Friday, September 19, 2014

New Northwest Front Video

Thanks to Comrade J.S.

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

Radio Free Northwest - September 18th, 2014

HAC gives a brief Edgar Steele update and concludes his July interview with radio host Mike Harris. We hear from a British comrade, Gretchen reviews a book on rightist politics, and Andy talks about the NF and moral standards.

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

The Shape Of Things To Come

[Northwest novel promotion time again. This is beginning of the second chapter of A Distant Thunder. - HAC]

Woodchuck Kid (Part One)

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,

The pangs of despis’d love, the law’s delay,

The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of the unworthy takes….?

-Hamlet, Act III, Scene One

Good morning, ma’am. You all set up? If you’re ready to record I’m ready to ramble.

I suppose it’s best to start at the beginning. I’ll go ahead and get the family and childhood stuff out of the way, so I can get on with the real story. My full name is Shane Alan Ryan. I was born in Providence Hospital in Dundee, Washington, ninety-one years ago last month. 

I’ve lived in Dundee most of my life except for my tour of military duty during the War of Independence with the Northwest Volunteer Army, and again when I was called up by the Northwest Defense Force during Operation Strikeout, when I got as far north as Chilliwack in B.C. and as far south as Chico in California. We had to pull back from Chico after the armistice. Never particularly wanted to live anywhere else than Dundee. Grow where you’re planted, I always figured. Oh, yeah, I been to Spokane and Coeur d’Alene and Jackson Hole, Wyoming since then, but that was on vacation.

Married twice, widowed twice, no children from the first marriage to my lifelong regret, eight from the second and something on the order of twenty-four grandchildren, number twenty-five coming along next week sometime, and six great-grandkids, including that little three-year-old imp of Satan who is about to pull the tripod out from under your camera, and whom you have my permission to smack. 

I been retired for more years than I care to remember. I’ve worked at the methane power plant out on Clark Highway, and I also ran a vacuum sealer at the cannery down on the harbor. Worked for the Party as well. For some years I was chief immigrant housing officer for the Bureau of Race and Resettlement. I always had a partiality for German Homecomers, and my efforts are one reason why we have one of the biggest Oktoberfests in the Republic and why you can buy the Lëwischer Zeitung from a rack right beside the Dundee Advertiser. 

After I retired from the Bureau, just for something to do, my last job was as a night watchman at a Ministry of Agriculture cranberry processing plant. I have three pensions, one from the Veteran’s Fund and one from the cannery, plus my usual government Codger Credit. When I croak, which should be sometime fairly soon, the Sons and Daughters of the NVA will bury me for free beside both of my late wives and give me a nice marble headstone with the Volunteer seal and the little statue of the guy in the fedora hat holding the Kalashnikov on top, which in my case is accurate because I did tote an AK on a few occasions, like the Rothstein hit I told you about yesterday. Once a year on October twenty-second, the local school children will come and pull up the weeds and replace the little vinyl Tricolor on my grave before their class goes off and eat themselves sick at their Independence Day party, so I’m pretty much taken care of. Not a bad way to end up at my age, I’ll give the revolution that. Damned sight better shape than I would have been in if we’d stayed with ZOG.

My birth in Providence Hospital was notable in being the last major medical expense my family ever had that was covered by health insurance. Lucky for us, I was the youngest of three children. Two months after I was born, my father was downsized from the last living-wage job with full benefits he would ever hold. From then on he worked at a series of temporary jobs with no bennies until each job in turn was lost to India or China or Guatemala when they found some mud who could do it for fifty cents a day. 

My father was an architect and a drunk, then he became an architectural draftsman and a drunk, then he was a consultant and a drunk, then a warehouse freight checker and a drunk, and finally he was just a drunk. We went from a split-level ranch on Country Club Drive when I was a baby, to a roomy but rundown two-story 1920s fixer-upper we lived in until I was ten, then a four-room renter house, then a series of smaller and smaller apartments, By the time that, to everyone’s surprise, I made it to high school graduation, we were in a twenty-year-old mobile home out on Dead Dog Road.

My mom was a secretary, then a bookkeeper, and finally she ended up working behind the counter in a laundromat run by a Pakistani. She was a bad drunk too, but she always held her liquor a lot better than Dad and usually you couldn’t tell when she was sloshed except by how mean and hateful she talked, about everyone and everything. Dad alternately raged at the world and wallowed in self-pity, but he never did anything about it. Didn’t even get in fights. I always had the impression that at some point in time he’d just given up on it all in sheer bafflement. He once told me when he was really plastered that life is an endless ordeal of meaningless suffering, and the only advice he could offer me was to save string, which might have been pretty profound if I hadn’t learned later on that he’d gotten that line from a Woody Allen movie. 

Mom. on the other hand, would do things, evil nasty things, like spiking her office rivals’ coffee with a little plastic pack of shampoo, sending people anonymous letters and e-mails telling them their spouse was cheating, that kind of petty malicious crap. In later years she took to calling government snitch lines anonymously to accuse people she didn’t like of being drug dealers, child abusers, and later on of being with the NVA, whether it was true or not. During the war I was always scared Mom would really ID one of our people by accident and rat them out, and then I’d be the one sent to whack her. I didn’t particularly like her, but it would have been very disrespectful.

One day the FBI rocked up at the trailer and enlightened her that I wasn’t traveling the Northwest as a Secret Shopper for Mighty Mart, and that I was really a Volunteer. I like to think that she never turned me in because I was family, but I have to admit I always suspected it was because she knew what would happen if she did. Death would have seriously interfered with her drinking. 

But after that, on my brief and infrequent covert visits home Mom kept nagging me to shoot the neighbors, or her co-workers, or whoever was on her hate list at the time. So I had to stop coming around, because I’d say no and she’d start whimpering about how I didn’t love her, trying to make me feel guilty because I wouldn’t be her private angel of death avenging all her petty hatreds and disappointments in life. Eventually another NVA crew from Centralia caught up with the Paki owner of the laundromat where she worked. The boys thumped him gentle and artistic with baseball bats, an axe handle, and a piece of steel rebar. After the wog got out of the hospital he decided the grass was greener in Los Angeles, so Mom lost her job and she quit speaking to me, which I was frankly glad of.

After the revolution I had a word with a comrade I knew on the Lewis County enemy property expropriations committee, and he gave the laundromat to Mom. She hired some new migrants from Switzerland to run it for her, it made her the boss and kept her in booze until she died of cancer, and so from that point on I was just the best and most loving son in the world, a heroic fighter for our people’s freedom, blah blah blah ishkabibble. That kind of relationship. You’ll know what I mean if you’ve ever had to deal with an alcoholic in the family. 
Dad was euthanized a few months after I went on the bounce. I don’t think it had anything to do with me being NVA. I hope not, anyway. He had been admitted to the hospital for liver failure due to severe cirrhosis. He had no medical insurance, and needless to say he couldn’t afford a liver transplant. Medicare was long gone, Obamacare sank out of sight years before, and Medicaid had finally folded up completely a year before, so Dad was certified as terminal by a Jew doctor named Friedman. 

One morning my Mom got a call at work saying Dad had been given a lethal injection of sodium pentathol the night before under Article So and So, Section Ishkabibble of the Senior Citizens’ Quality of Life Act, which I always thought was a strange name for a law that gave doctors the right to kill old people who annoyed them or who had no money. Basically, the United States government realized that unless something was done there would be millions of elderly white people from the Baby Boom who had no money and no insurance and who constituted a potential drain on the economy that might wreck the whole apple cart. So rather than stop pouring money down the Middle East rathole in a futile attempt to make the Arabs love Israel at gunpoint while we stole their oil, the government of the United States solved the problem from the other end by cutting expenses, i.e. by simply killing off the sick and the old people.

It wasn’t hard to do, since the precedent had already been set with massive legal abortion. There was a certain hideous logic to it. If you can kill a baby, then why not an octogenarian? What’s the difference if the human life being snuffed out for reasons of general inconvenience is minus three months or plus eighty-four years? By Amurrica’s warped logic, there was none. The precedent was set with Roe v. Wade that certain individuals in society had the right to decide to take certain other human lives, and from then on it was only a matter of deciding who pitched and who caught, as the faggots used to say. 

The new law gave the medical profession a hunting license, with an implicit understanding that they were to eliminate the problem caused by millions of non-productive codgers and crones who were waving their canes and screeching their demands that they be taken care of as promised in exchange for a lifetime of submission and conformity. There are no statistics available as to how many Baby Boomers were shunted into the nursing homes and shortly afterward given the hot shot by mostly Jewish and Third World “medical professionals,” which towards the end could mean any Filipino who had gotten through a sixteen-week nurse’s aid course and who could write English well enough to fill out the zillion necessary forms after he’d whacked the old folks. 

By the time I was growing up, us white kids all had a pretty good idea of what was waiting for us at the end of the trail if we left ZOG in power. I always kind of suspected that was a large part of what made my generation finally decide to pick up a rifle. Some of us figured we might as well die from a bullet now as on the end of some kike’s hypodermic needle fifty years on.

As a joyful kicker, Dad’s one remaining life insurance policy was invalidated. The company refused to pay, because they said my father’s death was an Act of God. No, my father’s death was an Act of Jew, which isn’t quite the same thing. Mom screamed and hollered for a while and ran to this jackleg lawyer we had in town named Stevens, who took the last $27,000 she managed to scrape up from somewhere in retainer and billable hours before informing Mom that the statute specifically forbade civil relief for acts of euthanasia committed in “good faith” and that since it appeared that Dad had been an alcoholic (well, he was) and was therefore really responsible for all of it himself, she had no case. The son of a bitch had known that all along before he took my mother’s money, of course. It was well known that Stevens made a habit of scamming people on those Quality of Life Act wrongful death cases, but Mom chose not to believe anyone who warned her. There was at least that much desperate, ruined love for Dad left in her, I think.

I filed a murder complaint on Doctor Friedman with the War Prevention Bureau after the revolution, and I got him put on the Hit Parade. Me and a couple of hundred others whose old folks that kike bastard murdered. A few years later my father’s killer was found dead in his Lexus in a parking garage in Philadelphia with a skull full of .22 hollow points and a Tarot card, the Prince of Wands, tossed on his dashboard. Always hoped I’d find out who the Prince of Wands was so I could thank him, but the WPB keeps such matters pretty close to the vest. 

Lawyer Stevens got his as well, even before that. During the Cleanup, the NVA (no, I tell a lie, I think we were actually NDF by then) kicked in this legal beagle’s office door as he was stuffing a big suitcase full of documents, either to destroy them or to flee the country. An hour later Stevens was turning slowly in the wind on an elm tree in the downtown park. The boys hung him with piano wire, so he twirled and danced like fish on the end of a hook and line for a long time, bobbing and gasping and pissing, while the crowd of onlookers cheered and applauded and laughed and cursed his soul on its journey down to hell. Like I said, this particular jurisconsult had a reputation in our little community. Alles wird abgerechnet. What goes around, comes around.

My mom told me something odd once. She said, “Your father was secretly very proud of you, Shane, although he would never have dared to say it out loud, to you or to anyone else. You were doing what no man of his generation had the courage to do, least of all him.” What struck me as odd was that Mom was sober when she told me this. 

I had two older brothers, neither of whom figure in my story. One of them became a drug addict. The year after I graduated high school he OD’ed in Seattle on a speedball, a mixture of cocaine and heroin that his equally trashed-out girlfriend injected him with. It wasn’t the drugs that killed him. She’d just been so stoned there was an air bubble in the hypodermic and his heart seized up. 

I never had to track her down and kill her. She wasn’t a bad or uncaring young woman, she was just screwed up like a Chinese fire drill. When she realized what she had done, she got on the computer and typed out a seven-thousand-word suicide note full of gibberish, e-mailed it to everyone in her address book, and then she turned up the boom box full volume with some nigger rap song and committed suicide by shooting herself up with pure air. Her address book was mostly spammers and Usenet groups for lunatics, and so no one noticed the suicide e-mail, but my brother’s Bengali landlord found the bodies after he broke into the apartment to shut up the boom box. After paying out the last of her savings to that goddamned attorney my mom couldn’t afford a funeral, and so she sold my brother’s body to an organ chop shop at the hospital for spare parts. God knows what they could harvest out of his drug-sodden carcass. The girl’s too, after no one claimed her. Mom stayed drunk for three months on the proceeds.

My other brother fought on the other side. Well, joined it, anyway. He was too chickenshit to get his hands wet. He became a lawyer, to the eternal disgrace of our family. He married a chink and fled the country after Longview rather than end up swinging on a length of piano wire like Mr. Stevens and his other fellow officers of the court. 

Not to mention the crime of racial treason through miscegenation. I’ve no idea where he ended up, nor do I care. Somewhere I probably have half-breed Asian nephews and nieces. If I’d ever met any of them in my gun-toting days I would have wasted them without a moment’s hesitation. Garbage is garbage, no matter whose blood happens to be intermingled with the yellow piss. 

So that’s pretty much my biological family taken care of. They were all a pretty revolting bunch, truth to tell, and I’ll try to keep them as much out of this from now on as I can. The Wingfields were my real family.

* * *
A Distant Thunder may be purchased from at:

Sunday, September 14, 2014

Edgar Steele's Fellow Captives Speak Out

[The following statements on the murder of Edgar Steele were received from fellow inmates at the Victorville fortress prison. - HAC]

Edgar Steele went to the infirmary on August 26th for an "episode of anxiety" which involved hallucinations, sudden onset dementia, and extreme paranoia. There was no apparent cause for this other than some kind of poisoning. He was there for four days, and then returned to general population in a wheel chair. He did not know where he was. He was much worse and told everyone "I knows what I  must do", that "my time is done, they want me dead now" and "tell them all I love them," presumably his family. 

As he was being pushed to medical, half naked and looking like a skeleton. I was able to speak to him briefly. He told me he had to go to medical and stated "I'm done for."  I told him to keep his head up, that he could overcome this, and not to let them win. It was very hard seeing him like that, because as sick as Edgar had been sometimes in body, his mind was always sharp. It was obvious to me that Edgar was being drugged. Whatever they were injecting him with destroyed his mind and broke his heart.

I contacted [name redacted] to make sure the Steele family knew what was going on with him, and also [name redacted] so she could call Cyndi. It was obvious to me that Edgar was drugged. We were informed that he died on September 4th. We have been allowed a memorial service in the prison chapel. Myself and Chris Parks will be speaking eulogies in his memory. Edgar Steele is now in a better place, free of pain and  and free of the tyranny that took his life. May he rest in peace--Jake Laskey

Eulogies From Edgar Steele's Prison Memorial Service  
By The Asatru Pagan Blot 

[Note: Asatru is the only Aryan religion recognized by the Bureau of Prisons, and therefore the only exclusively White group allowed in any of the institutions. The Asatru Blot at a prison therefore often ends up becoming the only White group with any official standing to act or speak for the White inmates. - HAC]

Edgar J. Steele was a trial lawyer who handled cases which tested freedom of speech and racially charged limits of Constitutional law. He fought for people like myself, the politically incorrect. When I was first indicted in 2005, I wrote to him to see if he would agree to represent me, but he was already committed to a case in Coeur d'Alene. He and I had briefly met in 2003 at the Aryan Nations Congress in Lafayette Park when he came by to see Pastor Butler, whom he represented in the civil case against Morris Dees. 

Edgar called himself "The Attorney of the Damned", and he began posting his own racialist articles on his website, He appeared on national TV network news programs like Good Morning America, The Early Show, Today, Fox News, Dateline, NBC Nightly News  and CNN. He brought to the masses his message of White separatism from his highly educated mind. He had a BA in Finance from the University of Washington, an MBA in accounting from UC Berkeley and a Juris Doctorate from UCLA.

Edgar's informative book Defensive Racism, which was his call for the creation of a new White America, is in my mind one of the top ten White Nationalist Must-Read books. In his book he acknowledges racial differences in our DNA and he coined the term "culture gone to seed." He exposes the Jewish world conspiracy which is methodically depriving us of our rights and militarizing our police in order to our police to turn the U.S. into a dictatorship.

Edgar Steele's vision is of a New America created out of the ashes of the U.S. when it breaks apart along racial lines, and like the phoenix, a new state of transformation occurs, where liberty, justice, and freedom are restored to our normal people. His book was written so you and I and everyone could recognize the fact of racial differences that most people pretend not to notice, because they are scared to be ostracized as a racist. 

And yet being a racist is biologically embedded  within us, and in separating into our own ethnostates we will no longer experience racial strife. Those of us in prison practice segregation as a matter or survival. We have to, for no world is more real than prison. We know that in separation lies safety and salvation. The rest of the White world must come to know it too.

Edgar Steele had a vision for all White humanity, and it is our duty to make sure that vision never dies. Edgar was a political prisoner, not a criminal, and he was never able to adjust to living like one in here. He was a leader of his people who was respected the world over but was never allowed to know it, since he never received the tons of mail that would have let him know how he was admired and supported. He was one of the few men I could have an intelligent conversation with about the philosophy of Oswald Spengler, about the post-war martyr Francis Parker Yockey, about Julius Evola and about where we are in the universe under the Cosmic Mind.

Edgar came to my Wotanist classes to enjoy the message. He attended Yule for our brotherhood and unity, and he wanted to write a book with me to give our people in which the interview I did with him, now printed by the Northwest Front, Racial Nationalist Party of America, and Australian National Action, would have been the opening chapter.

When I last saw Edgar being pushed to Medical in his wheel chair, I took one look at him and I knew I would never see him again.  I told him to keep his head up and overcome this. He wasn't in his right mind, but he did recognize me. He is now in a better place, free of the tyranny that sent him here today for a crime which was committed by one of their own informers for the express purpose of destroying him, with the expert witnesses who could have proven the audiotapes were fakes banned from his trial. The dictatorship sent Edgar Steele here to silence him forever. We must make certain that never happens.

His memory, his message, and his voice must live on. That's our part.


Jake Laskey #68777-065
P.O. Box 3900
Adelanto, CA 92301-3900

[From John Christian Parks] On April 20th, 2014, Jake Laskey did an interview with Edgar J. Steele. Steele was quoted as saying "anytime anyone dies here at Victorville, the rumor is that person is me, the price of the notoriety that I possess."

On September 4th there was another rumor that Edgar was dead. This time it was true. Edgar departed from the life of torment that the regime had inflicted on him for over four years.

Many of you knew who he was, but some of you do not. Edgar J. Steele was a trial lawyer who lived in northern Idaho. He represented politically incorrect clients against a tyrannical government whose objective is to silence and destroy all opposition in thought, speech, and deed. All of us gathered here today have been put through their Jewdicial system, and we know what it does to patriots, constitutionalists, thought criminals, and White nationalists.

Edgar became the target of the dictatorship when he would not play ball with Morris Dees and the SPLC during the infamous civil lawsuit Dees used to steal Pastor Richard Butler's home from him. Like others such as Matt Hale, Edgar Steele was deliberately set up from the ground up with deliberately falsified evidence created by the secret police. 

The only crime actually committed in his case was committed by an FBI informer who planted a bomb on the car of Edgar's wife, a bomb which did not go off and was discovered only by accident, and for which the informer was allowed to walk out of the jailhouse after a few months while Edgar Steele got 50 years of hard time and was sent here to die.

After the SPLC suit against Butler, Edgar felt it was time for his beliefs and views to be known publicly. In 2005 he published a book, Defensive Racism: An Unapologetic Examination of Racial Differences. In Defensive Racism Edgar delves into the dynamics of race, intellectual myths, as well as genetic realities and quotes and statistics from Richard Herrnstein's book The Bell Curve. Both Defensive Racism and The Bell Curve should be considered must-reads for White Nationalist.

Edgar Steele realized, and all of us gathered here today who are in this struggle should realize, that being involved in the Movement and our struggle for existence and future may not only cost you your freedom but could cost you your very life. Edgar has now given his life for his people and their survival. He joins men like Bob Mathews, David Lane, Bruce Pierce, Richard Butler, George Lincoln Rockwell and many others in the past who have also given u their lives while fighting the Beast that is trying to kill us all.

There are many voices which have spoken to our Folk down through the ages, but today there many speaking who have some part of the answer. Edgar did not let the lack of one single major voice speaking out ever stop him. In this cause, you are either all the way out or all the way in, and Edgar Steele was all the way in. Even close to his death he never wavered in his belief or ever became apologetic to the dictatorship for his politically incorrect beliefs which landed him a 50-year sentence quite literally for nothing.

Edgar was a Christian and quoted Scripture in Defensive Racism. Edgar was 100% committed; for him there was never any middle ground. Christ spoke plainly about this in Rev.3:15-16: "I know your deeds, how they are neither cold nor hot. I wish you were one or the other, but since you are neither hot nor cold, but only lukewarm, I will spit you out of my mouth."

Edgar J. Steele was all the way in. Committed to fighting for our folk, our future, our freedom, and our existence. Will you be?

In Edgar J. Steele's honor, Hail Our Victory!  

John Christian Parks #43071-086
P. O. Box 3900
Adelanto, CA 92301-3900

Saturday, September 13, 2014

Write To Bill White

Hi, guys:

Bill White is going to remain in the Seminole County Jail almost until Thanksgiving--his sentencing is set for November 21st. 

Given the fact that runs into the holidays and the Bureau of Prisons might be too "busy" to transport him elsewhere in the system for a time, it is entirely possible he may remain in Orlando until the end of the year before he is assigned a permanent burial place. Possibly the hideous Victorville fortress prison where Edgar Steele was murdered earlier this month. 

Or maybe they'll indict him a few more times and spend the next several years shipping him all around the country, specifically to avoid getting him assigned to any kind of stable and settled prison environment. They can do anything they want. They've got him for life now.

He was genuinely convinced that this time it would be different, that this time someone would listen, and this time he would be acquitted. I warned him this wasn't going to happen, that if they had any intention of ever freeing him he wouldn't have been re-arrested, but the fact is that right now he is in bad mental and emotional condition. He is finally having to come to grips with the fact that he has been given one of the most horrible destinies imaginable: to suffer lifelong punishment for things he did not do at the hands of a deranged beast. 

I do not know how many letters will be allowed to reach Bill in the coming months and how many will simply be thrown away by the cretins at the jail, or how many will be stolen by the FBI and end up gathering dust for decades in some plastic tub in the basement of some federal building or on a shelf in some governmnent warehouse. Post cards may have a slightly better chance of getting through. In any case, Bill needs your moral support right now. 

Make sure your letters are hand-written and not typed. Apparently the staff at the John Polk Correctional Center are either too fucking stupid to understand the difference between something that is actially internet-generated and a letter that is typed on paper via a word-processing program, or else they deliberately misunderstand and use that as an excuse to withhold Bill White's mail.

William A. White #201400005514
John Polk Correctional Facility
211 Bush Boulevard
Sanford, FL 32773

Friday, September 12, 2014

Bill White "Convicted" Again

Bill was "convicted" again this afternoon. This isn't exactly crushing news to me, since I never expected anything different, but it will be devastating to Bill, as eternally optimistic as he always was.


I'm somewhat worried they'll murder him in his cell now like they did Edgar Steele, and blame it on his "despondency" when it finally hits him that yes, they really have decided he is going to die in prison for the crime of pissing off Barry Soetoro and Eric Holder.

Thursday, September 11, 2014

The Life And Death Of Edgar J. Steele

This is a transcript of Mr. Covington’s podcast, called Radio Free Northwest, for September 11th, 2014. To download this and other episodes of Radio Free Northwest, go to 

* * *

This is Harold Covington speaking. This will be a short episode of Radio Free Northwest, devoted entirely to the murder of our friend and comrade Edgar James Steele, who died in the Victorville fortress prison on September the fourth.

No one at Victorville or in the federal government even bothered to inform Steele’s family that he was gone; the first his wife Cyndi Steele knew of it was when she got a phone call from some mortuary down there in California asking what she wanted them to do with her husband’s dead body.

In June of 2010, north Idaho Attorney Edgar J. Steele was arrested by the FBI on false charges of allegedly hiring a hit man to murder his wife and mother in law. I might point out here that neither of the women who were Steele’s purported victims ever believed him to be guilty of this charge, and both supported him publicly, Cyndi’s mother until her own death from natural causes and Cyndi herself to this day.

The alleged would-be assassin was a man named Larry Fairfax, an FBI informer who was inserted into Steele’s home posing as a handyman in order to spy on the Steele family, until for reasons as yet unclear, Fairfax’s mission ceased to become one of mere intelligence gathering and became one of perjury and personal destruction.

While he was working there, Fairfax proceeded to help himself to large stashes of silver coins and bullion that the Steeles were keeping on their property in anticipation of a Federal Reserve currency crash brought on by Barack Obama’s incompetence. The final whereabouts of that silver seems to be something of a mystery. Apparently the FBI allowed Fairfax to keep at least some of it as a kind of bonus or reparations for the annoyance and inconvenience of having to spend a few months in county jail and then under house arrest with an ankle bracelet in the service of the Bureau.

A short time after her husband was arrested, Edgar’s wife Cyndi Steele pulled into a local service station for an oil change, and the mechanic found a bomb wired to the underside of her car. Not knowing that the bomb was part of an FBI fabrication against her husband, the local police called a rival federal agency, the BATFE, who refused to honor the FBI’s assurance that Larry Fairfax was one of their CIs and proceeded to arrest and charge Fairfax publicly for manufacturing and transporting the explosive device, much to the Bureau’s extreme embarrassment.

The bomb was clearly intended to go off and kill Cyndi in order to bolster the Bureau’s case against Edgar and also remove a potential fly in the ointment, since Cyndi was already balking at the official version of events and refusing to go along and play the victim.

Now the dictatorship faced the additional complication and embarrassment of having their informer publicly exposed by the ATF who refused to carry the FBI’s water on this one. Fairfax’s role in the case was eventually laughed off by the courts with a 27-month sentence, none of it in actual prison. Fairfax was moved from county jail to house arrest five months after Edgar Steele was sentenced to 50 years. Today he is a free man with a nice chunk of change in his pocket, some of it from the silver he stole from Edgar Steele.

There has been a lot of speculation in our circles as to exactly why Edgar Steele was targeted by the dictatorship at this particular time. He had been a thorn in the régime’s side for many years, defending such politically incorrect clients as Richard Butler of the Aryan Nations, the brutally persecuted Christine family, and Lonny Rae, the Idaho man who was so impolitic as to say nigger in public while defending his wife against being assaulted—by a nigger.

But Steele hadn’t handled any high-profile cases for several years and he was recovering from extremely serious open-heart surgery for a burst aneurism that almost killed him. He had spoken in public about possibly running for governor of Idaho on a third-party ticket, but his heart attack pretty much put paid to that.

The most common theory about why Edgar Steele was targeted for victimization and personal destruction by the dictatorship is simple: he pissed somebody off, probably our nigger attorney general Eric Holder. Steele mentioned in one of his Nickel Rant podcasts that when the current dictator was immaculated, he sent copies of his book Defensive Racism to both Barry himself and Eric Holder. Maybe that was what did it.

But there are other theories as to why the FBI chose to fabricate a case against Edgar Steele from the ground up. One is that the people whom Edgar pissed off were his fellow lawyers who didn’t like the way he passionately and zealously defended his clients, especially Richard Butler and the Christines. They considered that by actually trying to get his clients out of the clutches of the machine, Edgar Steele betrayed his class.

Another theory is that since the death of Richard Butler and the collapse of Aryan Nations the Spokane FBI office was being downsized, since the so-called threat of quote-unquote “white supremacist terror” was gone now. The agents who for years had an easy gig surveilling and harassing Aryan Nations and following carloads of drunken Skinheads up and down dirt roads now faced being transferred to large urban areas with significant Muslim populations like New Jersey or New York or Atlanta or even, God help them, Detroit.

The FBI guys didn’t want to leave nice, White Eastern Washington and north Idaho with the clean air and good public schools and absence of any genuine crime, and take their families to some urban American hellhole full of niggers and wogs where they might actually come up against real criminals who might hurt them.

And so the FBI in Spokane fabricated a so-called domestic terrorism case against a 65 year-old man with a serious heart condition, a nice soft target, to show the bean-counters in the J. Edgar Building back in D.C. that there was still wicked evil terrorism in Spokane and they really do need to keep that grossly overstaffed field office intact so the agents there can fritter away their days in nice relaxing cubicles, drinking coffee and reading other people’s e-mails and listening to Radio Free Northwest every week.

But I myself have another theory as to why the dictatorship did this to Edgar Steele, fabricated a case from the ground up simply to get rid of someone somebody didn’t like.

I think they did it because they could, and because they wanted to demonstrate to us all that they could. I think this whole thing was a ghastly experiment on the part of the FBI and the United States Attorney’s office, with full sanction from the top, to see just how much they could get away with in climate of the early 21st century in Obama’s Amurrica.

The answer is, anything and everything. I think the FBI and the badly misnamed Justice Department wanted to see if it was possible in the United States to basically dispense with the law and the Constitution altogether and essentially intern people like they do in Third World countries. The answer is yes, it is. Edgar Steele was not a federal felon, he was a kind of latter-day Count of Monte Cristo.

The trial of Edgar Steele in 2011 was an unmitigated horror show. The basis of Edgar Steele’s conviction was audio files fabricated by FBI technicians, supposedly discussions between himself and Fairfax about murder for hire. These conversations appear even to a layman who first hears them to sound strained, stilted, unnatural, and obviously doctored at the key points and phrases. The Steele tapes were not only forgeries, apparently they weren’t even very good ones.

At Steele’s trial two international audio engineering experts who were prepared to state categorically for the record that the tapes were fraudulent were barred from testifying by a corrupt judge; the jury was never allowed to hear evidence which clearly proved Edgar Steele’s innocence.

The situation wasn’t helped by the fact that Steele’s first attorney, a federal public defender named Roger Peven, was a raging alcoholic who at the time was being sued by three members of his own legal staff for various acts of drunken misconduct. Steele’s second defense attorney, a man named Robert McAllister, on whom he and his wife Cyndi expended most of their life’s savings, turned out to be facing disbarment for embezzling his clients’ money and was in fact disbarred only weeks after Steele’s conviction.

Many suspect that this second attorney may have struck a deal with the dictatorship to keep himself out of prison by deliberately taking a dive in the courtroom and bungling Steele’s defense. If so, it didn’t work. The dictator’s servants broke their word, surprise, surprise. In September of 2012 the 62 year-old McAllister was sentenced to six years for fraud. Wow, those feds are really great at sending elderly White men in their 60s to prison, ain’t they? No strong-jawed and steely-eyed Aaron Hotchners or Jack Bauers here. In real life the Bureau really loves those soft targets: not drug dealers or serial killers or child molestors, no no no, that’s too much like work. No, give them a sick elderly White man with no money for a lawyer for a target any day.

But I suppose there is some comfort in hoping that the bent brief will possibly die in the same prison cell as the client he betrayed. Interestingly enough, McAllister himself was a former United States attorney and prosecutor, which gives you some idea of the typical moral character of the people in the federal judiciary.

For whatever reason, McAllister’s performance in the courtroom was lackluster to say the least, and he refused to put his client on the witness stand, which always looks very bad to a jury. Needless to say the attorney’s own perilous legal situation was never explained to either Ed or Cyndi Steele while the trial was going on.

Apparently even something worse was happening. I was not able to attend the trial myself, but I have spoken to persons who were present in the courtroom who told me that Ed Steele quote-unquote “looked like a zombie”, confused and disoriented, and he seemed completely incoherent and disconnected from what was going on around him. The consensus of opinion among those who actually saw him on those days was that Steele was drugged on orders from someone in the federal government to make sure he was incapable of assisting in his own defense or even understanding what was happening to him.

On May 5th, 2011, absent the expert testimony that could have proven his innocence, Edgar Steele was found guilty of four criminal charges against him. He was eventually sentenced to 50 years. Being 66 years old, it was understood by all that this was a death sentence.

The United States penal system maintains several special medical and geriatric units at places like Springfield, Missouri and Fort Devens, Massachusetts to care for federal prisoners who are extremely sick or elderly but who caught one of these absurd 999-year sentences and who will never be released.

In view of his age and the perilous state of his health, Edgar Steele should have been sent to one of these. Instead he was sent to the heavily fortified maximum-security Victorville facility in California, which is well known throughout the federal system as a kind of toilet where human beings are flushed away. Among other things, the water supply in the prison is known to be contaminated with carcinogens and toxic waste, which facilitates the decline in health of those federal prisoners whom the government wishes to hear no more of. Victorville is notorious as an end-of-the-line destination. Once the gates clang shut there, no one leaves except in a body bag. Edgar Steele was sent there to die, and on September fourth, he did.
During the years he was there, Edgar Steele was held virtually incommunicado. My understanding is that his wife Cyndi was never allowed to visit him and never saw her husband again once the U.S. Marshals dragged him out of the courtroom that day in 2011, although that may not be totally correct and if it’s not I would appreciate someone close to the family letting me know.

I do know that Edgar’s incoming mail was systematically withheld and his outgoing mail seems mostly to have just disappeared; I myself received only one brief note from Ed during his entire confinement in Victorville, although I sent him well over a hundred pieces of mail including publications and personal letters during the time he was in Victorville, none of which he ever acknowledged and which seem to have vanished. All my mail to Edgar is right now probably sitting in some plastic tub in the basement of some government warehouse someplace.

The one brief note I myself received last autumn, via another Victorville inmate, promised further communication, but I never got anything else. I should say, however, that that brief note was coherent and to the point. However bad his physical health was, as of about ten months ago Ed’s mind was still clear.

As proof, about that time the Northwest Front published an interview with Steele which was conducted and smuggled out of the prison by another inmate. This is the last communication Ed had with the world, and it clearly shows that his mind was still as sharp and incisive as ever.

Now, this other inmate was a racially aware comrade of ours who was transferred into Victorville and who appointed himself to watch Edgar’s back, and he needed it. We know now that Edgar was assaulted at least once when he was in prison, presumably by non-White inmates, and that about a year ago he had another cardiac incident of some kind which required hospitalization, insofar as the filthy and poorly equipped prison infirmary could be considered a hospital. No effort was made to transfer him to Springfield or another medical facility; he wasn’t sent to Victorville to heal, he was sent there to die.

In early July this other inmate who had been looking out for Edgar was suddenly transferred out of Victorville and shipped across the country to West Virginia, allegedly because he was needed as a witness in some stabbing incident at one of his previous institutions.

The witness thing appears to have been bogus, but it got him away from Edgar Steele’s side for almost six weeks, which seems to have been the real reason for the transfer. What happened to Edgar Steele during those six weeks his friend and protector was gone from his side we have no way of knowing, but we know something bad happened.

When this inmate was finally returned to Victorville in late August  he found Edgar in a very bad way. He wrote me a letter marked urgent telling me what was happening and somehow or other that letter got out of the prison okay; I received it on the very day that Edgar died. According to our imprisoned comrade, on his return he found Edgar was filthy, unshaven, and he had lost weight to the point where he weighed maybe eighty pounds and looked skeletal, almost like the Crypt-Keeper.

Worse, Edgar was now completely out of his mind. He was hallucinating and ranting and raving incoherently and “attacking” his cell mates, although obviously in his condition he couldn’t do any damage. Our inmate correspondent, who saw him on or about September 1st, tells me flat out that Edgar was clearly being drugged or poisoned, and this man has been inside long enough to know what he’s talking about on that point, since the drugging of inmates is a common occurrence in the prison-industrial slave labor system.

As near as I can figure, on the night of September 1st, Edgar was dragged out of his cell by the guards and no one ever saw him alive after that. So far as I am aware, as of today, September 9th, Cyndi still has not received any official notification from any one of the dictator’s servants that her husband is dead or any kind of death certificate. I assume eventually they’ll give her something, but when they do it will be lying crap.

I wish I could tell you this is the first time I have had to sum up the life of a man or a woman who served the 14 Words and who perished in the attempt, but it isn’t. I wish I could tell you this was the last time, but it won’t be.

The Goat Dancers have in the past accused me of ambulance-chasing the Edgar Steele case. To hell with them. What they think about anything doesn’t matter. It is true that when he was out in the world Edgar and I didn’t get along all that well, in fact he once threatened to quote “crush me like a bug.” But middle-aged adolescent squabbling is unfortunately part of our wee little Movement’s character profile and over the years I have finally learned enough wisdom to accept this fact and disregard it.

As far as I am concerned the moment Obama’s gun thugs clapped those handcuffs on his wrists all was forgiven and forgotten, and Ed has had my unwavering support since then, for all the good it did him.

It is also true that in his personal world view as publicly expressed, Edgar Steele never quite made that last, crucial leap from some vague all-America, Bring-Back-The-Brady-Bunch idea to a public acceptance of the coming Soviet-style breakup of the North American continent and advocacy of a free and sovereign Homeland for our people here in the Pacific Northwest. Many people of his generation and mine will never be able to shake off the memory of the time they grew up in, an almost golden age compared to what we live in today. It would have been even harder for someone like Ed who was eight years older than I am and who actually remembered the Fifties as such; I was a child and frankly at this remove, everything before the first Star Trek series is pretty much a blur.

But nonetheless, I consider Edgar Steele to be a martyr for the 14 Words and for the Northwest American Republic, because he was a Northwester who was murdered by the dictatorship for fear of his words and deeds, and in my mind that qualifies him for inclusion in the roster of those who have given their lives for our new nation’s freedom, such as Bob Mathews, Sam and Vicky Weaver, Gordon Kahl, Jeff Hughes, and others.
I’m severely hampered here, because I am unable to say publicly what really should be said. The First Amendment, the right to express any opinion and to do so without punishment and retaliation by those in power, the freedom of speech and of thought which was once this country’s crowning glory, is no more. In Obama’s America, White men who say or write things which the regime or certain politically protected minorities find disagreeable are now subject to harassment, legal persecution, and in Edgar Steele’s case, to judicial murder.

It’s been like that for quite some time, of course, but the murder of Edgar Steele has finally stripped the last veneer of legality and legitimacy off the criminal power structure that rules us. It cannot be denied or ignored any longer that the government of the United States is no longer a legitimate or lawful government, for they have finally violated their own laws and their own standards so egregiously that the social contract that allows them to rule us is broken for all time. The United States of America is a failed state, and from now on its government is just another gang of thugs, no different from the Crips and the Bloods, only better dressed and better armed.

Nor are they particularly brave or manly thugs. America is a coward that shows its prowess by poisoning helpless old men of 69 in wheelchairs. As an aside, I’m not going to be running any more of my Who Guards The Guardians? segments on this show for a while. We have just received a clear and sharp reminder that none of this is at all funny. The FBI and DHS and BATF and other alphabet soup agency employees are not law enforcement officers, they are hired murderers, and they’re not funny, they are sickening and repugnant to basic human decency.

The United States and its law enforcement thugs are really good at killing old men, women, and children, from Vicky Weaver shot down in her doorway while holding her infant daughter to children incinerated at Waco like some ghastly ancient human sacrifice. You know, I can’t help but wonder just how big and bad and tough all these FBI and BATF and U.S. Marshals would be if they ever came up against grown men, sober and unafraid and not sleeping in their beds, who had the skill and the courage to shoot back. In fact, I’ve written several novels on the subject. America is not an eagle. America is a rat, with a yellow stripe running down its back.

They need not worry, though. We who remain will not deal with the judicial murder of Edgar Steele as we should, as upright and honorable free men should, as our own ancestors not too long ago would have done. We will not deal with the butchery of our friend as decency and justice demand because we lack the will, the self-respect, and above all we lack the courage to do so. All we will do while Edgar Steele is dumped into his grave like a discarded crushed beer can is to whine and wring our hands on the internet. No one will hear us, and no one would listen to us if they did, because our craven acquiescence to this monstrous act renders us unworthy of notice.

So be it. One has to play the hand one is dealt.

But will it always be like that? Will we Whiteboys always be such craven dogs that we never lift a hand to defend ourselves from the Beast or to avenge our murdered brothers and sisters and fathers and children? That’s the long-term bet that the United States of America has got everything riding on; the idea that we will be forever quiet, respectful, and obedient, and we will weep for our butchered loved ones quietly and out of sight and hearing.

Edgar Steele used to end all of his articles on his Conspiracy Penpal site with his signature phrase, “New America: An Idea Whose Time Has Come.”

He was wrong. The solution is not a New America, Ed. It’s No America.

America must end. It is a diseased, leprous thing. There is no health or goodness in it, there hasn’t been for a long time, and the ultimate interest of all humanity lies in this rotting and poisonous monster called the United States being removed from the earth. All of us know in our souls what has to be done. The problem is that out of our own weakness and cowardice, we’re just sitting around waiting for some one else to do it.

But that won’t last forever. Human nature cannot be suppressed forever by politically correct social engineering or the threat of dying like Edgar Steele in a prison cell. Eventually someone will do what has to be done and expunge the United States and the worms and grubs who serve it from the earth.

Tyranny such as this inevitably becomes intolerable, and at some point even the most supine and cowardly of people will reach a point where the chains of fear and intimidation and brainwashing and bullying will not hold, and they find that they would rather die themselves than live one more day like this.

The United States murdered Edgar Steele. For now, and for a long time to come, his death will remain unavenged, and we need to accept that. We simply don’t have what it takes. There is one thing and one thing alone that we can do for him: we can make sure that his work continues to be read, his podcasts are still listened to, and that his name is never forgotten. The same thing that you will all one day be called upon to do for me.

The Americans are fools: they have taken from us the lives of our martyred dead, but they have left us their names and their memories, and from those memories and from that martyred blood will spring a force that someday will unleash the fury of hell upon the vile tyranny that has done this, and on all those who have served that tyranny for a monthly direct deposit paycheck into their bank accounts.

Someday, at the hand of people most likely as yet unknown, the filth that is America will be purged from the world with fire and sword. The darkness that covers this land will be lifted, and a new generation of White children will be born and grow strong in the light.

And when they do, they will remember the name of Edgar Steele.

One of our comrades suggested that as part of my comments today I play the song by Saga, Sleep Well, My Brother. I already had a copy of that song, and I like it. It is a perfect funeral or memorial song, mournful, soft and sweet,

But at times like these we don’t need to be soft and sweet. We need to be strong and if we are still too weak and confused and timid and frightened to seize justice and vengeance for our martyred dead, at least we should have the balls to sing about it. That’s what the Irish mostly did for 800 years; when they couldn’t actually fight, which was most of the time, they sang. And eventually they won.

In the year 1798 there was another of the long series of hopeless rebellions in Ireland, a revolt which was eventually defeated and suppressed by the British crown with even more than their usual brutality. One of the leaders of the 1798 Rebellion was a man from the north of Ireland named Roger McCorley. Not much is known about him except that he was captured and judicially murdered by the British, but he left behind him one of the most magnificent epitaphs that any man has ever achieved.

Some of you may recall that this is the song I played when Jeff Hughes was murdered some years ago, and I think it needs to be the official song we play in the Northwest when one of our comrades dies at the hand of the racial enemy, under any circumstances. I am afraid we are going to be hearing this song very often in the future.

This time it’s for our friend, our elder, and our comrade Edgar Steele. Remember him always.

[Roddy McCorley]