Monday, December 31, 2007

From THE BRIGADE, Chapter VIII.

[A young woman is being recruited into the Northwest Volunteer Army. It should be pointed out, for those who worry about such things, that while the character of "Ma" is Identity Christian, THE BRIGADE and the other Northwest novels are non-sectarian and have many Odinist, National Socialist, pagan and non-religious characters. We are a movement of blood, not faith.]

Kicky called the bogus trip in and pulled out into Broadway. “Okay, where are we really going?” she asked.

“Just head toward Gresham,” he said.

“Uh, okay, what happens now?” she asked.

“You’re going to meet someone and have a talk with them,” said Wingo genially. “And with me.”

“Get to tell my life story, huh?” remarked Kicky, navigating through the traffic. It was still light out, so she had no need for headlights.

“We already pretty much know that,” said Wingo. “We actually think you can be of some use to us. This cab, for instance. Cabbies are people we like to recruit. Taxis can go anywhere, be seen on the streets at any time of day or night, and no one thinks they’re out of place or questions their presence. For the time being, a lot of your work for the NVA will be doing just what you’re doing now, driving people and sometimes packages here, there, and everywhere. Of course you’ll have to get creative about your trip sheet. We’ve wanted to get someone with access to an Excelsior Cab for quite some time now. Most of the more upmarket fleets have GPIs installed in their cars to keep track of where their vehicles are going, make sure the driver’s not cooking his sheet or running off the meter or fucking off, that kind of thing. But Excelsior is owned by a couple of Bangladeshis who are too cheap to spring for the system. You might say you’re uniquely positioned. How bad was it down in Coffee Creek?” he asked, abruptly changing the subject.

“It wasn’t one of my more edifying experiences in life, thank you,” said Kicky sourly.

“I’ve been there myself. Angola, in Louisiana,” he told her.

Kicky was tempted to ask him if that’s where he was from, and what he had gone to prison for, but the old convict code immediately kicked in. You never asked. “That’s worse,” she admitted. “Even out here we’ve heard of Angola.”

“Any society that permits a place like that to be, has to be destroyed,” said Wingo, not angry or bitter, simply stating a self-evident fact.

“Is that possible?” asked Kicky, genuinely interested. “I mean, I meant what I said, I want in, but it seems to me we’re either going to have to have some kind of secret weapon to bring these bastards down with, or else just get really lucky.”

“There’s an old Norse saying: ‘Luck often enough will save a man, if his courage hold,’” Wingo replied. “McGee. That’s Irish, right?”

“Yeah, way back,” she said. “Both sides. My mom was a Harrigan. I remember my dad used to get drunker than usual every St. Patrick’s Day, before he split. I guess that’s about all of Ireland we kept with us. Some of my tats are Irish. The Book of Kells thing, and also I have a Celtic Cross on my ankle.”

“Well, the Irish never gave up for eight hundred years,” said Wingo.

“I hope we can win a bit sooner than that,” said Kicky with a small laugh.

“The Army Council is basing all its strategic thinking on an assumed thirty-year conflict,” said Wingo seriously.

Kicky glanced into her side mirror. “Cops coming up in the left lane,” she said. “Two cars. They always move in pairs now.”

“I see them,” said Wingo. He shifted slightly and Kicky was sure he’d pulled out a pistol. “Just watch your speed and wave at them if they look at you when they go by. Don’t look away.”

The two police cars slowly pulled up alongside the cab in the left lane; the cops in the passenger side looked into the cab. Kicky waved casually; Wingo looked them right in the face but did nothing. The two units pulled on ahead, and after a few minutes made a left turn onto a freeway entrance ramp.

“No problem,” Wingo remarked.

“How did you know they wouldn’t try to pull us over?” asked Kicky.

“That was just a regular patrol,” said Wingo. “They might have tried to pull you if you’d been speeding, or they had a warrant on you, or something else routine, but they’re under orders not to tangle with any Volunteers they detect. They’re supposed to hang back, keep us in sight, then get on the horn and yell for an RRT, a rapid response team. Those are the ones you have to watch out for, small convoys with multiple squad cars and one or two armored trucks or vans with them. The armored personnel carriers have a squad of muscle men in body armor and all kinds of heavy weapons inside. Some of them have concealed .50-caliber machine guns in a kind of retractable turret. Remember, ordinary police will never engage any suspect or enemy whom they even suspect might have equal or greater firepower. They always maintain distance and call for backup. Preserving their own lives is a very serious priority with them, and they are trained to operate in those parameters.”

[Some passages redacted so as not to give away essential plot details.]

The taxi was now driving down a residential street of ranch-type houses that would have been called middle class, back in the days when America still had a middle class. Dusk was falling now, and the street seemed desolate and deserted; there were no lights shining from about half the houses on the street. At the far end of the street Wingo told her to pull into the driveway of one of the apparently darkened homes. He got out, and she followed suit. “Some day you may have to pick yourself a location for a meet like this,” he said conversationally. “Let’s see how sharp you are. Why do you think we chose this house?”

“Uh, I see a front and side door, and I assume there’s a back, so a lot of exits,” said Kicky. “That looks like a big open field in the rear, vacant lots or something like that, and this street is a straight shot down to the end here, so you can pretty much see who’s coming a good ways off. It would be hard for anyone to sneak up on us. All kinds of side streets around here you could slide around in and most of them feed onto main arteries, so once you got loose either in a car or on foot, you’d have a pretty good chance to get away, especially in the dark.

“Very good!” he said approvingly.

The lights flashed on a car parked down the street; it started and moved slowly toward them, then into the driveway. The door opened and a small, birdlike woman with gray hair got out. She was wearing a simple dress and carrying a large battered handbag. “Hey!” she called cheerily as she walked up to them and the car pulled away. “Y’all eaten supper yet?” Her accent was more distinctly Southern than the man’s.

“We’re fine, Ma,” he said. “She’ll cook at the drop of a hat,” he said in an aside to Kicky. “Ma, this is Kicky McGee. Kicky, this is Ma. She kind of does the hiring for female Volunteers. She’s the one who decides tonight whether we bring you into the NVA, or whether we kill you and bury you in the basement.”

“Now you just hush!” scolded Ma. “Who are you tonight, anyway?”

“Thumper,” Wingo told her.

“Don’t mind Thumper, dear,” said the old woman. “He’s got a bug up his ass about women in general. He’s just trying to see if you scare easy.”

“Of course I’m scared!” snapped Kicky. “But I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Come on inside,” she said. She took the house keys out of her handbag and opened the door. She took them right into the kitchen and turned on the lights. Kicky didn’t see too much else of the home other than a darkened living room. Then she put the kettle on the stove and rooted around in the cupboard for cups. “Have a seat, both of you, and I’ll make us some tea. Tell me, dear, are you a Christian?” she asked Kicky suddenly, taking her by surprise.

“Uh…I don’t know how I’m supposed to answer that, ma’am,” Kicky said. “I think you already know what I am.”

“Yes, dear, I know,” said the old lady kindly, “But the two have never been as mutually exclusive as people tend to think.”

“Judge not lest ye be judged in turn and all that?” asked Kicky.

“Oh, poppycock!” said Ma. “This idea that no human being is supposed to ever make a moral judgment on anyone else is horse hockey. The Bible is full of people who did nothing but that. They were called prophets. There are all kinds of people running around today who are in urgent need of being judged. People make moral judgments all the time. The hog-jawed doo-doo birds who run this country have judged our entire race and condemned us all to death, and by God we need to start returning the favor!”

“Hog-jawed doo-doo birds?” laughed Wingo in amusement. “I never heard that one before. I’ll have to remember that.”

“You do that, young man. No, honey, the reason I asked was that I need to know what your moral universe is like. Everybody has one.”

“Uh, I don’t think I do,” said Kicky carefully. “I mean, where would I get a moral universe and what good would it do me if I had one? I just want in with the NVA to try and make some kind of better life for me and my baby, and well, I told myself I’d be honest with you, so I’ll say it. I want revenge! Revenge against some specific people who have hurt me, yes, but mostly just revenge on this whole damned filthy world that has never done anything except shit on me! I am just so tired of bad people winning all the time, so sick of nothing ever being right or good anymore. Why should it always be the bad people who win, and me who hurts? Goddamned niggers and Mexicans taking everything, goddamned cops beating me and shaking me down and locking me in a cage with animals, fucking Jews and rich bastards looking down their noses at me and treating me like dirt, I just want to hear them scream, and watch everything they have burn …” She put her hand to her mouth, and realized with sudden astonishment that she had begun to cry. “Jesus, where did all that come from?” she asked in a shaky voice.

“I’d say from the heart,” commented Wingo. “And ma’am, there ain’t a damned thing wrong with anything you just said.”

Ma took her hand. “Honey, if you’d given me some long speech that sounded like you’d been reading our books, and I thought you were telling me what you think I want to hear or something you’d been coached to say, I would have been suspicious, but you would be plain astonished to learn how many of us come into this thing running on nothing but pure rage. It is a righteous rage, the true Wrath of God, and it is a thing to be gloried in, not ashamed of. You have been done a terrible wrong, from the very moment of your birth, as has every man and woman with a white skin born in the past century. You have been denied your birthright, which is this world and everything in it, and you have every right to desire revenge and to seek it though our Army. Later on we’ll educate you, give you things to read and teach you how and why this terrible wrong has been done to you and to all of us, and by whom, and why, but pure righteous rage in your heart is a good starting point.”

“It’s just that—damn it all, things shouldn’t be like this!” Kicky sniffled, tears streaming down her face.

“And that tells me that you do indeed have a moral universe in you somewhere, in spite of the bad things you’ve done and in spite of the way you’ve lived your life,” said Ma. “That’s one of the things that make us different from these dark-skinned animals around us, Kristin. They glory in the filth of this world. They wallow in it like hogs in a trough. They love it, because like animals they don’t know it’s wrong. The muds have no knowledge of good or evil. They have only appetites to be sated. We know, and the Jews know as well, only the Jews worship that evil as their god. I think that was the secret of the forbidden fruit that Eve partook of in the Garden so long ago, that knowledge of right and wrong and the instinctive choice of right. For better or for worse, we ended up with that knowledge in our souls, and a hundred years of Jew lies and political correctness can’t eradicate it. In spite of everything, it’s still there in you, girl. You’re still good inside. The rest we can work on. The rest you can change.”

For the next hour, they simply sat around the kitchen table and talked. Kicky calmly went over her whole life, such as it was, from her childhood to the present, and with the exception of the events of the past couple of weeks, every bit of it was true. However deeply they had investigated her background, she knew it would all check out. “I was going back to the life to try and make money so I could get out of Oregon, and take Ellie,” she admitted. “But I knew it was only a temporary fix. It Takes A Village is everywhere, and whatever file they have on me and Ellie would catch up with us, eventually. Then I recognized your guy Lockhart in Jupiter’s Den that day. I thought about it all day, and that night I was going to ask Lenny to introduce me, but he ended up dead. The rest you know. I don’t know what else to tell you guys,” she concluded. “If I’m going in that hole in the basement tonight, you’d better go get the shovel.”

“I didn’t think to bring one,” said Wingo.

“So what happens now? What do you want me to do?” asked Kicky.

“The next step is that we will arrange for you to receive a copy of the old Party Handbook and the new NVA General Orders,” said Ma. “The General Orders you need to memorize, and I do mean memorize, and then destroy the sheet of paper that they’re printed on, because if you’re caught with them in your possession it’s a federal felony carrying a death sentence. No kidding. These tyrants are killing people now simply for having a single sheet of paper. You need to have the General Orders committed to memory not just for your own security, but because you will be expected to obey them. Always. Without fail.”

“And not obeying the sheet of paper carries a death penalty from our side,” concluded Kicky, careful to use the word our. “Okay, I get it.”

“I hope you do, honey,” said Ma with a sigh. “The Handbook you need to read because it explains a lot of other things you need to know, deeper and more complicated things. It explains the nature of the corrupt and satanic society in which we live, why it must be brought to an end, and how we will accomplish that. The big picture, so to speak. Copies of the Handbook are too large to be destroyed except at necessity, although if you think you or your premises are about to be searched, for God’s sake hide it or destroy it. The Handbook is just as deadly dangerous to be caught with as the General Orders. Once we get a copy to you, you need to read it right away, because we can only let you have it for a few days and then we’ll need to get it back from you to pass on to the next person.”

“So when do I get to be a Northwest Volunteer?” asked Kicky.

“You don’t, not at first. We need to take a good long look at you and see how you perform, like any job,” said Wingo. “To begin with, you’ll be what some crews call an asset, what others call a candidate member. If we were niggers we’d use the term wannabe, if we were the Mob we’d call you connected but not yet made. That taxicab of yours still intrigues us,” he continued. “We have people and materials that need to do a lot of moving around. We start you out simple. We arrange a lot of business for you, posing as street hails because calling your dispatcher and asking for you specifically would raise suspicion. You drive people and stuff from point A to point B, you dummy up your records to make sure it all looks copacetic on paper, and we’ll pay you the meter and a good tip so you can actually make a nice legal income. If everything works out and you’re looking good to us in a few months, we start giving you some more stuff to do.”

“Okay, there is one thing I need to tell you guys right up front,” said Kicky hesitantly. “I know this may make you suspicious of me, but I can’t lie about it.” She took up a deep breath. “I don’t know if I can kill anybody. I know what I said about wanting revenge and all, and it’s true, but I just don’t know if I could point a gun at anybody and pull the trigger myself. I’m not saying I couldn’t, you understand. Hell, maybe I can. But I just don’t know, and if that’s the kind of test you want to give me to become a member, I’m not sure I can pass it.”

“You won’t be asked to make your bones for a good while,” said Wingo, “And even then, it will be voluntary on your part. This is not a regular war. Our people have to carry an immensely personal and crushing burden on their shoulders, and that goes far more so for the shooters and the bombers. Only a small number of people have the right combination of steady hand and nerves of steel, along with—oh, hell, I suppose you’d call it a lack of introspection, the ability to just do the job and then not worry about it afterwards. If they’re not right for it, their conscience gets to eating at them, they start losing their nerve and going to pieces and muttering about finding Jesus and getting forgiveness. No offense, Ma.”

“None taken,” said Ma. “It does happen, and then there are problems all across the board. White people are the greatest killers the world has ever known, but we have in fact been subjected to that century of social engineering and behavior modification through propaganda that I mentioned earlier, and in a lot of our people, that predator gene does seem to have been bred out. The NVA understands that as badly as we need combat soldiers, it’s just not a good idea to force somebody into that position. Kicky, we have got some women in this outfit that will shoot a man just as soon as look at him, if he is an enemy of our race. I know because I’m one of ’em. Maybe you’ll be one of ’em one day, maybe you won’t. You will never be asked to do anything that is beyond your strength. But you will find that as time goes on, and you come to understand who you are, that your strength is greater than you think. Now I reckon you and Thumper better be getting’ on back into town so you can finish your shift.”

Kicky went back out to the cab. Wingo hung back. “What’s the verdict?” he asked Ma.

She sighed. “That girl’s got something eating at her, but from what we know of her, it could be any one of a dozen things. If we excluded everybody with secret sorrows and secret sins in their hearts, there wouldn’t be too many Northwest Volunteers. I can’t down-check her.”

“Hardly a ringing endorsement,” commented Wingo.

“We can’t get so paranoid that we can’t function,” said Ma. “I’ll tell Oscar I think you should try her out, just keep her at arm’s length, which is what we do with new recruits anyway.”

“Got it. Say hello to Carter and Rooney and Shane for me when you get back to Dundee,” said Wingo as he headed out the door.

On the cab ride back, Wingo ran down for Kicky the procedures that would be used for providing her with her “special” fares, simple pickup codes via text message and cell phone for her rendezvous points with Volunteers needing transport, etc. As they neared the center of town, Kicky asked him, “What did Ma mean when she said you had a bug up your ass about women?”

Wingo sighed. “Same thing you probably feel about men. I’ve just been betrayed once too often. Nothing personal. I think that’s the worst thing that the Jews have done to us, in a way. Made white men and women hate and fear and mistrust one another. I know it’s wrong. I know all white women aren’t like the one who sent me to prison, and I figure you’re smart enough to know that all white men aren’t like Lenny Gillis.”

“Yeah, I know it in my mind,” said Kicky. “It’s just common sense that there have to be some good men left out there somewhere. But why the hell don’t I ever meet any?”

“The mutual consensus seems to be that white women are all neurotic and treacherous bitches teetering on the edge of outright insanity, who view men as enemies to be overcome and humiliated and scored off, while white men are all overgrown adolescents who are still playing with toys at age forty, and who don’t ever intend to grow up and take on any responsibility in life,” said Wingo. “And you know, there is a hell of a lot of truth in both those assessments. That’s what the Jews have done to us, may God damn them all to hell.”

“Does the NVA have a lot of women members?” asked Kicky.

“Mmm, some. Look, I’m afraid I still presume most white women are write-offs, but I will say this: the few remaining exceptions have more range than men do. The good ones are better, the smart ones are smarter, the brave ones are braver, and the vile ones are viler. Okay, tell you what, let’s just leave that subject. I know it’s rude, and there’s no call to be rude.”

“Well, I will say, you have yet to make any snide cracks about my lurid past,” admitted Kicky. “That’s encouraging.”

“You’ve already said that you know where you’ve been,” said Wingo with a shrug. “No call for me to remind you. Here, pull over on this corner. You’ll probably start getting some of our special trips tomorrow night. One of the people you drive will give you a copy of the Handbook and the General Orders. I’ll repeat what Ma told you, because this is important. Memorize the General Orders and then live by them. There’s only ten of them, just like the Commandments, and like the Commandments they’re just what they say they are: orders, not suggestions. You’ll have a couple of days to read the Handbook, and then you need to give it back to the next comrade who will ask for its return. Do not show it to anybody else or allow yourself to be caught with it, Kicky. Possession of a copy of the Party Handbook or the Army General Orders is considered by the ZOG court system to be prima facie evidence of NVA membership or association, and gets you a short ride strapped to a gurney into a little room with a needle in it. We’re not joking about that.”

“I know you’re not,” She pulled over and he opened the door. She did not look back at him. “Hey, Thumper, do I get some way to contact you if I need to?”

“Not yet,” he said. “No offense.”

“None taken,” she replied. “One more thing: if Ma had given you a thumbs down tonight, would you really have killed me?”

“Yes,” he said. “Does that bother you?”

“It would have bothered me more if you’d lied about it,” she said, looking back at him. “Have a good one.”

“You too.” Then he was gone.

Reply To An Especially Cretinous Heckler

[This was posted as a comment for my February 26th article. Anonymously, of course. They always are. - HAC]

God will judge you for inciting hatred on this earth
10:14 AM

The Old Man said...I only "incite hatred" against those who have earned the hatred and contempt of the rest of mankind through their behavior. God knows this, He knows the evils against which I fight, and I am quite ready to face Him, any time. Probably far more so than you, asshole.


Happy New Year, comrades.

Shaking Down The Church

[Republished by request of Team Euro]

A while back Cardinal Roger Mahony, leader of the nation's largest Roman Catholic archdiocese, and one of the wealthiest in the world, wrote a $660 million check in order to try and make the lawyers go away. It won't work, of course. It will only draw more lawyers, endless hordes of them, like blood in the water draws sharks.

Associated Press said that "The settlement will not affect the archdiocese's core ministry, Mahony said, but the church will have to sell buildings, use some of its invested funds and borrow money. The archdiocese will not sell any parish property." Not quite sure what they're doing with "invested funds" in that amount lying around in banks, money that should be going to help parishioners and provide the type of social services and education for which the Roman Catholic Church is famous, but then since their membership in that diocese is mostly Mexican, at least that's $660 million that won't be ending up in the hands of illegal aliens.

Of course, $660 million ending up in the hands of lawyers is hardly an improvement. That's where most of that boodle will stick to their fingers, no doubt. I will be very interested to see how much money each alleged victim actually receives, and how much is gobbled up in legal fees and "court costs." It's wasted either way.

Look, no one who knows me will ever accuse me of being soft on homosexuality and child molestation. In my opinion the priests who did this kind of thing, if any, should be hanging from trees in a public place. Nothing I say here is to be in any way construed as being pro-faggot or pro-child molesting. Are we all crystal clear on this?

That said, I also have to say that this business of the Roman Catholic "abuse scandal" has dragged on far too long, and it has degenerated into a simple shakedown, with greedy and amoral lawyers and a number of (in my view) increasingly suspect "victims," many of them Mexican, who have offered no proof of any kind that anything ever happened thirty or forty years ago. All it takes is for someone to be willing to come forward and sob for the TV cameras and howl about how forty years ago Father Tim done diddled his digit in the vestry, in order to rake in huge megabucks as the Church desperately tries to buy off the dogs and make all this go away.

If these acts were committed, then the priests involved should be arrested and tried before a jury in a criminal case, not a civil lawsuit whose sole aim is to extort money from a wealthy target with what lawyers term "deep pocket." Even Michael Jackson got a trial and only went free because the jury were star-struck American morons. This priest-abuse scandal has turned into a racket, a cash teat for lawyers to milk.

These "victims" are starting to sound increasingly like bogus Holocaust survivors. They step up and go boo-hoo in front of the media cameras with some tale of molestation, usually "fondling." Actual sodomy of a child leaves medical and forensic traces and there might reasonably be expected to be some contemporary record of the incident at the time, a hospital visit, a police report, whatever. On the other hand, forty years later anybody can make up "fondling" stories until the cows come home, and they can't be proven one way or the other.

These people are getting huge payouts without having to offer one scintilla of proof that anything actually happened. There is apparently just enough truth to these allegations so the Church wants to bury the whole thing under a mountain of money, and yes, I am aware of the fact that the Church maintains a special buggery ranch or whatever in New Mexico, a facility for paedophile priests to "cure" them of their "problem." I say again, I am not denying the likelihood that a few of these stories are true.

But by the nature of the alleged offense, it would be almost impossible to prove something that allegedly occurred in private decades ago. That in itself should count for the defense. You're supposed to be innocent until proven guilty in this society. Many of the priests who have been accusing of allegedly diddling their altar boys' digits or whatever are now dead, or else they are so old and nearing senility that they cannot effectively defend themselves. There is no real way to know what, if anything, actually happened all those years ago.

I am no fan of the Catholic Church, but it's reached the point where they are the ones being victimized, out of simple greed for money and also because the Church has shown itself to be an easy mark. It's also partly out of a left-wing liberal political agenda on the part of people who want to put an end to traditional religion of all kinds. If the Church would only "get hip" and change its policy on buggery and let priests marry and have women priests and disco-dance during mass and all the other lefty quasi-religious nonsense--in other words, if the Catholics would only cave in like the Episcopalians have done--then I suspect all of these "priestly abuse" lawsuits would quietly disappear.

Sunday, December 30, 2007

Jews Want All The Money

Dear HAC:

The key phrase here is: “. . . Americans have simply borrowed more money than they can possibly repay.”

Well, that was the intent of the Jews (through the Warburg brothers) when they set up the Federal Reserve Banks on both sides of the big pond back in 1914. Every country's government that used them was either in bankruptcy or in the beginning stages of bankruptcy 7 years later, due to the extremely high interest (usury) on the loans. The second round of 7 year loans, and subsequent defaults, ended with the entire global economy in a shambles, expressed in this country by the Wall Street Crash.

Very few people understand that the Geneva Conventions were not some kind of meetings held to work out treaties, but the bankruptcy proceedings for those countries involved. Knowing how human beings would react to being manipulated, the Jews didn't want the nations making "war as usual", wiping out whole populations and ruining the countryside to the extent that neither would be capable of production - to the Jew's benefit, of course. So they had to make sure each of the debtor nations would behave in such a way as to not waste what the bankers considered their assets, which, in their mind, they now owned through forfeiture. Hence the Geneva meetings - which were attended not by statesmen but by accountants. Even the Social Security system was designed to collect human beings into the accounting books.

Most people don't bother to find out what that little label 'F.I.C.A.' on their paycheck next to that deduction means. It's Federal Income Contributions Act. Look up the legal definition of "contribution". We've been subjected to the Law of the High Seas - and piracy. So, "yo ho ho" in your recent post was more appropriate than most people may realize.

It's all about money. The Jews want it all. And they think they have it all. Well, for the most part I'd say they do . . . except I don't think they've included the human spirit in the equation. We eventually will have had enough, when we've been pushed into a corner by the Old Dragon. And then they'll see what kind of Knight is left in us.

-Cloak and Dagger

Saturday, December 29, 2007

January 2008 NO Is Out

Northwest Observer issue #67, for January 2008, is now published. A sample copy can be obtained by e-mailing me at nwnet@earthlink.net

Friday, December 28, 2007

"But What Can We Do About It...?

Joom,

You wrote something so tragically beautiful - and poignant. Tragic, because you heartbreakingly describe the fall of Nature's finest. Beautiful, because you write with a somewhat resigned, yet defiantly hopeful voice.

I have tried to discuss the genocide that is occurring among the White populations all over the world. I read in a U.N. population survey publication that it was predicted in 1986 that the white populations in the world, by the year 2040, will represent 3% of the world's population -- then after this stunning revelation, the author's wrote: "Some researchers say that this is a victory for diversity."

There can only be victory when there is a war -- and it was clearly defined in that study. I try to tell my white friends and family about this -- they too just shrug and ask, "what can anybody do about it?" The White people of this world need a leader -- are there no courageous, charismatic, intelligent, strong-willed, racially-proud, White Men out there who can reach out to, and inspire once again, the the greater passions of Our People?

I'm afraid we had the last chance in the early 20th Century -- instead of embracing a call for a return to greatness and self-determination, the white people of the world turned against that cal...effectively opening the doors to the Jew World Order and the war against white.

Tragic indeed...

-Eurokin

Well, comrade, I will TELL you can do about it. Please go to

http://www.bestsharing.com/f/SAp03380327

and download THE BRIGADE. Read it. I spend 335,000 words and 517 pages telling you exactly what you can do about it.

There is a problem, of course. The solution is dangerous, it is hard, it involves total commitment and massive self-sacrifice and all the things that White people are no longer willing to give. They would rather simply stand by and wring their hands rather than GIVE UP WHAT THEY HAVE and forgo their personal pleasures and their precious possessions.

The revolution will come when White people love their children more than they love their things.

-HAC

Thursday, December 27, 2007

SPLAT!

Mah woman Benazir, she done go splat.

Awwww...bad brown people, breaking little Georgie's toys!

Guess Jug-Ears and his little Jewish friends will have to find another sock puppet for "democracy" in Pakistan. But oh, God, all the hypocritical whining and schmaltz we're going to have to go through on TV now over the next few weeks, while this harpie is treated like some kind of angelic being of peace and love.

Her father was strung up (correctly) for murdering his political opponents, one of the rare cases where one of these "democratic" American ass-kissers was actually punished for his scummy behavior. Benazir Bhutto was married to some kind of Pakistani gangster who was constantly being investigated, arrested, and detained over assorted acts of corruption which were so blatant that even being married to the prime minister didn't shield him. (Pay attention, Bill Clinton.) Benazir herself was so totally corrupt that every time she came to power (two or three times, if memory serves) her own people revolted and threw her ass out. She and hubby apparently stole everything in Pakistan that wasn't nailed down.

Now she was trying to crawl back into power with Jug-Ears twisting Musharraf's arm for "fair" elections ("fair" being defined as someone Jug likes being elected.) Not only that, but apparently Musharraf was supposed to provide this bimbo with ironclad security while she worked to overthrow him, yet. Do any of those morons running things in Washington, D.C. have any connection to the real world at all?

Benazir Bhutto was just another uncouth Asiatic despot, only she got a media pass because she had tits on her. Any time any modern politician goes splat at the hands of the people they tyrannize, it is an occasion for celebration. The tree of liberty needs to be watered not with the blood of patriots, but with the blood of politicians who have turned democracy into a form of organized crime.

Now, if only we can get some suicide assassins to start hanging around the public rest rooms in some of our airports...




Wednesday, December 26, 2007

The Great Mystery

[This is a post from one of the endless internet discussions on the subject of why American White people are such dysfunctional flakes. It lays out some interesting ideas. - HAC]

Okay, we all know about that part, Phil. We know they don't want to give up their comforts. But there is something deeper and more insidious going on here. I say that because this lack of reaction on the part of American whites has gone way past anything normal.

Just look at all the black and Mexican atrocities committed on whites and in many cases entire white families, as they are brutally wiped out. It's nation-wide and it's constant, and it's been going on a long time and at an increasing rate as more and more niggers realize they can get away with it. They are in many, many instances tortured, raped, beaten, cut up, shot, castrated and even gutted alive, then finally and mercifully executed. I know of one couple that was burned on top of all this.

These events are seldom reported by the liberal media, and when they are, they're spun in such a way as to downplay the entire thing, focusing instead on the faults of the victims and the "poor, disenfranchised" niggers that can't help but "act out" their frustration. How many times have we heard that disgusting excuse?

Any people in any country would rise up at hearing news of evil deeds like these. Anyone but us, it would seem. One would think that even the spoiled and soft grub-worm whites we have now would revolt in some manner. But something else is stopping them. Something I can't quite put my finger on.

When I talk to Joe Blow American about this, he usually just shrugs his shoulders at me and says "What are you getting so worked up about? That's life, man!" As if I'm being some kind of nut or paranoid for even sweating it. It's as if he's off in some dream world and I'm torqueing him by even talking about something that might bust his bubble of fantasy. It's downright spooky.

And he's not alone. I've lost count of the times I've been told by people that I'm overreacting or paranoid, or a conspiracy nut, etc., etc.. In fact some of them get more hostile towards me that they would at the atrocities. If they'd ever even face the fact they're happening, that is...Is it cowardice, plain and simple? Or is it apathy grown into a religion? Or maybe it's something even deeper psychologically, like the will to die, a suicidal urge like the lemmings?

I can't prove it yet, but I have some very strong suspicions in that direction. Here is a theory of mine I'm working on. You be the judge:

Since this nation was founded, Americans have always had a goal, something to work towards or fight for. Something that drove them, motivated them, defined them. First there was the War of Independence, then building and taming state after state, fighting off Indians and wild predators and hardships.

Manifest Destiny. Americans all had a goal, a vision of the future and they were all connected to each other through that spiritual bond and also through the physiological bond of a common race. Slowly, through countless years of sacrifice and struggle, this nation slowly took shape. And it was wonderful.

Then came the Civil War, then World War I and II. Inventions sprang up everywhere and we rode on the crest of our greatness, with everyone working together to "win." It didn't really matter what it was we won, just as long as we were fighting for something. The white race was respected and feared all over the world. To be an American was better than being a Roman citizen of old.

Then we finally did it. We won the Cold War. All our boogeymen were gone and we had won everything. There were no more wars to fight, battles to win, struggles to undertake. We laid back and enjoyed the fruits of our labors, and those of all our forefathers who fought and died to help give us all this. There was nothing left to do. No more battles, wars, struggles, heroic deeds, nothing. Just lay up and become couch potatoes. And so did our kids, and their kids too, until nobody is connected anymore, or has a clue what it means to be the greatest race on Earth, or in history for that matter.

And like a kid that's been given everything without working for it, they've got where they don't appreciate the things they have or the sacrifices it took to get them. They've started to take it all for granted, becoming spoiled, worthless and unappreciative.And after a while nothing seemed to matter anymore.

Why should it? People have lost their sense of self-worth. After all, they didn't have to earn what they have, not really. So the fun in things left. People stopped going to church and to baseball games and to the park with their kids or joining clubs, etc. They stay home instead, never even knowing their neighbor's name. Life started to become meaningless. The suicide rate has begun to skyrocket and assaults on schools and shopping centers become common as people vent their rage and frustration on those around them.

So when the government started to take away their freedoms a little at a time, they didn't care. Why should they? They've given up. In fact, deep down they want trouble. They want some kind of change to their lives, an end to their pointless, aimless existence. They need things to strive for, to overcome. Deep down they even want war. I believe it's why people have such a fixation with violence, death and mayhem on TV today. The bloodier and gorier, the better. So they just sit and let the whole ball of wax melt, crumbling to nothing as they watch with apathetic faces.

We're discovering a frightening and ugly thing about ourselves as a species: We need strife. We need trouble and battles and struggles and even war. It defines us. It's who we really are. Ask yourself this:

Who are our heroes? They're people that have conquered something. They've overcome some great foe or problem, or done the impossible or the difficult. Generals, explorers, warriors, inventors, sports stars, leaders in times of great trouble. It's not those that kept the status quo. No farmers or housewives or construction workers or bus drivers. Only the fighters, the strugglers that make man's list of heroes.

And with the government now controlling our every move, limiting our freedoms and keeping a tight control on our everyday lives, there's no room for men like these anymore. Not even for a few role models to look up to. Nothing. The White American is caged, neutered, trapped. He has no future. There are no more mountains to climb, no lands to explore, no problems to solve. The government has control of everything. Heck, you can't even think or say what you want anymore. White America is institutionalized.

Example: For most Americans, there's no place to go if you decide to leave your house and just go someplace outside. Oh, you can go to a park, but it's controlled and has a raft of rules. You can go to a few other tame places, but they too are controlled and monitored and cost money. There's almost no place a man can go now and just be himself without any government intervention or law. No piece of land anywhere, where he can step off into a "free zone" where he can be himself.

We have more people in prison here than any other nation on Earth. It's over three million now. And the rest of us are in prison in our own homes. If we walk the streets we are stopped by police because we shouldn't be out walking. We have to stay in our own yards, and better still, inside. Just like a prison cell, we spend most of our lives in our little rooms, watching TV and reading and doing the mundane, routine things that keep us going through to the next identical, pointless day.

Is it any wonder some of us snap? Is it any wonder our people don't care anymore?I think that if we were to offer them hope, a real chance and winning this war, we could get all the people we needed. But right now they see no way to fight this gigantic government monster. So far it's been indestructable, gobbling up everyone that dared to raise a hand against it, right or wrong. Because right and wrong have nothing to do with it when a government is this powerful. Might is right.So we have to come up with a way...something that will once again fire the imagination of the American White.

We have to give them hope...Food for thought..... ......

-Joomiloom

[Joom, you have just stated the rationale behind the four Northwest Independence novels. I am glad to see that someone else GETS IT. - HAC]

Tuesday, December 25, 2007

Merry Christmas, Dumb-Asses

I suppose I should wish you all a Merry Christmas.

This time next year we'll know whether or not the Sea Hag is coming, and we'll know whether or not Jug-Ears, with a demented little titter. waited until the last non-imnpeachable moment before launching some horrific unprovoked attack on Iran that destroys the petroleum-based Western economy.

We'll know whether or not the housing market Crash of '08 has turned millions of Americans out into the street to live under bridges, because the Jews could not restrain their insatiable greed for money and their hatred for all Gentile life. We'll know whether S.R. 1959 has become law, and the heresy-hunting Congressional tribunals are beginning to traipse the countryside to hunt down dissidents. We'll know.

Enjoy this holiday season, people. It may be the last "normal" one anyone remembers.

Sunday, December 23, 2007

Published In Defiance of S. 1959

I apologize for the length of the following post. It is published as an act of direct defiance against Senate Bill 1959, the so-called Violent Radicalization and Domestic Terrorism Act, a vile decree which for the first time in history officially introduces the concept of thoughtcrime into the American legal system. I'll show them some goddamned violent radicalization!

You may download a free copy of The Brigade (335,000 words) from

http://www.bestsharing.com/f/SAp03380327

From THE BRIGADE by H.A. Covington

[from Chapter II]

The three friends met again in the watery gray twilight of a December afternoon, in the old Kiwanis Club beach shelter on the Washington side of the Columbia River, about a half a mile up Highway 401 from the gigantic bridge. The pre-fab building with the concrete floor was cold as a walk-in freezer inside, and the would-be insurgents kept their heavy winter coats and caps on, but it was enclosed and tight against the wind, and it had electricity. The hut contained several picnic tables and some plastic chairs, a ping-pong table leaning against the wall that could be laid across the picnic tables if anyone wanted to play, a sink, a battered old refrigerator, and some cupboards. The nearby beach was really just a small shelf of gravel instead of sand, but it served as a passable casting spot for fishermen and a good picnic place in the summer. As the early darkness descended they could see the Christmas lights starting to come on across the river in Astoria, twinkling green and red and white.

“I’ll get the heat going,” said Charlie Washburn, stoking up a propane stove in one corner and lighting all the burners. He found a large saucepan in one of the cupboards, filled it with water from the sink, and put it on one of the burners. “Instant coffee all around, I’d say. These cups look more or less clean, and I see we’ve still got some sugar and creamer left over from Labor Day. Okay, Zack, care to run tonight’s revelries by us again?”

“We’re going to meet a guy they’ve sent down from Olympia who’s called Mr. Chips,” Hatfield told them. “It goes without saying that he’s wanted by the law, and if we are so much as seen in his company we will all be marked men.”

“Like we’re not marked already?” snorted Washburn. “I think Lear knows damned well who did Liddy King and that plug-ugly dyke Proudfoot. He gave me a funny look when he talked to me about your night of gainful employment at the store. It’s common knowledge we’re Steve’s closest friends, and Zack’s military record isn’t exactly a secret.”

“Yah, same with me. I think he knows, all right. He just can’t prove anything,” said Len Ekstrom.

“I don’t think he wants to prove anything,” said Hatfield. “He’s known Steve as long as we have. Rod Berry told me Ted was damned near crying when he had to come and get Steve and take him to jail on that damned bullshit warrant those two bitches swore out on him. He knew what the score was, and what Liddy and that dyke were doing to Steve and the girls. I don’t think he was too upset over being compelled to release Steve from jail, and I don’t think he’s looking any harder for the killers than the pressure from the PC establishment over there makes him look.” Hatfield gestured toward the lights of Astoria. “What I don’t understand is why no FBI involvement? Why no mention in the media of the letters NVA I scrawled on the bedroom wall in dyke squaw blood? Especially since they were all over Steve and his kids in the original hatespeech case?”

Washburn spoke up. “From what I gather from the news, the Bureau has a whole new set of priorities these days. Damn if you weren’t right about the NVA fighting on, Zack. I heard on the truck radio coming over here they tagged another couple of Mexicans in The Dalles and bombed a Portland Police Bureau patrol car at an intersection, with a nigger cop still in it.”

“Steve is out now, he’s back with his kids, and he has a chance to rebuild his life and theirs. That’s the important thing,” said Ekstrom. “It worked.”

“I guess Mr. Chips can bring us up to speed on what’s going on around the Northwest,” said Hatfield.

“And who exactly is this Mr. Chips?” asked Washburn.

“He’s a representative from the Party, and now I suppose from the NVA,” replied Hatfield. “He doesn’t really have a title. Few of them do. The Party has always avoided handing out Chief Cook and Bottle Washer monikers like some racial groups back in the old days used to do. It’s kind of like the Mafia. Let the Feds keep on guessing as to who does what. Chips is kind of a general factotum. He describes himself as a Johnny Appleseed who wanders the Pacific Northwest planting seeds of hate and hoping they’ll turn into big blooming orchards. I’ve met him before, back when the Party was legal and I went up to some meetings in the Olympia area, and also down in Dundee and Centralia, Washington. He’s one of the most knowledgeable and intelligent men I’ve ever met. When he speaks, we listen. If we want in on the revolution, then he’s the man who can get us in.”

From the gloom outside there came the sound of a vehicle pulling up outside, tires crunching on the gravel beach and a motor running. “That’s them,” said Hatfield, looking out the window. “Right on time. A good sign in a revolutionary. One thing, boys, if we ever do get into a shooting sitch. Four thirty means four thirty on the dot. One man out of position at the wrong time can kill us all. You can take that as my first lesson to you in combat skills.”

The visitor they were waiting for had arrived in a battered and nondescript Subaru sports utility vehicle. In the falling darkness, Hatfield couldn’t tell if it was black or dark blue or green. Mr. Chips got out of the back seat. He was accompanied by a young man wearing a denim jacket and a tweed golf cap, and a tall young woman with a plain but strong-featured face and long orange-ish hair tied in a ponytail behind her head. The boy and the girl both appeared to be about 18 years old. Hatfield had met both of them before up in Dundee. Hatfield opened it and let the youth in. “Hey, Shane,” he said.

“Hey, Mr. H. How’s it going?” The young Volunteer stepped in and looked quickly around the hut. The Oregon men could see the butt of a Tec-9 machine pistol poking from a shoulder holster rig under his denim jacket. The woman stood in the door, wearing a tan fur-lined shepherd’s coat, and they could see the nubby barrel of an Uzi submachine gun protruding from the open coat, held respectfully pointed at the floor. “Hi, Rooney,” said Hatfield.

“Hey,” said the girl. The boy went to the door and beckoned, and a bespectacled man in late middle-age with a grizzled moustache stepped inside the room. He took off his overcoat. Under it he was wearing a green cardigan sweater and a tie with a light yellow pastel shirt. In the pocket of the shirt was a plastic protector containing several pens. He looked like a teacher or a computer geek.

“How was the traffic on the bridge?” asked Hatfield.

“We came down the scenic route, from Ilwaco,” replied the newcomer. “Homeland Security is starting to put closed-circuit TV cameras on bridges and tunnels so they can monitor traffic, so I figured we’d better meet here on the Washington side rather than cross the river. The damned things can’t always be avoided, but there’s no need to leave them a trail of bread crumbs. Shane and Rooney will stay outside and keep an eye out. A young couple in a parked car will need no explanation to any passers-by. By the by, I hope you men are armed and ready to use your weapons, because I should tell you that if anyone comes at us, we’re shooting our way out.” The boy and the girl turned around and left without another word, and Hatfield closed the door. “These gentlemen are..?”

“This is Charlie Washburn, and this is Lennart Ekstrom,” said Hatfield, indicating them. There were brief handshakes. “They’re good men. I’ve already trusted them with my life.”

“You know our names now, but all we know about you is you’re called Mr. Chips,” said Charlie. “Do we get code names too?”

“Eventually you’ll each have a whole collection of your own, yes,” said the Party’s man with a smile. “Mr. Chips isn’t so much a code name as it is a nickname. I used to be a schoolteacher up in Dundee, and I taught a kind of unofficial history course to certain selected white students after school, strictly extracurricular. The feds know who I am, and there’s no reason you shouldn’t. My name is Henry Morehouse, but back in the days when I had more hair, I ended up being called Red.”

“Zack vouches for you,” said Washburn. “That’s good enough. I suppose we’d best get on with it, then. He’s told you what we want from you?”

“Yes, and some of the background. You would be amazed how common a story yours is, gentlemen.” Morehouse sat down and accepted a steaming hot cup of instant coffee, black, and waved away the proffered packets of creamer and sweetener. “They say that all politics is local. So is oppression, apparently. It requires a man to be personally affected by tyranny at his own front door before he will act. Sometimes not even then. You guys acted, on your own, and that impresses us. Zack has told me about the incident that took place here with the King woman and her beast of pleasure.”

“Uh, we gonna have to take some blood oath or something?” asked Ekstrom.

“No, not at this time,” said Morehouse. “Later the Army may find it expedient to formalize. For now, if you’re good men and true then an oath is unnecessary, and if you’re not, no oath will make you so. If I say you’re in, then you’re in.” Morehouse paused and took a sip of coffee. “The first question that I need to ask is the obvious one. Are all of you up for this? Do you fully understand just what the hell you’re doing? This isn’t a video game or a made-for-TV movie. This is the real thing. You see what’s going on in the Northwest, every time you turn on CNN. People are dying, and not just white people this time. The Beast is in a blind rage. It has been defied and it has been wounded, and it’s lashing out in all directions. You do understand that if you proceed, there is every chance that you men will end up either dead or living out the remainder of your lives in a federal prison, under conditions that don’t bear thinking about?”

“Mister, the way they’re hollering in the news media about racism and domestic terrorism, if we were even caught sitting here with you, we’d go to prison for the rest of our lives,” said Ekstrom. “We know this, and we’re still here.”

“Yeah, official paranoia is rampaging, all right,” replied Morehouse with a chuckle. “They’re starting to wake up to the fact that they didn’t get us all when they stormed into Coeur d’Alene last month, and some of us are still fighting. Fair enough. But before we get down to cases, I’d like each of you to tell me in your own words what has brought you here tonight.”

"I guess I’ll start,” said Hatfield. “I had some idea of what the Party was doing behind the scenes, of course, that preparations were being made. Some of it you told me, Red, and some of it I figured out for myself. I was starting to turn over in my own mind whether or not I wanted to join you when the time came to pick up the gun. I knew that time had to come, if any of us in this country had one spark of manhood left in us.

"We have tried everything else,” Hatfield went on grimly. “For generations we have dutifully trooped to the polls like sheep and voted in elections where we were given no meaningful choice, and where not one single candidate or party represented the white man’s racial interests. Nothing changed except the politicians grew more and more coarse and corrupt, more cynical and contemptible. For almost a hundred years now we have been betrayed at every turn by the men we voted into office, and we have been ravaged and bled dry by these alien creatures called Jews. We have tried every single peaceful avenue of redress, every non-violent method we could think of to try and change the world, to try and make these sons of bitches wearing the suits stop doing what they are doing. None of it has worked worth a tinker’s damn.

"We have shouted and screamed NO at the top of our lungs, and we have been ignored and spat on and called haters for our trouble. We tried the internet and spent years tapping to one another on keyboards, because we bought into the idea that ‘education’ was the answer, and if we could just get the truth to people, then things would change. Well, education without action isn’t worth a bucket of warm spit. We got the truth to people, all right, and it turned out to be nothing but a bunch of noise that was simply ignored, because the internet was where it stayed. Nobody ever did anything except tap on keyboards. That was fine with the bosses. Tapping on keyboards was no threat to them, we just let off steam and nothing changed. It is now crystal clear to any white man with two brain cells to rub together that the only thing that will make these dogs in power hear the word NO is the sound of gunfire.

“But I didn’t make up my mind finally until that night when I took care of Steve King’s problem for him,” Hatfield continued heavily. “I never realized just how damned good it would feel to strike back! It wasn’t like Iraq at all. I hated those hadjis because they were killing and maiming my friends and trying to do the same to me, but I knew in my heart that we had no business there, that the reason they were trying to kill and maim me was because I was trying to take from them their little patch of the world and the oil that was underneath it. I was a thief who had come into their home to rob them of their land and their goods and their dignity, and they had every right to try and shoot and bomb my ass off.

"To be honest, those Iraqis were doing what I would have been proud to see Americans do if we were ever invaded and occupied. We never said such things, of course, and most of us didn’t even think them out in our own minds in so many words, because we knew how dangerous those thoughts were, but we all knew that we were the guys in the black hats over there.

“I got back home and I somehow understood as I never had before that we are an occupied people. Occupied by our own government, occupied by the same goddamned Jews and politicians and business executives who sent me over to Iraq to steal what little those poor people have. Then came the business with Steve and Liddy King, when I used the skills ZOG gave me for my friend and for his children, for my own people and not for a monthly paycheck from the Jews. It felt right. I find that I like the feel of that white hat on my head, and I want to keep it there. That’s not very articulate, Red, but that’s the best I can tell you right now.”

“I know what you mean,” said Charlie Washburn with a smile. “For once, just once, the bad people didn’t win. I am just so damned sick and tired of bad people always winning all the time. But not this time. For once, just once, there was true justice and a good man and two good children will now have some kind of a chance together in life. A horrible deed committed by wicked perverts has been undone. The scales were balanced just a tiny bit back in the right direction. I feel it too, and it’s indescribable.

“But it’s more than that with me,” he went on carefully. “You know, Americans see a lot of movies and TV shows where some ordinary Joe like me is called upon to step up to the plate, so to speak, and be a hero in some way, usually fighting against the Arabs or Serbs or French or evil white racists or whoever the Jews’ main enemy of the moment is. Most of those flicks are just hokum, but in the past few months, ever since Coeur d’Alene, I’ve been feeling like that. Like I’ve gotten a call from destiny, as conceited and arrogant as that sounds. I couldn’t do it alone, but Coeur d’Alene changed everything for me.

"Now I know that there are others, others who see the things I see and read them the same way, who think and feel as I do, who understand that it’s a truly wonderful gift from God to be born white. I saw what happened in Coeur d’Alene on CNN, but I don’t want to watch the rest of this great thing on television. I have to be here tonight, Mr. Morehouse. I have to be part of this. I don’t think I could walk away if I wanted to.”

“Things must change,” said Lennart Ekstrom slowly. “Every white man and woman in America knows it, deep down inside of themselves. This isn’t America anymore, it’s a Rocky Horror Picture Show that just goes on and on. Somewhere, sometime, it has to stop, at least in some part of the country, and here in the Northwest is the best place for that. Once you accept in your own mind that things have to change, you don’t sit and reflect and introspect and brood and agonize over it. You just do what has to be done.”

“And that, Mr. Ekstrom, is what the white race has been waiting to hear from men like you for a hundred years,” said Morehouse with a nod. “You know that we were in a very similar situation, back before the Party was formed? The Old Man himself Came Home in 2002, but for years he simply sat all alone in a series of cracker box apartments or trailers or boarding houses, pounding on a computer that grew older and crankier as time passed. For years he looked for those out-of-state license plates to come over the hill, begging and pleading on his knees with his fellow white people to come to his side and help him, and for year after year, no one came. He asked only for a hundred good men, or women. One hundred people who were willing to place the future of their blood and their civilization over their own personal welfare. And for year after year, no one came.”

“And then what happened?” asked Ekstrom.

“Then they came,” replied Morehouse simply. “We refer to this among ourselves as The Awakening, and we still don’t understand it fully. Don’t get me wrong when I say this, because we’re not a religious movement, rather the reverse in fact. But the best and most comprehensible way that I can put this, is that it had to be some kind of divine intervention. God decided to give His most wonderful and yet wayward children one final break before He threw the white race onto the scrap heap of history. He reached into the hearts of one hundred people and moved them, changed them, so that they let the scales fall from their eyes and they knew they had to put something above their own well-being; that they had to live for something besides a job and a paycheck and a shopping spree at the mall.

"One day it just kind of began, and one hundred people stopped worrying about themselves and went out and began packing the moving van. The Old Man had his first hundred, and they became the nucleus of the Party that was formed when they came to the Homeland and were in place. Without that first hundred people, there could have been no Party, because it was they who set up the infrastructure and the safety net so the rest of the migrants would have something to Come Home to.”

“We’re going to need more than a hundred men now,” said Washburn gloomily.

“They will come,” said Morehouse with quiet confidence. “They came before. Damned late, but they came. Very well. Let’s get on with it.” He knocked back the rest of his coffee, put down the mug, and leaned forward to speak to them. “We are here to make history, gentlemen. We are here to plan and execute the first organized, armed insurrection against the United States of America since 1861. We are going to finish what began in Coeur d’Alene two months ago.

"The media is now crowing that the so-called racist republic is dead. It is not. The Northwest American Republic exists. It exists because we say it does, and because we are willing to spill the blood of others and to give up our own lives to make good on what we say. That is how nations come to life in the world, gentlemen. I am a representative of that Republic, of its provisional government in the present form of the Army Council until we can establish a state under the draft constitution we’ve been keeping in our drawers for so long. In that capacity, I am asking you to enlist in the armed forces of that Republic and fight a war of liberation against a cruel and wicked tyrant. Will you do so?”

“I’m in,” said Hatfield.

“I’m in,” said Washburn.

“And I,” said Ekstrom.

“Gentlemen, you just swore your blood oath. Make sure you honor it all the days of your lives,” said Red softly.

“I look back at all the crap our people have put up with over the past century and I am still astonished that we never picked up a gun before,” said Washburn plaintively. “Why the hell has the white man never fought?”

“Oh, God,” said Morehouse with a sigh. “Some of us have spent our entire lifetimes studying that one simple question, Charlie, and I have to say we’re no closer to an answer than we were at the beginning.

"There are a few standard, canned answers, of course. Up until the past couple of decades, most white people simply had it too good. Life was just too damned sweet, and all the bullshit caused by liberal democracy and political correctness didn’t seem to be really life-threatening, just more and more annoying as time wore on. When men are merely annoyed, they write letters to the editor, or phone a radio talk show, or bitch and gripe drunkenly in bars about how the world is going to hell. They don’t pick up a rifle or start making bombs in their basement. And of course, up until about twenty years ago, if things got too bad where you were living, then you could just up stakes and move to the suburbs, or some other state that was a little whiter. We got hundreds of thousands of organic migrants here to the Northwest that way.”

“Oh, yeah, I think we’ve got half the population of California living in Clatsop County,” said Washburn. “Most of those same people pull the straight Democratic ticket lever in the polling booth, and they’d cut off their own goolies rather than admit that they came here looking for a whiter and safer environment.”

“Mmm hmm,” said Morehouse with a chuckle. “Liberals are always the first to flee from the messes they make. Usually, they’re the only ones who can afford to do so. Anyway, liberalism and political correctness have gone beyond the merely annoying phase for a long time now. Things have been getting colder and crueler for white people ever since the economy went south under Bush Two and never recovered, when Social Security and Medicare went under, and when the neocons finally had to bring back the draft.

"You can’t conquer the world without a huge army; all their high-tech toys and smart bombs and computerized weapons of mass death simply wouldn’t serve. If we were going to keep that fossil fuel pumping, the Middle East had to be actually occupied, and so now every American family with a male child knows that when their boys turn 18 there is a good chance they’re going to be dragged away to the desert and butchered. Everyone knows at least one young man who came back from Iraq or Saudi wounded or crippled, minus an arm or a leg, or blind, or insane. And of course the drawbacks of our wonderful democracy have become quite apparent to those of us who find ourselves living in the northernmost province of Mexico. They can’t sweep all the problems under the rug anymore. They’re too visible and obvious, and no one has any money left to run to the suburbs.”

“But that still hasn’t produced anything other than an army of white people hollering on talk radio and then trooping in to the polls on election day to vote Republican,” complained Ekstrom. “We vote in some white guy in a blow-dried hair do, with a bright smile and a thousand-dollar suit, then as soon as he hits Washington he betrays us, and all we get is more Mexicans, more crime, more taxes and fewer jobs, and all our savings gone on medical bills because nobody has any insurance anymore, and more dead kids coming back in coffins that no one is allowed to photograph. Surely we’re not that stupid? This isn’t an overnight development. This has been going on for 50 years. What the hell was wrong with us back in the 60s and 70s? Or even earlier? Why didn’t we fight?”

“Perhaps the more pertinent question, Len, would be why are we fighting now?” asked Morehouse. “As for our failure to resist this genocide by force of arms before, it’s of course tempting to put it down to cowardice plain and simple, and there has always been a lot of that in what passed for a white resistance movement, to be sure. Way too much of it. Not to mention the fact that most of our self-appointed leaders were little more than con-men who didn’t have the chops to make it as televangelists.

"But it’s more complicated than that. White American males are still capable of being physically brave, sure they are. They prove it every day on the battlefield. Every week you can see some story on the tube about a white cop who faces down a pack of gang-bangers or a white fireman who pulls kids out of a burning building, and then you get these extreme sports kooks who jump out of airplanes with snowboards and try to surf down Mount Everest, or snorkel butt naked in a school of sharks, that kind of nonsense.”

“God knows I saw enough Aryan heroism every day in Iraq,” said Hatfield. “White men will still be as brave as lions, granted, but only for the Jews or for their money, Red. When it comes to standing up and fighting for ourselves, against the Jews and the government that’s tyrannizing us, all of a sudden we wuss out.”

“Mmmmm, here’s where it gets complex, Zack,” said Red contemplatively, dragging out a filthy old pipe from his pocket and beginning to stuff it with tobacco. “The white man can still show physical courage, yes. Lots of it. That courage gene is definitely still there in our makeup. But what we can’t seem to do is to be brave on our own, for our own interests, without the Jewish seal of approval.

"We have developed a poisonous symbiosis with the System. It needs us and we need it, psychologically. White males are addicted to social approval nowadays. We need it like an addict needs his crack pipe. We’ve got to have that supportive peer group around us yelling attaboy. We can be brave in a structured environment, so long as it is an officially approved form of courage, and so long as afterwards we can belly up to the bar and talk drunken shit with the boys and get slapped on the back, and then go home to the little woman and the comfortable middle class lifestyle from which we have ventured out, however briefly.

“The white man can face danger, but he can’t face loneliness,” Morehouse went on, lighting his pipe with a match from a paper book. “He can’t handle being away from the comforting herd. He can’t handle being out in front anymore. He’s lost there. The pioneer spirit is all but dead; you would have to have lived through those bleak times in the early 2000s like I did, before those first hundred people Came Home and built the Party, to understand how rare the true pioneer, the trail-blazer, the man or woman who can GO FIRST, has become among us.

"You might say the Jew has succeeded in domesticating the Aryan. We can be brave and good dogs so long as we hear the reassuring sound of our master’s voice and get the occasional doggie treat from his hands, but we can’t be lone wolves anymore. We can venture into the forest and do battle for our masters, but we can’t live in the dark wood and make it our home and kingdom anymore, hunting on our own and keeping our entire kill for ourselves. We must always return to the master’s warm fire and his doggie treats, and of course his collar and his leash. We didn’t fight, Charlie, up until now, because for a century or so we have no longer been wolves, but dogs. The Jew domesticated us. But now we must hear the call of the wild again. We have to find that spirit of the wolf once more within us, and bite the hand that feeds us. And I suppose I’d better abandon that simile before I stretch it into a pretzel. But you get what I’m saying?”

"Yeah, I do,” said Zack with a sigh. “And that poisonous symbiosis between the American white male and the System is still very much with us, an ingrained part of us. How many guys are going to be able to break out of it? Those are going to be pretty rare birds.”

“Well, maybe not so rare,” said Red with a smile and a swirl of smoke. “Once that first hundred stepped forward, it wasn’t so hard for others to do so, because more and more, when they came here they found a crowd to hide in. It was getting that first hundred to go first that was the real bitch. There are more now, a lot more. We’ve got six of them here tonight. Four in here and two very fine young people out in the car.”

“Red, I’m not so stupid as to ask how many men are in the Northwest Volunteer Army…” began Ekstrom.

“I couldn’t tell you even if you asked,” interposed Morehouse. “No one knows how many Volunteers there are, and I doubt anyone ever will know.”

“But how many men do you think it’s going to take to get this job done?” persisted Ekstrom. “To create our own country here and make it good? To drive out the federal authority?”

“Far fewer than you might think,” Morehouse told them. “Our victory, gentlemen, will be the ultimate victory of quality over quantity.

"The American régime is not invincible, you know. The Muslims have shown us that, in spades. Bear in mind, gentlemen, that we are facing an opponent who passed the top of his game a long, long time ago. We will be the tiny lion against the enormous snake, but the serpent is old and sick and dying, poisoned with its own crapulence. We are facing a putrid mass of corruption, incompetence, bureaucracy and sloth, quavering with senility, an enemy who already is maintaining an army of almost two million men around the globe in an attempt to create and maintain an empire containing all of the world’s petroleum reserves. American soldiers are engaged in trying to keep that rickety empire together from Venezuela to Tehran, and very few if any will be available to pull back here to fight against us.”