian.

This is very true and we must analyse it.

Almost without exception, all white advocates ignore, like Westcott, that the anti-white zeitgeist in the collective unconscious of the white man was born in the times of Constantine. That is why it is so important to read Evropa Soberana’s essay in that first part of the book that I compiled. However, reading it is only the beginning to amend our ways, as we shall see in this post.

An individual who truly transvalues all values detects reminiscences of the Christian ethos even in the harshest novel a white advocate has written. I have already talked about this but it is worth repeating. The Turner Diaries contains a passage in which it is said that the Order would take a freedom fighter to the firing squad if he rapes a woman who also belongs to that liberation movement.

The first thing to consider here is that Pierce wrote his novel before the movement of frustrated men emerged on the internet analysing women’s psychology to the point of understanding it. In short, women only become bad if they don’t have many children, just as men become bad if we fail to kill the enemy.

In the context of war, the life of a man is worth infinitely more than the life of a woman, and this is where Pierce erred. One of the toughest episodes during Julius Caesar’s war in Gaul happened when those on Vercingetorix’s side had to expel Gallic women and children from a besieged fortress, as the food was scarce, and it was understood that without the precious life of the male warriors the war would be lost.

Unlike the above anecdote, which shows how precious the male life is during wartime, in the reader’s mind that passage from Pierce’s novel which is very brief, only demoralises the would-be soldier. In total war what counts is to kill, genocide, exterminate, and not leave stone upon stone of the enemy culture as the Romans did in Carthage. Occasionally, this Blond Beast is allowed to rape even the women in his tribe. Although the Vikings TV series is as flawed as Game of Thrones to describe the spirit of yesteryear, I remember in one of the episodes of the first season that Rollo raped a woman from his village simply because he fancied her.

For the white advocate who wants to do something for his race, and even for the Pierce who wrote that passage, it would be absolutely inconceivable if you carried that barbarism into the world today. True, once there is a social contract in a pure white society (think of the Jane Austen or Downton Abbey worlds), rape should not be allowed. But in those societies the institution of marriage (every Jack had his Jill) was rock solid.

The point is that we do not live in times of early or late Victorianism. We live in the time when Christianity (cf. once again Soberana’s essay) has been axiologically transformed into a neochristianity whose goal is that whites immolate themselves.

In these times, the only thing that matters is to disabuse the Aryan man from the lie of millennia as Nietzsche would say. (Hence the priest of the 14 words’ first guideline: ‘Speak only to Aryan males’.) What Morgan says in his second quote could be illustrated not only with the case of the Viking Rollo raping a woman from his village, but with the siege of the Vercingetorix warriors, although now seen from the Roman side.

Homer describes Ganymede as the most beautiful of mortals, and in one version of the myth, Zeus falls in love with his beauty and abducts him to serve as cup-bearer in Olympus. Although Zeus was basically hetero and always had countless affaires with goddesses and human women, he wanted to know what the cute brat tasted like (Lol!). Imagine that one of Julius Caesar’s centurions, a married man with children in a distant village, as most soldiers was sexually starved in the camp. Following the example of Zeus-Jupiter, he fancied a teenager as androgynous as Giton, whom I alluded to recently in this comment, and adopted him as the cup-bearer of his tent.

Who in the Roman world would care, in times of war, that this centurion felt that infatuation for the ephebe? Who the hell would tear their clothes like even racist ‘anti-Christians’ would do today, so loaded on their backs with the ogre of the Xtian superego?

These two examples illustrate what Morgan says in the quote above. Just as Westcott apparently had no inkling of the role Constantine played in the destruction of the ancient world, contemporary racists, even so-called anti-Christians, remain slaves to the moralism dictated by Moses rather than the morality of Homer.

Many people, even those who have congratulated me on this site for the texts I have translated unmasking Christianity, have no idea what the phrase ‘transvaluation of all values’ means.

It means: Be humble!

Be humble enough to recognise that we committed a blunder seventeen hundred years ago. Constantine’s mistake that may cost the race its very existence meant exchanging the beautiful Aryan Gods and the mores accompanying them for the nefarious god of the Jews.

If the white race is heading towards extinction it is due to the pride of refusing to see something so obvious.

On Anglin’s rape article

‘It’s a taboo for white nationalists to talk about it, but we don’t stand a chance unless our men become killing machines, and our women birthing machines’.

—Young White

Andrew Anglin’s article today, ‘Rape Gangs, Sex Slavery and Breeding Farms: Everything You Always Wanted to Know (But Were Afraid to Ask)’ is funny but suffers from a terrible ideological flaw.

He uses the holy book of the Jews as a paradigm for the coming Holy Racial Wars instead of using the Aryan paradigm par excellence, the rape of the Sabine women.

Judeo-Christian question aside, Anglin’s article does not say anything substantially new to what William Ventvogel already said about seventeen years ago in ‘The Future of White Women: A Speculation’, an essay that I rescued in 2011 under another title.

Published in: on April 18, 2020 at 4:25 pm  Comments (1)  

Incel mantra

Our hope: After the holy racial wars à la Turner Diaries
you’ll be able to abduct the Sabine woman of your dreams.

Published in: on July 16, 2019 at 12:01 am  Comments (9)  

Persistent scepticism

A visitor to this site sent me the following e-mail:

This comment of mine was originally going to be posted in response to a comment of yours about abducting and raping the Sabine women on your blog post entitled ‘Initial scepticism’. Though my comment was not addressed to you directly but to anyone who reads your blog:

It’s sad that white males seem to be only able to talk about solutions to such problems as the Female Problem in future tense. White males speak about what they’re going to do “one day”, “in the future”, just not now. We’re going to abduct and rape our women “one day”…. meanwhile Muslims and Blacks abduct and rape our women now. In the UK Muslim men are having their lust fulfilled with thousands of white girls. Granted UK law is not hard on these Muslim men and actively favors them but at the same time Black men in America do suffer long imprisonment for rape, yet they still rape white women each year on a colossal scale. In addition Black men and Muslim men have their own women under greater control than white men have their women. Black women in Africa have the highest birth rate in the world and Blacks are projected to become the largest race on Earth as we near the end of the century. And Muslim men have their women following a patriarchal rule, covered up with burkas and banging out babies. Meanwhile they rape our own women on the side.

White boys (I’m not going to call us White Men, most of us don’t deserve to be called Men) talk about what they’re going to do “after the collapse”, hoping for a collapse that will cause society to collapse into chaos so the police are dispersed and they can get away with what it is they want to do. But the collapse may never come. What white males have to be prepared for is that killing their enemies and raping their women could very well require breaking their enemies laws. That the only way forward is to become outlaws. True revolutionaries. If the minority of us white males who want our race to survive won’t sacrifice our meaningless ‘freedom’, pleasures and life and endure prison, torture and even death then our race may not be able to survive. If we’re not willing to put anything on the table we don’t deserve to get anything back. Our forefathers sacrificed for their race time and time again. If white males have become incapable of doing what’s necessary for survival then our race is unfit to survive.

If white males were serious about their race’s survival they would be dropping out of society, draining the enemy system for all the welfare money they can, radicalizing themselves and other white males with racist literature, living a lifestyle where they are constantly in and out of prison due to their subversive activities, and finally carrying out terrorist attacks. There are thousands of radicalized Muslims in countries like France and the UK and they successfuly commit terrorist attacks. Imagine if there were thousands of radicalized neo-Nazi extremists in France and the UK. We would be unstoppable! A 1,000 Robert Bowers=11,000 dead Jews! Ultimately White Men have no-one to blame but themselves for their failure to secure a future for white children. White Men are deliberately holding themselves back for various reasons. It appears most white males don’t have the imagination or capability to break with the System and its programming. They are victims and slaves of their own making. Their ‘resistance’ will always be safe non-violent activism within legal parameters.

Thanks for reading, Cesar

T.

As we can see, the visitor used the phrase ‘But the collapse may never come’. In reality, the collapse is inevitable: as can be seen in these four videos by Mike Maloney that, five years ago, I embedded on this site (first, second, third and fourth).

Regarding what the visitor says above, that the coloured ones are already raping white women while the Aryan males only fantasise about doing so in the future, this is obviously due to the fact that the anti-white empire that reigns in the West forbids to some what it allows to others. The author of ‘Lycanthropy: How will the Castilian Wolf deal with Little Red Riding Hoods after the crash’ made it very clear that it is necessary for ZOG to be fatally wounded before white males recover their wives.

The good news is that the System will soon suffer a huge blow with the looming financial accident: a golden opportunity for white nationalists, finally, to grow a pair.

KD Rebel, 5

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


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

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

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

“Uhmmm,” was all Trebor replied.

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

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

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

“Okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why our daughter?” the overweight man asked.

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

“Save her? Save her from what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kinsland,” Eric told her.

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

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

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

“What about him?” She indicated Trebor.

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

“Two wives?”

“Sure. You have a problem with that?”

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

____________________

KD Rebel is available from Daybreak Press: here.

Published in: on October 13, 2017 at 6:43 am  Comments (1)  

KD Rebel, 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I ask something?” she ventured timorously.

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

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

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

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

“What’s that for?” Candy asked.

“To tie you up with.”

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

“That’s right.”

“Are you going somewhere?”

“Yes.”

“You won’t kill us, will you?”

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

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

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

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

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

____________________

KD Rebel is now available from Daybreak Press: here.

Published in: on October 6, 2017 at 10:58 am  Leave a Comment