Thursday, January 31, 2008

What Costs More Than The War In Iraq?

1. $11 billion to $22 billion is spent on welfare to illegal aliens each year.

2. $2.2 billion dollars a year is spent on food assistance programs such as food stamps, WIC, and free school lunches for illegal aliens. http://www.cisorg/articles/2004/fiscalexec.html

3. $2.5 billion dollars a year is spent on Medicaid for illegal aliens.

4. $12 billion dollars a year is spent on primary and secondary school education for children here illegally and they cannot speak a word of English!

5. $17 billion dollars a year is spent for education for the American-born children of illegal aliens, known as anchor babies.

6. $3 million dollars per day is spent to incarcerate illegal aliens.

7. 30% percent of all federal prison inmates are illegal aliens.

8. $90 billion dollars a year is spent on illegal aliens for welfare and social services by the American taxpayers.

9. $200 billion dollars a year in suppressed American wages are caused
by the illegal aliens.

10. The illegal aliens in the United States have a crime rate that's two-and-a-half times that of white non-illegal aliens. In particular, their children, are going to make a huge additional crime problem in the US.

11. During the year of 2005 there were 4 to 10 million illegal aliens that crossed our southern border also, as many as 19,500 illegal aliens from terrorist countries. Millions of pounds of drugs, cocaine, meth, heroin and marijuana, crossed into the U. S from the southern border. Homeland Security Report.

12. The National Policy Institute estimated that the total cost of mass deportation would be between $206 and $230 billion or an average cost of between $41 and $46 billion annually over a five year period.

13. In 2006 illegal aliens sent home $45 billion in remittances back to their countries of origin.

14. 'The Dark Side of Illegal Immigration: Nearly One Million Sex Crimes Committed by Illegal Immigrants In The United States'.

Total cost is a whopping. $338.3 billion per year.

Bank of America is now giving credit cards to illegal aliens without any identification, Snopes is provided for doubters:

The United States Senate voted to extend Social Security benefits to illegal aliens beginning in 2008. The following are the Senators who voted to give illegal aliens Social Security benefits.

They are grouped by home state. If a state is not listed, there was no voting representative.

Alaska: Stevens (R)
Arizona : McCain (R) (wants to be President)
Arkansas : Lincoln (D) Pryor (D)
California : Boxer (D) Feinstein (D)
Colorado : Salazar (D)
Connecticut : Dodd (D) Lieberman (D) (wants to be President)
Delaware : Biden (D) Carper (D)
Florida : Martinez (R)
Hawaii : Akaka (D) Inouye (D)
Illinois : Durbin (D) Obama (D) (wants to be President)
Indiana : Bayh (D) Lugar (R)
Iowa : Harkin (D)
Kansas : Brownback (R)
Louisiana : Landrieu (D)
Maryland : Mikulski (D) Sarbanes (D)
Massachusetts : Kennedy (D) Kerry (D) (wanted to be President)
Montana : Baucus (D)
Nebraska : Hagel (R)
Nevada : Reid (D)
New Jersey : Lautenberg (D) Menendez (D)
New Mexico : Bingaman (D)
New York : Clinton (D) (Wants to be President) Schumer (D) (Presidential wannabe)
North Dakota : Dorgan (D)
Ohio : DeWine (R) Voinovich(R)
Oregon : Wyden (D)
Pennsylvania : Specter (R)
Rhode Island : Chafee (R) Reed (D)
South Carolina : Graham (R)
South Dakota : Johnson (D)
Vermont : Jeffords (I) Leahy (D)
Washington : Cantwell (D) Murray (D)
Wisconsin : Feingold (D) Kohl (D)

Wednesday, January 30, 2008

No Surprises In Florida

No surprises in Florida. Caligula is gone, having wasted an immense amount of everyone's time on a presidential bid that everyone knew he never had a chance to win. Pure vanity, I guess. Caligula has now thrown his support, for what it's worth, behind Mr. Potato Head. Surprise, surprise.

One odd thing I notice is that Rush Limbaugh is hinting on his web site that Mr. Potato Head and/or the shadowy figures behind him, who picked McCain as the Sea Hag's palooka for November 4th, 2008, did some Diebold Diddling in Florida to make sure the numbers turn out right. Probably to make damned good and sure Caligula got the message and got the hell out before Super Tuesday. I wonder if these dog and pony shows every four years will be anywhere near as fun once the realization finally sinks in that, like professional wrestling, all this election nonsense is choreographed and faked and the results pre-ordained?

The Sea Hag slaughtered Hussein, 51% to 35% or something on that order, last time I checked. The media moaned that Florida has no democratic delegates, as if delegates or no delegates made a damned bit of difference to anything. But we did get a taste of Super Tuesday. My gut feeling is that Hussein won't take a single state next Tuesday, but I need to go down the list of states again--there might be another Southern state in there with enough nigger votes so that if they Diebold Diddle it away from Hussein, it might be just a little bit too obvious that the game is rigged.

Update: Okay, having looked at the primary map--Hussein might be allowed to take Georgia and Alabama. The Sea Hag's people know she has credibility issues and no one is going to believe all those niggers in Atlanta voted for Hillary Clinton. So: I'll give the Obamanation a max of two monkoid-infested Southern states.

Tuesday, January 29, 2008

Drunken Fat Boy Pisses Off The Fems

[God, I love it when all these vicious little pissant minorities and special interest groups can't play nice and they start squabbling over who's going to get the biggest piece of this wonderful pie that normal White people made!]

New York Feminists Accuse Kennedy of Betrayal

NEW YORK (AP) - The New York chapter of The National Organization for Women accused Sen. Edward M. Kennedy of betraying women with his endorsement of Barack Obama, prompting the organization's national office to come to the Massachusetts senator's defense.

"Women have just experienced the ultimate betrayal," NOW's New York State chapter said in a scorching rebuke. "Senator Kennedy's endorsement of Hillary Clinton's opponent in the Democratic presidential primary campaign has really hit women hard."

On Monday, Kennedy, D-Mass., his son Patrick and his niece Caroline Kennedy announced their support for Obama. Edward Kennedy said the country needs a leader who can bring people together and create change.

But the move angered the state chapter of NOW, which called Kennedy's decision the "greatest betrayal."

"We are repaid with his abandonment!" the statement said. "He's picked the new guy over us. He's joined the list of progressive white men who can't or won't handle the prospect of a woman president who is Hillary Clinton."

The group said it was our obligation to "elect, unabashedly, a president that is the first woman after centuries of men who 'know what's best for us.'"

Shortly after the local chapter reacted to Kennedy's endorsement, the national office of NOW in Washington, D.C., which has endorsed Clinton, released its own statement.

"The National Organization for Women has enormous respect and admiration for Senator Edward Kennedy," NOW President Kim Gandy wrote. "For decades Senator Kennedy has been a friend of NOW, and a leader and fighter for women's civil and reproductive rights, and his record shows that."

Gandy said her group respects Kennedy's decision to back Obama.

"We continue to encourage women everywhere to express their opinions and exercise their right to vote," she said.

In a blitz of television appearances on Tuesday, Kennedy said he'd also support the New York senator if she was the eventual Democratic presidential nominee.

Monday, January 28, 2008

Drunk Endorses Nigger, Earth Halts In Its Orbit

Well, whoop-de-do! That drunken slob Teddy Kennedy endorsed Hussein. Tremble, o ye nations!

It is in fact yet another interesting comment on how deeply and viscerally Hillary Clinton is loathed by her own party.

Sunday, January 27, 2008


[An excerpt from A DISTANT THUNDER by H. A. Covington, available from In this scene an old man is telling a historical researcher what life was like in the Pacific Northwest before the Revolution.]

Damn. How can I explain to you what life was like back then?

The little girl from the university tells me the purpose of me sitting here maundering into the videocam is to preserve all this clutter for posterity, and also so future historians can listen to me and from my babbled fragments reconstruct the reason for The Awakening, as they’re starting to call it. Yeah, I guess it’s a pretty interesting question, if you think about it. For almost three generations the white race ate every serving of shit that ZOG chose to dollop out to us, grinning like egg-suck dogs while we scarfed it all down and licked the plate. So what changed? Just why, exactly, during the early decades of the twenty-first century did the white man finally decide to fight, at the eleventh hour and the fifty-ninth minute and the fifty-ninth second? What made the white man finally get up off his ass and pick up a gun after a lifetime of allowing the Federal government of the United States to do pretty much any damned thing it wanted to do?

Hell if I know.

I keep getting asked that all the time. I think some of us even talked about it among ourselves back then, to while away the hours on the bounce. Can’t really remember what we ever decided, if anything. Young people look at me like I have the key to some great secret. If I knew it I’d share it with you, believe me. It’s sure something we need. Whatever the hell it was, our race didn’t stumble across it until it was almost too damned late. But really, I don’t know. When you live through something, it doesn’t necessarily mean that you understand every little thing about it.

I’ll tell you this much: I don’t remember the war as being this big long heroic adventure that our NBA films and books and documentaries portray, that’s for sure. You want to know the truth of the matter, it wasn’t a very pleasant experience. War isn’t. Long periods of paranoid and nervous boredom broken by brief outbursts of madness and horror.

But as to why white people finally revolted? The best I can tell you is that there wasn’t any one reason, it was a whole combination of things that just happened to fall into place just right. Or wrong. You can only push people so far. At some point, there was just some final straw that broke the camel’s back, and thanks to the Party and the Incomers, the white racial settlers from around the continent who came to the Northwest, we were able to reach critical mass and blow. But precisely what that ultimate straw was, I haven’t got a clue. Didn’t then, don’t now.

Life is so utterly and completely different now that it passes comprehension. I don’t think anyone who’s not of my generation can really imagine what it was like back then. Sometimes I sit here and I look at my grandchildren and I see the calm and safe, all-white world of peace and plenty they live in, this beautiful town of mine and this land of ours, and I swear I think I dreamed it all or imagined it, that my childhood and my young manhood was some kind of nightmare I had and then I finally woke up in the world as it should be.

The main difference is that life is good now for most people. A white child has a chance now, a chance to be a child without fear and worry. A child can ride a bike and play down at the creek and walk home from school without any risk of being kidnapped and buggered and chopped into pieces by a pervert. A child has a chance to grow into a young man or a woman instead of a—well, what we were then, a kind of half-insane consumer zombie. People in the Republic are happy, mostly. Or at least you have a proper chance to be happy in the Republic, which we never had when I was young. Hell, when you don’t have to look at niggers every day and you don’t have to hear Spanish and Tagalog and Muklucky-Muck being gibbered everywhere, you’re halfway to bliss already. And for those who feel the ancient restlessness and who want the sight of strange new things and the feel of strange new places under their feet, as is natural with our Folk, there are the very planets above us, or the scientific laboratories where Aryans are unlocking the secrets of the universe even as we speak. Whatever a white man or woman wants to be, now they can be.

But how can I describe to you what it was like when nobody was happy at all?

It’s like that bit I mentioned yesterday about every other person you saw on the street being fat? You can’t really believe that, can you? When was the last time you actually saw a grossly overweight person in your time here in the Republic? Our national diet doesn’t include all that garbage people used to eat under ZOG. Junk food, junk politics, and a junk life. The Northwest American Republic doesn’t poison its own people to make money. That fact alone should give you a shrewd idea of one big difference between now and then.

We don’t do much of anything here solely for the purpose of making money, which is something completely unimaginable in the world into which I was born. That Jewess Ayn Rand got her books burned right alongside the Marxism and the pornography. In cases where people have bona fide thyroid conditions, we now have a simple enzyme therapy that soups up your metabolism and in a couple of months you’re running marathons. That’s just one example of a social problem that existed before the revolution, and which is now completely gone. There were about a hundred other little pissant things we had to put up with then that don’t exist any more, from traffic jams to air pollution to functional illiteracy to foul-mouthed children talking like niggers.

Nowadays only dirty old coots like me do that. I apologize for my language, young lady, and I know such words aren’t used in polite society any more, and so they shouldn’t be. But if you want me to go back to that time then you’re going to get all of it, and one truth about those times was that the American dialect of the English language had become negrified or ebonicized or whatever the hell you want to call it. We all talked like whiggers back then. We didn’t know any better. Hey, we heard blacks talking like that all the time on TV, and whatever was on TV must be right, eh? Polite or not, I’m sure you’ve heard it before from your older relatives. I once heard someone say we have the only society in the world where it’s the grandmothers who shock and embarrass their granddaughters at the dinner table.

Even now, I bet you half-disbelieve me or think I’m exaggerating, right? There never really was any such thing as fat people, and this old fool is making all this up, right? That’s okay, ma’am. Disbelief is human nature and in this case it’s a sign of healthy racial instincts. Christ, honey, do you have any idea how lucky you are not to have known any of this? How lucky you are that you don’t know? How lucky you are that you can disbelieve?

We did it all for you, you know.

The main thing I suppose that stands out in my mind about life in them United States was that everybody was miserable. Wretchedly, bitterly, soul-destroyingly unhappy. I think every white person alive in the year 2000 understood instinctively that something was terribly wrong with the world, even if they didn’t know what. My own childhood was pretty crappy, but it was by no means atypical, and in fact it was actually better than some. My parents were drunks but they didn’t divorce, they neglected me but they never burned my fingers on the stove or beat me black and blue when I was a child, and I always had enough innate good sense not to pick up their bottle and to stay away from drugs. I wasn’t born with HIV or addicted to crack cocaine because my mother was a junkie, and I wasn’t abducted and murdered and left in a ditch.

As horrifying as it sounds, in many respects my family was emotionally and socially quite typical. Everybody was dysfunctional. There was no “normal” left. From the richest kids on down to trailer trash like me, we lived our lives all doped up, dumbed down, zoned out, pregnant, half insane with rage all the time, confused, hostile, paranoid, dishonest, vicious and mean and looking out for nobody but Number One.

Everybody had problems, terrible problems that poisoned our very existence, and we were all being eaten alive inside like we’d swallowed acid. Life in the United States was a nightmare from which we were all desperately trying to awaken, but we never could. Nobody ever got a chance to stop and smell the roses. There weren’t any roses left any more to smell, anyway. There was a weird kind of reverse Midas touch in operation throughout the world: everything America touched turned to shit. We were all too busy scrambling and scrabbling and scrimping for small sums of money to pay a hundred little pissant bills. Drivers used to go insane and murder one another over minor traffic mishaps. It was called road rage. Happened all the time. You know what happens when you keep too many rats in too small a cage, ma’am? They start attacking and eating one another. That was America at the beginning of the 21st century.

The majority of white marriages ended in divorce. At least a third of all young white men and women of marriageable age lived alone, because they couldn’t stand one another. Feminism taught women to hate men, and the men returned the favor. How can you marry and love someone you’ve been taught all your life to view as an enemy and a competitor? A whole generation of white children grew up as latch-key kids, dumped in a day care center or a school every morning before Mommy and Daddy or the single parent of the household went to work. The kids came home to an empty house and the boob tube, sometimes with a TV dinner sitting in the oven. More than any nigger gun or knife, more than any needle of heroin or line of coke, more than any perversion of thought practiced by the Jews upon our minds, this so-called liberation of women destroyed two generations of us. When a race of people loses its women, it loses everything.

Oh, it wasn’t all bad. Nothing ever is. Sure, there was laughter, but it was a mechanical laugh track from TV. It was the shrill, forced laughter of people who were on the edge of the abyss and just barely coping, who knew they had to laugh at least a little to stay sane. There were good times in the old America I knew, but they all involved either deadening your brain with drink or drugs or television, or withdrawing into some fantasy world on the computer every night, or else doing stupid, dangerous, pointless things for an adrenalin rush, like bungee jumping or rock climbing or leaping out of airplanes and skateboarding down on a parachute. The good times had a kind of brittle, hysterical edge to them, a conscious effort to escape from a world that everyone knew in their hearts had turned to purest dog doo.

Right, getting back on track, how the hell do I explain to someone who never knew it what life was like under Zion?

The first thing you have to understand is that in those days the United States was a society driven by one thing and one thing only, money. Christians call it the worship of Mammon. I have my own thoughts about God, but I will tell you this much: the only god America worshipped in the days of my youth was Mammon, gold ringing in the till so to speak. It wasn’t real gold and silver like we use today, but numbers on a computer spread sheet. They called it the bottom line and the bottom line ruled every aspect of our existence.

Everything was completely and utterly material, and if you tried to suggest there might be something more in life than chasing the almighty dollar you were looked at like you were a lunatic. I remember seeing these little computer-printed signs on office walls about how “Life is a game, and the one who dies with the most toys wins.” There were people who actually believed that. I guess they thought that if they could only live long enough, science would find some way for them to take all their money and silly little toys with them.

Seriously, I think that’s what they were trying for. One of the big things you always heard about on the news in them days was various types of genetic and medical research into the possibility of immortality. By the time I hit my own teenaged years, the first wave of post-World War Two Baby Boomers were finally being carted off to the cemeteries and the fogey farms, and let me tell you, they did not go gentle into that good night. Those Baby Boomers fought and scratched and kicked and screamed every inch of the way, absolutely refusing to admit that their generation was finally getting old.

One of the biggest growth industries in them days was plastic surgery, botox injections, hormone treatments, every baldness cure you can think of, anything that might halt or reverse the Baby Boomers’ aging process. When I reached my own codgerdom I came to understand how they felt. Hell, no one wants to grow old, but dammit, you should at least try and be a man about it. There was always something desperate and pathetic about it in those days, all those hippy-dippy flower children from the 1960s scrambling and clawing to fight off the fact that their time was over now, and they’d pretty much all done what they come here to do. It lacked dignity, and sometimes dignity is all an old coot or old crone has left in life. And if you work it right, that’s enough. Well, you wanted stream of consciousness. Remembering all those hippy-dippy assholes trying to stay young or at least middle-aged was one of the first things to float to the surface in my particular stream.

Money, money, money, it was all about money. Some asshole was always screaming at you demanding it, and no one ever had enough of it. Everybody except the very top echelon of truly wealthy people was always broke and up to their chins in bills and damned near insoluble financial problems. Mortgage, rent, credit card debt, car payments and repairs, sky-high utility bills, the astronomical cost of food and clothing if you were trying to raise a family. And God help you if you or a member of your family got sick. Today in the Northwest Republic, the very thought of the medical vocation charging money to save people’s lives and make sick little children well is held in revulsion. Free medical care is held to be a right in the Republic’s Constitution right on up there with freedom of speech and religion and the right to keep and bear arms. But in those days a sick child or a heart attack would wipe out a lifetime’s hard work in a few months and destroy the future of an entire family.

America had three rules back then: don’t be poor, don’t be sick, and for God’s sake, don’t get old. I don’t exactly cotton to being ninety-one years of age, but at least I’m ninety-one here in the Republic. The thought of being old in the United States chills my blood to this day. I wouldn’t have made it this far, actually, if we’d stayed with ZOG. The state would have dragged me away to the fogey farm under the Senior Citizens’ Quality of Life act, which basically gave the government the power to throw old people away once their insurance ran out, and some Third World quack would have given me the hot shot long ago, like that kike Friedman murdered my Dad. The average life span of old folks locked up in those fogey farms was less than six months, especially the ones that were “privatized” as they called it back then, farmed out to entrepeneurs wearing turbans or yarmulkes. If I wasn’t legally euthanized I would have died of neglect or been poisoned or beaten to death by my Filipino and Nigerian “caregivers.”

Elderly white people who had no money or whose insurance ran out, and that was most of ‘em, got the short end of the stick like you wouldn’t believe. Social Security finally went down the tubes when I was—twelve? Thirteen? Can’t remember—but even before Social Security went, there were old white people in America who lived on dog food, at least at the end of the month before their checks arrived. Once Social Security was gone, life for old people was a horror beyond comprehension. If you had no children who were able or willing to take care of you, then the only alternative was one of those fogey farms run by the state if you were lucky and run by a turban or a yarmulke if you weren’t. Then came the hot shot.

Oh, there were a few of those hellholes run by “faith-based initiatives,” which was part of a complex system wherein tax money was funneled to the religious right in exchange for pro-Zionist bloc voting to keep the neo-cons in power and keep the endless war in the Middle East going. I remember seeing busloads of old people being driven up to the polls in Dundee and marched in, with their preacher handing them their ballots at the door and a nice young deacon to escort each of them in and make sure they pulled the right levers.

What were neo-cons? It means neo-conservatives. They were Jews who pretended to be conservatives. We eventually managed to track them all down and kill them. Anyway, at those “faith-based” fogey farms they made you jump for Jeeee-zus twice a week, as opposed to Jesus, in exchange for your bed in some crowded dormitory of sick and dying and half-insane old people. But I’ll say this, they at least kept you alive so you could vote, and indeed you’d most likely vote a few times after you croaked, too.

No, not Jesus, Jeeee-zus. What’s the difference? Jesus is the son of God, Jeeee-zus was who the tub-thumping fools in some of the churches jumped for. Long story, don’t worry, I’ll ramble over in that direction eventually, when I talk about the Wingfields. They were into Jesus, not Jeeee-zus. But that’s really how you want to end your days, eh? In a warehouse for geezers.

Several years before the revolution an epidemic of suicide among the elderly broke out. Tens of thousands of old people every year killed themselves with gas or pills or hanging or any guns they’d managed to save from Schumer Act confiscation. A lot of times it would happen when the cops or the IRS came to drag some poor old man or woman or couple out of their foreclosed home and take them to the fogey farm. The police would break in and find ‘em dead. There’d be some horrible story like that on the evening news nearly every day, back when I was growing up. That’s one thing I remember from my childhood. You always heard about old white people killing themselves.

Of course, life wasn’t exactly a breeze for young people either, if you had a white skin. Leastways if you had a white skin and you liked girls. When I say that it was all about money, you understand I’m not referring to the consumer society of the late twentieth century. Three cars in the garage, split-level ranch home with a swimming pool in the back, two-hundred dollar tennis shoes named after some niggerball player, a closet full of clothes and a room full of computer toys, conspicuous consumption, the whole Brady Bunch scene—by the time I was coming along these things didn’t exist any more, except for a tiny minority of very rich people who lived in what were called gated communities, meaning fortified compounds with fences, armed guards and dog teams to keep the poor people of any race out.

The American kids I knew when I was growing up were all poor and wretched, because none of the rich kids went to public schools. They had their own private schools that cost more for a semester than my father made in a year. We all knew about the great American consumer lifestyle, of course, because we saw it every night on TV, but that was the only place it existed. On TV.

The fact was that during the first couple of decades of the twenty-first century, nobody had any money for all those fancy consumer goods and toys, except what you bought on your twenty-nine percent interest credit cards. In the latter part of the twentieth century you could actually do a Chapter Seven and get out of the cards, but then along came “bankruptcy reform” which was pushed by the banks and credit card companies, with a cute little sub-clause that allowed for “debt inheritance” so you couldn’t even really get out of that crushing debt by kicking the bucket. All of a sudden not only you but your children and your grandchildren were saddled with paying for that sport utility vehicle at twenty-nine per cent, for life.

The loansharks would load you up with credit cards by the time you were twenty-one, and then you spent the rest of your life in a kind of financial slavery paying the cards and their outrageous interest. If you were a guy, of course, there was the crushing alimony and child support from your first marriage. Everybody had a first or starter marriage in those days, and the way the courts were completely slanted against men, that was another form of financial slavery you could expect to last twenty or thirty years. Basically, a white male lived his entire life paying bills, and as the years went by and ZOG became more and more confused and incompetent and greedy, they became harder and harder to pay.

The economic power structure thought maybe ten minutes ahead, if that. It stands to reason that you can’t expect people to pay credit card bills on the one hand, while you’re shipping their jobs out to India and Malaysia and Guatemala by the millions on the other hand. You would have thought they would have figured that out and worked out some arrangement whereby at least the peons would have jobs to earn the money to pay their debts, but the system never did quite catch on to those little basics. Or maybe they knew it all along and just didn’t care. Maybe they were just evil.

I’ve never been able to figure that out. How much of what we went through back then was because the Jews and the rich white men in business suits who ruled over us were just stupid and uncaring, thinking of us as their livestock to shear and slaughter as they liked, and how much of what they did was because they were truly evil and meant to hurt and destroy in furtherance of some weird conspiracy. It was both, I know, but I never understood in what proportion. I think there was a strong element of plain sadism; some of the stuff they did to us back then was so petty and cruel that they had to know it and just got some kind of kick out of it. Anyway, they all deserved nothing but a bullet in their heads and by God, some of them got it.

Unemployment was a ghoul that was always present in our lives, there in the background, cold skeleton hands around our necks. It was something we lived with, like people in the Middle Ages lived with the Black Death, this terrible invisible demon that could descend at any moment and destroy everything we had. A few missed paychecks and it was welcome to the Salvation Army hostel.

It’s not that there was no work. There is always work to be done, anywhere, but for every unskilled and semi-skilled job there were hordes of Mexicans willing to work like cart horses for chicken feed. When the capitalists found it inconvenient to ship American jobs to the Third World, they brought the Third World here. When I was growing up you could still see a few white men doing manual labor, but by the time I was in high school every road crew, landscape crew, or roofing team was Mexican. Whole industries became closed to native-born white Americans, as all the local convenience stores and filling station franchises and motels were bought up by Sikhs, Koreans, or Arabs who hired no one but their own relatives just off the jumbo jet. White faces disappeared from behind the counters of stores and the kitchens of restaurants. One job after another, bottom rung employment was closed off to whites, and those of us who didn’t have the skills or usually the money and connections to jump a few rungs never got on the ladder at all.

Not just bottom rung, either. Mexicans replaced whites at the lower end while Asians and Indians replaced whites at the high end. My dad had a masters degree in structural design and a solid resumé despite his drinking. When he was sober he was damned good at what he did. But as time went on he couldn’t even get temp work because some Hindu or Chinese with a degree from Ching Hoo U. would work for half his rate. To complain or protest about this sitch invited an arrest for hatecrime under the Dees Act, so whites ended up competing desperately and brutally with each other for the few jobs that were open to gringos.

Since pretty much all the jobs that were available paid nothing but a crappy minimum wage that no white man could live on, never mind support a family on, it followed that no one could make it on just one job. Most people had two or three. It was by no means unusual to know a married couple who had five jobs between them, and that didn’t leave much for the young guys like me coming up on the bottom rung with a couple of strikes against them already.

Discrimination against whites, especially white males, was everywhere. It was just one of the things we all accepted and tried to work around. College admission was by quota unless the parents were rich enough to just plain buy a white boy in. I never even got onto the college track, because the guidance counselors knew my family had no money and I had no chance at a scholarship. It wasn’t even discussed.

But I remember from the few kids at Dundee High who were being considered for college track that the first thing their higher education counselors asked was if they could claim membership in any minority group,some obscure Indian tribe no one ever heard of, a non-white great-grandparent, anything. Often they had to claim to be a faggot or a dyke to get into university, until the authorities caught on to that and started asking for affidavits from—no, ma’am, I am not making that up!

The discrimination against white Americans took a dozen forms. It started with the growing demand down through the years that in order to get a job you had to speak Spanish. If you spoke only English then you just didn’t get any job that required dealing with the increasingly foreign and non-white public, anything from a grocery checkout clerk to a telemarketer. Things got so bad that there were white parents who voluntarily gave up their own children to It Takes A Village in order to have them placed with wealthy liberals and faggots who could afford the adoption bond, because they knew it was the only way their kids would ever be able to go to college and have any kind of future.

By the time I hit high school, the safety net was pretty much all gone and you either knew somebody who already had a job who could get you in, or else you ended up on Workfare, which was state-paid slave labor for less than minimum wage. When that wasn’t available, and it usually wasn’t, you didn’t work, period, and more often than not it was off to the homeless shelter or the hobo jungle under the old underpass outside of town.

Not like our National Labor Service today where every citizen of the Republic is guaranteed some kind of gainful employment. The ZOG power structure had never really been comfortable with anything that involved white people taking money out of the kitty instead of putting it in. White males were like the peasants of the Middle Ages; our role in society was always to work so that all might eat. But capitalism decided we were too pricey, and so they brought in millions of Third World immigrants to replace us and more or less tried to breed us out of existence. Gradually, over a period of about fifty years, all the entitlements were chipped away and replaced with things like those big grants to the so-called “faith-based initiatives” I mentioned.

In other words, it was still possible for white people of the right politically correct stripe to get their hooks into Federal tax money, all right, but not as something you were entitled to because you’d worked like a dog all your life and paid in. Instead there appeared all kinds of political quid pro quo. The money was doled out in the form of “community grants,” etc. In other words, as bribes for votes and political favors. Politically, America became Chicago writ large. Racially, America became Brazil.

Materialism was total. The only spiritual aspect to American life, if you want to call it that, was among a fairly significant number of quasi-fundamentalist Christians in what was known as the religious right, but that wasn’t really a religion, it was just a theological smokescreen for Zionism, which is a political and racial ideology. The ones like old Walter who were always jumping for Jeeee-zus on TV or running around in public handing out those silly little comic books or hollering through bullhorns about how Israel was the fulfillment of Biblical prophecy and God wanted us to slaughter every Muslim in the world who wouldn’t bow down and convert.

When I was growing up, everything we used or bought or saw around us was shoddy and half-assed. The stuff we bought at Mighty Mart was all cheap plastic made in Taiwan or some South American shithole under NAFTA. Cars and computers and appliances were constantly breaking down because of substandard Third World workmanship and planned obsolescence. Nobody could spell correctly any more; even computer spell check programs had errors in them. The roads and highways were full of potholes. There were constant power outages and brownouts because the electrical grid was so archaic and overloaded.

There were constant cases of ptomaine poisoning and botulism arising out of the fact that America wasn’t even producing much of our own food any more; we were either importing bacterial mad-cow beef for our hamburgers or sending our own food overseas to be processed and canned up with whatever exotic Asian or African plague the workers in the latest capitalist paradise suffered from. The public schools were falling apart, and so were a lot of the private schools since no one had any money to support them any more, and they had all succumbed to forced diversity and political correctness. Our textbooks were twenty years old and nothing but politically correct, dumbed-down drivel anyway. Our teachers were pig-ignorant and sometimes just barely spoke English.

Health care, when you could get it, was substandard and mostly carried out by Third World immigrants whose medical degrees came from Roachistan U. There were regular scandals at the Veterans’ Administration hospitals involving death by neglect and murder of patients for sport by the staff, although once euthanasia for the elderly became law that was only a misdemeanor.

A hundred times a day we were reminded that white people were a minority in our own land, and a despised one at that. You turned on the TV and it was nothing but black and brown and yellow faces. You went to the post office and tried to buy stamps from some hadji who’d just walked off the jumbo jet and into a government job because back in Iraq or Saudi he’d been a traitor who collaborated with the invaders of his country and been rewarded with a green card, but who didn’t even speak English. In some cases our glorious Crusaders bribed whole Muslim armies to surrender without a fight that might produce embarrassing casualties by offering them all green cards, a practice that began with the First Gulf War in 1991.

All around us, we heard a dozen languages, but above all the eternal gabble of that half-assed, almost illiterate bastard Spanish that Central American Latinos speak. Everywhere we went it seemed there were brown-skinned immigrants of some kind ahead of us in line, always holding us up with their inability to speak our language. Always you wanted to scream out “What the hell are you doing in my country?” But if you ever did, if you ever so much as whispered a word of complaint or criticism, you were finished. Hatecrime

Anything non-white was officially cool and admirable and anything white or European was by definition lame and contemptible. For white people, especially white males, there was a constant atmosphere of insult. On TV and everywhere else, white men were portrayed as buffoons. We were all Homer Simpsons or Hank Hills. Those are old cartoon characters. I don’t know if they are teaching kids in our Republic’s schools today about Homer Simpson. If not, they should be, because that’s how white men were portrayed, as bumbling, drunken, stupid fools instead of the head of a family who deserved respect and trust.

One of the ways I think ZOG might have avoided the revolution is if they’d just not insulted us all the time. If they’d let us retain some kind of sense of dignity, pride, and self-worth. But they just had to rub our noses in it.

We all lived with a constant sense of fear, especially fear of the informer. For years it was never official, it was just understood that there were certain things a white person, especially a white male, did not say and certain opinions one did not voice or else bad things would happen, anything from loss of employment to a malicious lawsuit to unpunished assault and murder by left-wing or non-white thugs.

A couple of years before 10/22 ZOG got so nervous about the growing rumblings of discontent from the pale peasantry that they made it official. They passed the Dees Act, allegedly to “promote diversity and protect minority rights in the workplace, including transit to and from the workplace, and in public institutions of learning,” i.e. all public schools, universities and colleges, and any private school getting so much as a dime of Federal money.

The Dees Act slapped a mandatory five-year prison sentence on anything and everything politically incorrect, from “causing mental anguish on the basis of race, religion, ethnicity or sexual orientation” to “creating a hostile workplace environment,” “inappropriately directed laughter,” and “deliberate exclusion from conversation and social interaction in the workplace.”

In other words, white people gathering in corners and talking to one another was in itself an act of insurrection, and every lunch table and extracurricular activity had to have an affirmative action quota of blacks, browns, and bugger boys to monitor what the pale peasants were saying. We were constantly bombarded with all this blather about how great Amurrica was and how we supposedly had all this liberty and freedom and that was why we had to “fight for our country” by going to the Middle East and slaughtering the natives. (Needless to say, any mention of Israel got airbrushed out of the picture real quick.)

Liberty, my ass! Ordinary white people were always afraid. Any time a white person was about to make any kind of racial or other remark that might have seemed even faintly politically incorrect, they looked over their shoulder first to see who was listening. That is the mark of a true police state. Any time you have to look over your shoulder for fear of who might be listening, you’re not free.

Then there was the almost obligatory race-mixing and perversion. In school and on the tube we were always having our noses rubbed in interracial couples, gay couples, man-sheep couples, you name it. We all somehow understood that of all the taboos, speaking out against seeing some white girl with a nigger or a mud was the strongest and that it would bring the most severe retaliation. We were all made aware in a hundred sub rosa ways that it was the intention of our lords and masters that all babies should eventually be brown, and that this was supposed to be a good thing.

Yet to me, and I know to most of my contemporaries, it never felt right. In Dundee itself, I am sorry to say race-mixing was, if not common, at least there. We only had a couple of blacks in town, but there were always illegal Mexicans looking for their La Gordas, white women who were so hugely fat that having a spic marry her to get his green card was the only way she would ever get a man.

The foulest thing of all was the sex education courses. Fortunately by the time it got really bad I was in high school and the system assumed I already knew the whole kama sutra, so all I had to do was collect my weekly condom ration in homeroom, which I then traded to convenience stores for a chili dog or a microwave burrito. But young children in elementary school were being given illustrated courses in various unnatural acts and told to pair off in class with someone of the same sex and kiss them. One outraged father in Dundee went to jail for hatecrime under the Dees Act when he pulled his son out of such a class and then lost it with the teacher and called him a faggot. Got the full nickel, too, but he was murdered by Mexicans in prison so he never completed his sentence.

* * *

But there was one problem, one issue that loomed over everything that America did in those days. The war. The Crusade, as it came to be called. If you want to get historically accurate about it, the Ninth Crusade. America’s attempt to conquer the Middle East, steal all the oil in the world, civilize the native chappies at the point of a gun and make them love Israel or else. Some witty late-night talk show hosts even made cracks about taking up the white man’s burden, until one of them was prosecuted under the Dees Act for inciting to hatred and the rest of them toed the line fast. That put a damper on humor as a weapon of criticism against the Oil Empire. I always noticed that about ZOG. They could never stand being mocked; ridicule was the one weapon they feared most.

The constant fighting on half a dozen fronts in the Islamic world drained America like some mammoth blood-sucking leech. One reason that Social Security and Medicare went bust during the early part of the century was the fact that more and more of America’s gross national product was being pissed down the rathole of our oil empire in the Middle East. Soldiers, equipment, money to hire and arm the local thugs as mercenaries like we did in Afghanistan and Lebanon, money for American mercenaries in the guise of “private security contractors,” rations, cluster bombs for dropping on babies, medical care for wounded, body armor, prosthetic limbs by the freight car load, millions for media propaganda, bribes to puppet governments, it just sucked everything America had down into a big whirlpool in the sand.

It was actually a series of little wars, so many that most of us lost count, but we just called it “the war.” Us against the entire Muslim world except the few we could buy, like Turkey, and those never stayed bought. It had been going on as long as I could remember. When I was growing up there was never a time when American soldiers weren’t coming back from some Middle East rat’s nest in body bags, at least a couple every week. It just went on and on and on, as president after president who got elected out of the Jews’ pockets promised to bring the troops home and then reneged once they got into office, and we went on trying to make the world safe for Israel and grab all the oil while we were at it.

The war hung over everything, and when the United States brought back the draft then all of a sudden it wasn’t just blacks and Puerto Ricans and white trailer trash from Alabama who were coming back in those bags. It was real mass conscription and very hard to evade, because the empire was desperate for cannon fodder.

I was ten years old when ZOG finally brought back the draft. I remember my dad saying, “Well, Shane, at least you’ll have a job waiting when you get out of school.” Actually, though, I didn’t. Getting a bit ahead of myself, by the time I would have graduated high school I was made 4-F because I had a record of “racism,” and a lot of white boys very quickly picked up on the fact that as rough as it made life, one way to get out of being drafted was to get tagged as politically incorrect.

The Party got a lot of recruits that way, guys who came in for the draft deferment and stayed once they learned what it was all really about and grasped the significance of the forbidden J word. I was always kind of amused that I spent many years of my youth fighting and defeating a government that had rejected me for “lack of moral fiber.”

I had six or seven guys in my graduating class at Dundee High who were drafted and came back from some desert wearing toe tags. To be sure, the United States was never outright defeated—the Arabs never could stand up to the American military machine one on one in a set-piece battle and everybody knew it—but the Muslims turned out to be natural-born guerrilla fighters. Plus it’s kind of hard to defeat a man whose existence you have made so utterly miserable that he no longer minds strapping on an explosive belt and giving up his own life just to splatter your limbs all over the landscape as well.

We learned a lot from the Arab guerrillas in the NVA, especially since we had a lot of veterans who had fought against them. If you know your history, you know the U.S. eventually had to throw in the towel over there, because even this huge continent’s financial and natural resources were not inexhaustible. Not to mention the fact that us homegrown evildoers finally opened a “second front” for our Arab allies in the Northwest and distracted the U.S. long enough for them to finally take out Israel.

I know that to this day there remain people in the Party and a lot of my old comrades who still aren’t comfortable with the de facto alliance we worked out with the Arabs against our common enemy, but hey, Hitler found the Japanese to be suitable allies. In any case, as I’m sure you know, by a special act of Parliament, the diplomatic delegation at the Palestinian Embassy in Olympia are the only non-Whites allowed to reside in the Northwest Republic, even temporarily. Them and a specially imported harem of dusky houris so they stay away from white women. They earned that privilege with their blood, just like we earned our country with our blood, and I don’t begrudge it to them.

What the neo-cons did in the Middle East was to wound the tiger, and then they didn’t finish the job. Israel simply had too many enemies. Even the mighty United States, the only remaining superpower, couldn’t destroy them all. They invaded Afghanistan in ‘01 and Iraq in ‘03 and from there it just went on and on and on, Iran and Syria and Lebanon and Egypt and Saudi Arabia, and eventually Pakistan and Libya and Malaysia, and when the Turks finally had enough of shilling for ZOG the Americans invaded Turkey as well, but it was always very half-assed and confused.

The United States simply didn’t have the numerical manpower to occupy and crush the population of every Muslim country on earth. The result was constant guerrilla warfare in a dozen hotspots. Admitting American defeat at the hands of a people whom we officially held in contempt as “ragheads” was a long, slow and sullen process and there was terrible and unnecessary death and pain involved.

That’s another way that the Jews could have stayed in power here in the Northwest, if they’d just had sense enough not to try to conquer the world. The Greeks called it hubris. Overweening pride that insults the gods. Yep, that was Yehudi all right.

Saturday, January 26, 2008

In Memoriam: Dr Erich Kaestner (1900-2008)

A discreet announcement made its way into the pages of the Hannoverische Allgemeine earlier this month. It marked the end of an era, but it passed largely unobserved.

It was a death notice for a man called Dr. Erich Kästner, and he may well have been the last remaining survivor of the German Imperial army of the First World War. Dr. Kästner served on the Western Front in 1918, the last year of the war. He was 107 years of age.

While he just outlived 2007, Dr. Kästner did not outlive Louis de Cazenave, the French Great War veteran who died last Sunday aged 110. De Cazenave's death, marked in news reports, obituaries and a statement from President Sarkozy, leaves just one surviving French veteran.

But the death of his German counterpart was not so marked.There was no comment from Chancellor Angela Merkel on his death, and on the sacrifices of the millions of young men like him who did not survive. No television pictures of him, bent with age, and the weight of a great number of medals.

Indeed it is impossible to know for sure that he was the last remaining survivor of the Great War because Germany has no official records of its veterans from the two World Wars. Germany's losses in the Great War were extraordinary. It is thought to have lost more men in World War One than any other nation and more than twice those of the UK (whose own staggering casualty figures stand at almost 900,000).

Erich Kastner's sacrifice, his courage, and his devotion to his Fatherland have been rewarded with silence and contempt by the nation he served. But if the Germans don't remember, then we do.

Und Ihr habt doch gesiegt, Kamerad.

Friday, January 25, 2008


[You know, I have written other things besides the Northwest novels. Here is an excerpt from SLOW COMING DARK, Chapter VI. This particular scene is set in Raleigh, North Carolina, and our hero is a White state police detective named Matt Redmond. This is the second Matt and Heather novel; our detective dynamic duo first made their appearance in FIRE AND RAIN, which I actually recommend people read first. It also has some interesting anti-Clinton stuff. SCD is kind of a sequel, written in 1999 and 2000 when the Sea Hag and her consort were still in power their first time around.- HAC]

The next morning Matt Redmond came into his office and found a note on his desk. “Contact the Director, private cellular number.” Matt dialed the number. “Yes, Phil?” he asked.

“Matt, I’m at Senator Helms’ house.” said Hightower. He sounded haggard. “His private home, not his office. Please come over here right away, and tell no one where you are going.”

Twenty minutes later Matt pulled into a graveled driveway on a shady, tree-lined street in one of Raleigh’s inner city neighborhoods, up to an unpretentious but spacious and well kept two story home of nineteenth century vintage. He knocked on the door and was astounded when the door was opened by United States Senator Jesse Helms himself, a slightly built, dignified old man leaning on a cane, a humorous glint in his eye behind thick spectacles. “You must be Matt Redmond,” he said, extending his hand that gripped Matt’s firmly despite his years. “I remember those fedoras, used to wear one myself when I was your age. Glad to meet you, son! I’ve heard a hell of a lot about all them darin’ exploits of yours!”

“It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” said Matt, flustered. “Ah, I got a message from SBI Director Hightower...?”

“He’s in the parlor,” said Helms, beckoning Matt inside. “Come on in. Matt, we got a hellacious problem we’re gonna need your help with.” He opened the door to the living room.

Matt saw Hightower sitting in an armchair. Then he heard a baby give a short cry. He turned and a stunningly beautiful young woman in a pale beige pants suit rose from the sofa, holding a bundled infant in her arms. Her hair was long and blond, her eyes crystalline blue, and her face was a frozen mask of haunted pain and fear. She looked like she was about to turn and flee out the French doors. The first thing that hit Matt was that this woman was terrified out of her wits. Then he recognized her. “You’re Alice Silverman,” he said.

“You’re Matt Redmond?” she whispered.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said quietly, taking off his hat. “How may I be of service to you?”

“You can save my life,” she said dismally. “They killed Carla and Serafina. I heard their terrible screams as they died, while I was running away with my child in my arms. Now they’re trying to kill me, and kill my baby.”

“Who?” asked Matt urgently. It was as if Hightower and Helms weren’t even in the room. “Who is trying to kill you?”

“Bill Clinton,” she whispered. “He wants me dead. He wants my baby dead!”

“Why?” asked Matt gently. She looked up at him in anguish. “I know Clinton and his works, ma’am. You needn’t fear you won’t be believed. Why is he trying you kill you, and why does he want to kill the baby?”

Her eyes and her voice were dead with utter misery. “Eleven months ago, Bill Clinton raped me. After he was through, Hillary Clinton raped me.” She held up the wiggling bundle. “This is Bill Clinton’s son. Now he wants us both dead. I have come to you because you are the only lawman in the country who will believe me, and who has shown that he has the courage to stand up to them. If you don’t help, then my child and I will die. Will you help us?”

“Yes,” said Matt.

[Slow Coming Dark and Fire and Rain by H. A. Covington can be ordered direct from or you can e-mail ]

Thursday, January 24, 2008

In Memoriam: Heath Ledger (1979-2008)

[I'm sorry. I know this is infantile, but I just can't resist! - HAC]

Brokeback Mountain Theme Song

[Sung to the tune of O Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie. With profound apologies to the unquiet shade of Tex Ritter]

"O bugger me not on the lone prairie
Where the strobes and cameras roll over me.
Though it's in the script, it's a shame to see,
O bugger me not on the lone prairie!

"It makes no difference, so I've been told,
If I sell my ass, once I've sold my soul
To the studio and the industry,
But bugger me not on the lone prairie!

"For the bucks they pay, I'll do anything,
In that flick with Stiles, I would even sing.
I got no conscience or decency,
But bugger me not on the lone prairie!

"Don't give a damn how gross and obscene,
So before we roll, pass the vaseline.
Yippee ki yi yay, doing sodomy!
But bugger me not on the lone prairie!

"Those Jews and queers in the Academy
Will all go batshit praising me.
I'll win an Oscar, you wait and see,
But bugger me not on the lone prairie!

"So what's the problem, you well might ask
With me performing this pervert's task?
As you will see in the director's cut,
A rattlesnake bit me on the butt!"

Wednesday, January 23, 2008

It'll Be The Sea Hag Versus Mr. Potato Head

I suppose if I'm going to maintain my reputation as a prophet, I need to do some prophesying beforehand. Okay, here goes:

South Carolina: The Obamanation may take it, although it will be closer than anyone thinks, because the Clintons may have sense enough to realize that with over half the registered Democrats in S.C. being black, any Diebold Diddling like she pulled in New Hampshire would be just a little bit too obvious. I say they may have sense enough to realize that. The Clinton campaign thus far has been amazingly maladroit for two people who are supposed to be so smart. They don't have to play the race card; everybody knows Hussein is black and unelectable in November, but they're doing it anyway because Hillary is just so damned mad at this uppity nigger who dares to challenge her divine and ineluctable destiny for power. She's already acting petty, petulant, and bitchy. Not a good sign.

Like I say, Hussein might be allowed to take South Carolina, but that will be it. And having pissed off Mommy Dearest, he can forget about veep. (I wouldn't be surprised to see her nominate Bill for her running mate at the convention.) Come Super Tuesday, the Sea Hag's blue states come rolling on and that's going to be all she wrote. On the Republican side, I think the Huckster will fizzle and Caligula isn't going to make it past Florida. The booby prize of playing palooka to Mommy Dearest and taking a dive in November will go to Mr. Potato Head.

Why? Because it's his turn. It was always on the cards that this one would be the Sea Hag versus Mr. Potato Head, and the Sea Hag will win and march into the Oval Office with that long, long enemies list and revenge on her mind. That's the way our Presidential politics works these days. Each Bush and Clinton gets eight years, while two elections in a row the opposing party puts up some semi-credible dufus like Dole, Kerry, or McCain. In 2016 it will be Jeb Bush's turn, and by 2024 Chelsea should be ready for her turn.

Monday, January 21, 2008

In Celebration Of The Life of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

[In celebration of the life of Dr. Martin Luther King, Junior, I offer you the following--uh, fictional, of course--description of how to bring an end to the filthy world that nigger helped to bring into being. Here, by request, is the rest of Chapter II from THE BRIGADE. - HAC]

“The movement has always had to deal with this defeatist and paranoid belief that if we ever really tried anything, the might of the Army and the Marines would simply crush us,” said Hatfield. “Well, I can tell you, having seen the military from the inside, that the Army and Marines ain’t anywhere as mighty as they once were. And do you seriously think the Americans will abandon Iraq and Israel and Saudi Arabia and Venezuela and cut themselves off from their own oil supply to drop a million men on a handful of partisans in the Pacific Northwest, and maintain that level of occupation in a part of the world that is just as much a foreign country to those East Coast and L.A.-centric Jews and intelligentsia as Iraq ever was? The ruling élite all consider the Northwest to be a minor backwater.”

“You would think that maintaining the territorial integrity of the United States would be the régime’s first priority, but it won’t be,” agreed Morehouse. “With the growing world fuel shortage, oil is frankly more important than land, and will become more so. After all, the Northwest has no oil, other than Alaska, which is a separate problem. The Army Council’s strategic assessment is that initially, at least, there will be only a small actual military commitment against us, if any. They won’t take us seriously. Wishful thinking on their part: they desperately won’t want to take us seriously. The idea that white boys would actually revolt against them boggles their minds too much. They’re not going to be sending B-52s to bomb Seattle or landing the Third Marine Division in Astoria. What would that accomplish against small bands of guerrillas who will simply melt away in the face of overwhelming force, and then strike where the underbelly is soft? I think they’ve learned at least that much in Iraq and Iran. It won’t be that type of war.

“No, they’ll try to treat us as a crime problem at first,” Morehouse went on, the three of them leaning forward intently to listen. “Our enemies on the ground will consist of a hodge-podge of local police, National Guard reservists, FBI and BATFE, Homeland Security and other enemy paramilitaries, and eventually probably some SWAT-type special units and loyalist vigilante groups. And of course the black and Mexican gangs in the cities who may be sworn in as special U.S. Marshals or something of the kind when the shit really hits the fan. And the media, of course. Our enemy will be fragmented, disorganized, poorly coordinated in his many arms and agencies, and like all federals, each group will be jealous of its own turf and resources. They won’t work well together, they’ll trip over one another’s shoelaces, and they will fight us just as incompetently as they fought against the Iraqis and Iranians.”

“I’ve had to work with the federal government in the Forestry Department for years,” said Washburn. “I can tell you, the people in charge of us are fucking idiots. They break down just trying to establish a coherent forest firefighting plan, and don’t even get me started on FEMA. Get somebody actually shooting at these bureaucrats, and they’ll fall to pieces.”

“Exactly,” agreed Morehouse. “The reality is that for the first few months and years, we won’t be coming up against anybody that we can’t outshoot in a clutch, if our gunners can stay cool and calm and sober, keep the initiative in our hands, hunt them instead of letting them hunt us, and put some guts behind our guns. Of course, ideally speaking, it should never come to a full-blown shootout. We live light, we move light, we hit hard, and then we vanish before they can bring their superior force to bear. Classic guerrilla tactics. Remember those long wars in Iraq and Afghanistan and the Middle East? Many of our Volunteers will be military veterans who have been under fire on the other end of the stick, and man for man they’ll be every bit the personal equal or better than some pot-bellied highway patrolman or affirmative action FBI bitch in a feminist business suit.”

“So how many men do you think we will need in the NVA to get the job done?” asked Ekstrom again.

Morehouse puffed his pipe meditatively. “All right. I’m going to give you guys the theory here, all nice and neat. In reality, of course, nothing about this war is going to be nice and neat, but I am going to create a scenario for you that will at least approximate how we will win the Northwest American Republic, so you can get a glimpse of the possibilities. Assume we have intelligent and determined leadership. Assume we can get Volunteers with strong character and courage. Assume we can formulate a coherent battle plan and tactics, and add a generous dollop of good old fashioned luck from the God of Battles. Those things acquired, and remembering how essentially weak and hollow the enemy really is, we should be able effectively to terminate federal control over three Northwestern states and maybe more territory as well, if we can maintain a force in the field of approximately one thousand men. And women, lest we forget.”

“Overthrow the United States government with a thousand men?” demanded Washburn in skeptical amazement. “Bullshit!”

“I didn’t say overthrow the United States government,” Morehouse corrected him. “I said effectively terminate federal control and authority in three large Northwestern states, which is not the same thing.”

“How?” asked Ekstrom.

“By hitting the enemy hard and often, in teams or crews of two to five or six people max. Let’s assume an average of five Volunteers per squad or crew. Our thousand effectives will make up two hundred such crews. Assume half of them are involved in support duties, supply, intelligence, medical services, propaganda, whatnot. That’s one hundred combat teams of five guys each remaining, who are actually pulling triggers and making things go boom. Imagine each of those crews striking the enemy on an average of once per day, all across the Northwest. Remember, one of the main reasons we migrated and we’re restricting our campaign to this corner of the country is to reduce the problem to manageable proportions. Let’s assume an average of a single dead enemy of one kind or another per attack. That’s 100 people per day being killed in one three-state area, with concomitant damage to enemy property, infrastructure, and damage to his morale, his public image, and thereby his capacity to govern. Their armies are designed to fight Star Wars, but we won’t be fighting Star Wars. We’ll be fighting Godfather style in the cities and Jesse James style in the countryside. We will be fighting high tech with low tech, and low tech is the one thing the United States has never known how to beat.” Morehouse knocked out his pipe onto the concrete floor, and then went on.

“In Vietnam, in Iraq, in Iran and Afghanistan, ZOG had every gadget and deadly toy human ingenuity could devise, computerized and covered with bright shiny lights. But they never found a way to beat the little barefoot brown man, dressed in rags and armed with an AK-47 and a couple of magazines of ammo, and a heart that would never surrender. The human heart and the human spirit can beat their machines, gentlemen. The human heart and the human spirit can beat their money. The human heart can beat their lying media. Our heart and our spirit can defeat their cruelty and their treachery and their lies, but only if we are fortified with strength and pride and faith in the justice of our cause. Our Volunteers must be like the soldiers of Oliver Cromwell, who said he wanted simple men of labor and the land, who know why they fight, and love what they know. ZOG could never beat the barefoot brown man with his AK-47. Neither will they be able to beat the white man of the Northwest in his pickup truck, his blue jeans and his baseball cap, with a pistol stuck in his belt and a backpack full of Semtex, on the rainy streets of Seattle or out in the backwoods of Idaho.”

“That’s if we can find the kind of political soldiers necessary for that kind of warfare,” Hatfield reminded them. “The guys with the cool head and the iron nerve and the ice water in their veins, who can pull a trigger or thumb a radio detonator and not worry about it afterwards. The guys who can go the distance and do this for year after long bloody year. The guys with a bottomless reserve of sheer guts.”

“You got it,” agreed Morehouse with a nod. “I can outline for you a structure for a revolutionary armed force that will work a treat against the enemy we will be facing. I can give you a strategy that will win us our own nation, and I can describe to you the tactics that will keep us alive and free and fighting while putting the enemy and his minions six feet under every time. But what I cannot do is to make you brave. I cannot turn mere white males into white men once again, men that our ancestors would have recognized. That we must somehow do for ourselves, by finding within ourselves that last dying spark of pride and honor and courage that has always distinguished us for thousands of years. It’s still there, comrades, and every man and woman of us who wants to change the world must search for it in their hearts and their souls. They must find it and feed it, blow on it, nurture it until it bursts into flame again.”

“You think these bastards will give in no matter how many people we kill?” asked Washburn. “Iraq and Afghanistan are very far away, something people read about over their morning coffee or watch on CNN. We will be striking at the very core of their power, right here on what they consider their home turf. Can they psychologically bring themselves to admit defeat even if we beat them?”

“This is another reason why we are not being so foolish as to try this in all 50 states. What we’re going to be doing, Charlie, is we’re going to be fighting a classical colonial war,” Morehouse told him. “There are rules for fighting a successful colonial war, and they have come into play dozens of times over the last century, from Ireland to Africa. We’re not trying to take their whole loaf from ZOG. Of course, they’d resist that to the death. Such a guerrilla war across all of America would last for generations, and anything we could salvage after such a conflict probably wouldn’t be worth living in anyway. Nor could we win it. For one thing, we’d have to slaughter over one hundred million non-whites, or drive them back south of the Rio Grande in the most massive refugee wave ever seen, and that simply isn’t feasible with what we have or what we are likely to get. If the only alternative to ongoing insurgency is the complete destruction of their own empire, ZOG will simply absorb whatever we dish out and hang on to the wreckage like drowning rats. A country as huge as the whole United States of America could absorb such a bloodletting as I have described, as traumatic as it would be, if it was scattered all over from Florida to Maine to San Francisco and everywhere in between. After all, more people than that are killed every day in traffic accidents. The ruling élite would never agree to hand over power to us on a nationwide basis and thus commit personal and political suicide. That’s just not going to happen. The patient isn’t going to disembowel himself to cure a bellyache, or even to remove a tumor. But, if what we do is to gangrene only one leg below the knee, so to speak, and if the patient knows he can amputate that part of the diseased limb and still walk on crutches and function—well, once it gets to hurting enough, he might be persuaded to amputate.

“With our thousand or so people—and by the way, there will almost certainly be more than that as our insurgency grows—anyway, what we can do is to make these three states of Washington, Oregon, and Idaho and maybe parts of Montana and northern California completely ungovernable. We can stop the United States from reaping any profit or income from this territory, and we can turn it into one gigantic black hole sucking in men, resources, time, effort, and above all money. Gentlemen, there is a truth to fighting and winning a colonial war that I want all of you to burn into your brains, because it is the key to our victory. In a colonial war, the generals never surrender! The accountants surrender! What we have to do is to confront the United States with a situation where as bad and as humiliating as it will be to let the Northwest go and let white people have their own country, the continuation of the guerrilla war is no longer an option for them. We can win this, comrades,” concluded Morehouse decisively. “We can beat the God Almighty United States of America, kick their stinking rotten asses right out of here, and take this land for ourselves and our children. But only if we have the stomach for it.”

There was a long moment of silence. “Let’s get started, then,” said Hatfield.

“Right,” said Morehouse, filling his pipe again. “Okay, you’ve already got the basics here. You’ve got three men. I always say men out of force of habit, but bear in mind that the right woman can do any of these jobs I’m going to describe to you just as well. In this room you’ve already got your first Trouble Trio.”

“Say what?” asked Charlie.

“The basic building block of the NVA company,” said Morehouse. “A three-man team. When we were planning all this out, studying and analyzing how previous successful revolutionary movements worked in Western political and social environments similar to ours, we came up with a kind of hybrid anatomy combining the IRA and the Cosa Nostra, two highly successful subversive outfits who to this day have never been completely repressed by their governments, despite over a century of trying. It’s simple, flexible, and workable. Even if the cell never grows beyond the first three guys, you’ve still got a small team who can do damage out of all proportion to their numbers, presuming they’ve got some stiffening in their spines. You’d be amazed how much hell three men can raise in a society this complex, this racially volatile and unstable. For a while some of us called this three-man building block a troika, but that sounds a bit foreign, so we ended up christening this formation unit a Trouble Trio. I’ll go ahead and give you the theory now, but I should mention that already some mutations in actual practice are starting to appear as we are forced to work out the kinks under fire, quite literally in some cases.”

“Go ahead,” Hatfield urged him.

Morehouse lit his pipe again. “You start with three people as I said, all of whom must have the requisite qualities of courage, resourcefulness, loyalty, and fanatic dedication. That’s the hard part, finding the right men and women for this. Each of these threes will be the nucleus of a company. I know it sounds ridiculous to call three people a company, but there will be more of you, and what we want is a structure that we can maintain right up until the end, when we will make the transformation from a guerrilla insurgency to become a proper national army. During our initial underground phase, the NVA is not an ordinary army where units are supposed to have some kind of set strength or function. We are as fluid as a lava lamp, always changing shape and bobbing around. Each company needs to be free floating, capable of conducting operations indefinitely on its own, even if it is totally cut off from the rest of the movement, and eventually regenerating itself and growing, adding more cells, like an amoeba.

“Each company will be part of a larger unit called a brigade,” Mr. Chips continued. “The next unit up from a company in most armies is actually the battalion, but we’re not going to create any of those until necessary and until we’ve got the bodies. The brigade will be the main operational combat unit of the Northwest Volunteer Army, responsible for taking on ZOG within a roughly defined operational area, and it will be made up of as many companies as needed. We diddled with the idea of creating separate commands for each state, Washington and Oregon, Idaho and Montana, but we decided to keep it simple. We need an army of fighting political soldiers, not layers of paramilitary bureaucrats. Each brigade will report to and be directed by the Army Council in the person of one or more political officers.”

“So the political officer actually commands the brigade?” asked Charlie.

“No. He’s strictly a liaison who acts as a communications conduit between the brigade commander and the central organization, although there may be situations where he has to use his interpretation of Army Council policy and strategy and pull a kind of rank on a brigade commander. That situation hasn’t arisen yet, and I hope it seldom does. That’s still kind of a gray area. The brigade is actually commanded by a brigade commandant, but don’t worry about that now. What concerns you is the company, the basic fighting unit. The company itself will eventually be subdivided into flexible squads, or teams, or crews of three to six men each, as needed. An NVA combat team with their weapons should always be able to fit into one vehicle at a pinch, although we’re finding that it’s a damned good idea to always take two cars on an operation. Getting back to the Trouble Trio, one of them will become the company commander. He’s responsible for everything that goes on in the company, and he leads his men in battle. He handles target selection, he initiates combat operations, and he keeps the company functioning and fighting. The company commander needs to be the most experienced and basically the most bad-ass dude in the outfit, but he also needs to have demonstrated leadership capacity. In your case, I would suggest Zack Hatfield for this position.”

“So would I,” said Ekstrom.

“Absolutely,” said Charlie.

“Congratulations, Lieutenant Hatfield,” said Morehouse.

“Boy, that was quick,” said Zack. “It took me three years in the American army just to make E-5.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t have affirmative action in the NVA,” said Morehouse with a grin. “White boys are encouraged to apply. By the by, sorry to tell you two guys that at the moment only a company commander holds an actual NVA rank. We don’t have any sergeants or warrant officers or field marshals as yet. Later on when there are more Indians, maybe we can have a few more chiefs, but for the time being there’s only one big fish in each of our tiny little ponds. That’s all you need right now. This is a real war we’re fighting, not an Italian opera.”

“Mmm, more democratic like that anyway,” said Charlie. “Good psychology. That way you don’t have guys getting jealous cause I’m a sergeant major and they’re only lance corporals, or whatever.”

“That, too,” agreed Morehouse. “The first NVA companies will only be a small handful of men anyway, maybe a dozen at most, and you only really need one recognized honcho. But Zack, you need to set up a chain of command and appoint one of these guys to deputize for you in your absence, and to take over if you buy the farm. Let us know which one. You’ll also need to select men as team leaders, as your company expands.”

“We’ll worry about that later,” said Hatfield.

“Fine,” said Morehouse amicably. “Anyway, a second member of each Trouble Trio must become company quartermaster. This is a vital job. The quartermaster is responsible for the acquisition, maintenance, and security of all physical plant, including weapons and ammunition, explosives if any, every kind of supplies from food to medical, as great a number of motor vehicles of all kinds as you can get access to, safe premises for housing and training, and generally everything material. He also holds the company’s bankroll of cash, since money is just as much a war material as ammunition.”

“Len, you already run a hardware store,” said Zack. “You’re used to keeping track of inventory and dealing with a cash flow, and you know guns better than any man in the county. I’d like you to take quartermaster.”

“Fine,” said Ekstrom with a nod.

“That leaves me,” said Charlie Washburn.

“Looks like you’re executive officer, by default,” Morehouse told him. “The XO has two primary duties, intelligence and planning. Intelligence is vital. Good intelligence keeps you alive and makes the enemy dead. Bad intelligence does the opposite. Planning means scouting out ambush sites, figuring out what manpower and equipment and vehicles you’ll need, anticipating contingencies, setting up operations from beginning to end. Zack can teach you a lot of what you need to know based on his military experience.”

“Got it,” said Charlie. “I’m a state forestry employee and I have an official truck and uniform and ID, so I can be seen pretty much anywhere and have a good reason for being there that won’t cause comment.”

“That’s ideal,” said Morehouse with a nod. “Now, one of the first things you will need to do is recruit more Volunteers. Each one of you should be working prospects, assessing their character and their ability, trying to figure out first off if they can do what must be done, and secondly if they will do it. This will be the most potentially dangerous of all the things you do. Make a mistake and try to bring in the wrong man, and you’ve compromised the whole company. Make a bigger mistake and actually bring the wrong man in, and you will either die or spend the rest of your lives being sodomized by niggers in the prison shower. There is no worse error a revolutionary organization can make than to bring the wrong individual or the wrong kind of individual on board. This is a whole separate topic we will have to get into later in some detail, and we are starting to establish the necessary procedures to screen people, so you won’t be flying totally blind, but I can’t overemphasize the seriousness of recruiting. We have to have more Volunteers, but they must have the right stuff right from the start. It’s going to be a bitch. By the way,” he added casually, “Do any of you drink? Never mind. From now on, you don’t. We have something called General Order Number Ten that forbids any Northwest Volunteer from consuming alcoholic beverages or using drugs of any kind. Period. End of story. Do I need to explain to you why this must be?”

“I think it’s obvious that you can’t stage a revolution with drunks,” said Ekstrom.

“Hell, I’m too damned overweight anyway,” said Charlie. “Yeah, I suppose like a lot of white men, I’ve crawled into a beer can sometimes to try and kill the pain. Can’t you tell by looking at me? But now I know there’s hope, I’d have to be a real creep to choose my six-pack over the future of my race. I guess I just won’t stop off at the mini-mart on the way home tonight. Or any other night, until this is over. It’s a small price to pay for being a part of history.”

“I saw too many things go bad in Iraq because of drunks and dopers, of all ranks and races,” said Hatfield. “I don’t want to be out on some rainy street at night, and the man I’m depending on for my life and the success of the mission shows up staggering drunk or he’s not where he’s supposed to be because he snuck off to some damned bar. Not to mention the fact that booze loosens lips and sinks ships.”

“Good,” said Morehouse with an approving nod.

“Okay, so once we get a few more guys in, assuming one of them doesn’t rat us out and we don’t all end up in prison before we fire a shot, what then?” asked Hatfield.

“The Holy Grail you seek, gentlemen, is what’s called OR. Operational readiness,” said Morehouse. “That means you’ve gotten all your ducks in a row, acquired enough guns and recruited men willing to pull triggers, gotten a small fleet of vehicles and safe houses and supplies and some money together, and you’re ready to start shooting. But then you don’t just go out on the street and start blasting at every passing black or Mexican face you see.”

“Darn!” said Washburn.

“You have to condition yourselves always to keep your eyes on the prize,” Morehouse urged them. “Remember that you are part of an army that is fighting a colonial war for independence. You are trying to achieve a political objective, not just rack up a black and beaner body count. Any damned thug can shoot people. We are trying to free people, ours. Eventually the Army Council will appoint political officers to the smaller NVA active service units whose function will be to make sure that every action a unit takes in some way serves the larger purpose and fits into the big picture.”

“I assume there will be other NVA companies around,” said Hatfield.

“Yes,” replied Morehouse with a nod. “Once you guys are OR, by the way, you will officially come on strength as D Company of the First Portland Brigade, Northwest Volunteer Army. We’re shaping up two brigades in every major urban area, Seattle and Portland and Spokane and Boise. Two completely separate structures acting independently, suspenders and belt, so if the feds break one and roll it up, then the other one can keep on fighting. Eventually there may be more than two. We’ll have to see how all this plays out. Your brigade commandant is Tommy Coyle. I can go ahead and mention his name since he’s already on the Ten Most Wanted List after Coeur d’Alene. I’ll be in touch with you in a few days, Zack, and we’ll set up a meeting. I think you two will be simpatico. Tommy did a couple of tours in Iraq like you, with the Rangers. Each of you will need to appoint one man from your group to act as liaison with the other, so that if either you or Tommy go down, we won’t lose contact. If that ever should happen, by the by, you also know Shane and Rooney, and if either of them can find you, you can take anything they say as coming from me. Communications is a whole ‘nother bag we’ll have to sort out, since we’ll be using everything from the internet to cell phones to coded personal ads in supermarket tabloids. Make no mistake—this is going to be a complex gig and you’re going to have to be able to keep all sorts of names and numbers and information in your head without writing anything down.”

“Okay, so we’re part of the Portland Brigade. How will that work? What, exactly, do you want us to do?” asked Charlie Washburn.

“D Company will be responsible for a very large turf, and you’ll probably end up being the biggest company in the brigade,” Morehouse told them. “Eventually you may even become a separate brigade, but for now we need you working with the boys in Portland. Urban units will necessarily have to be smaller and more compartmentalized, since most of the action will be in the cities due to the fact that there will always be more targets for us there. In theory, you guys’ operational area will be everything from the Portland city limits down Highway 30 along the south bank of the Columbia River, and then on down the coast along Highway 101 to about Tillamook or so. In actual practice, we could send you anywhere in the Homeland, or for that matter anywhere in North America, if there’s something that needs doing and we think you’re the best guys for the job. Your first duty will of course be to clear this North Shore area of all enemy forces and non-whites, but a very important secondary duty will be to provide backup and support for the Portland units, hideouts for them when they’re hot, supplies, training areas and logistics, safe caches for arms, lab facilities for EOD units, whatever they need.”

“EOD?” asked Washburn.

“Explosive ordnance delivery units. Bombers,” said Morehouse.

“Define enemy forces,” requested Hatfield.

“Anyone who is part of the federal apparatus of control and enforcement, or who assists in maintaining the Zionist occupation, or who gives aid and comfort to the régime,” Morehouse explained. “Military personnel, of course. FBI and Homeland Security agents, obviously. Certain local police but not all; that’s a special problem I’ll go over with you later. Some of the cops will be on our side, or at least willing to stand aside and let us get on with it. State and federal judges and anyone to do with the court system, and all lawyers. There are a few good lawyers and they go on a special don’t-shoot list, but they’re going to have to find another way to make a living. The enemy court system comes to a screeching halt, period. Anyone to do with the prison system—we want to make them move all those nigger and Mexican criminals the hell out of the Homeland, because in a pinch they might release thousands of gang-bangers and drug-addicted scum to attack the white population and create confusion and diversion. There are a number of white prisoners we want released to join us, but they’re a special problem and will be dealt with at a higher level than yours, unless your company should be specifically brought in on any such operation. Federal bureaucrats of any kind, but especially anyone to do with the IRS or revenue collection. One of the keystones of our strategy is that from now on, not one more dime we can prevent goes to Washington, D.C. from the Pacific Northwest. Elements in the media and the civilian population who actively support the régime or propagandize for it. And of course, anyone with skin the color of shit is henceforth persona non grata in the Northwest. Believe me, Zack, you won’t lack for targets. Basically, your job is to make sure that from Beaverton on down the river to the sea, ZOG’s writ doesn’t run anymore.”

“That’s a mighty big stretch of territory,” commented Ekstrom with a frown.

“Yes, but the potential is immense,” replied Morehouse with a smile. “I don’t know if it’s hit you guys yet, but you’re sitting right in the middle of perfect guerrilla country here. Huge expanses of heavy forest, mountains and ravines where you could hide an army, and where maybe we will someday. Small towns scattered far apart, connected only by long, twisting highways where an ambush can lurk around any corner. Endless back roads and isolated houses and trailers and old mines and logging camps where you can meet and train, and where you can disappear when the heat comes down. Weak, scattered, and disconnected enemy forces in small outposts that can be isolated and taken out or forced to evacuate, and the whole area a backwater that the feds won’t want to expend much on in the way of effort or manpower, because their main fight will be in the cities—and yet your small band of Volunteers can quite possibly force the government into committing tens of thousands of men and tens of millions of dollars to try and keep you contained, because you’ve got a main enemy artery of supply right out your front door,” he went on, gesturing through the window toward the river. “Huge container ports at Portland and Longview where billions of dollars of goods are trans-shipped coming and going every year. Do you realize the economic chokehold we could apply on the United States if we succeed in shutting down the Columbia shipping pipeline to the Asian rim, as well as Seattle and Tacoma? I say to you again, comrades—in our kind of war, it’s never the generals who cry halt. It’s the accountants!”