Sunday, October 31, 2010

Harold's Halloween 2010

The Festival
by H. P. Lovecraft

Efficiut Daemones, ut quae non sunt, sic tamen quasi sint, conspicienda hominibus exhibeant. - Lacantius

(Devils so work that things which are not appear to men as if they were real.)

* * * * * * *

I was far from home, and the spell of the eastern sea was upon me. In the twilight I heard it pounding on the rocks, and I knew it lay just over the hill where the twisting willows writhed against the clearing sky and the first stars of evening. And because my fathers had called me to the old town beyond, I pushed on through the shallow, new-fallen snow along the road that soared lonely up to where Aldebaran twinkled among the trees; on toward the very ancient town I had never seen but often dreamed of.

It was the Yuletide, that men call Christmas though they know in their hearts it is older than Bethlehem and Babylon, older than Memphis and mankind. It was the Yuletide, and I had come at last to the ancient sea town where my people had dwelt and kept festival in the elder time when festival was forbidden; where also they had commanded their sons to keep festival once every century, that the memory of primal secrets might not be forgotten.

Mine were an old people, and were old even when this land was settled three hundred years before. And they were strange, because they had come as dark furtive folk from opiate southern gardens of orchids, and spoken another tongue before they learnt the tongue of the blue-eyed fishers. And now they were scattered, and shared only the rituals of mysteries that none living could understand. I was the only one who came back that night to the old fishing town as legend bade, for only the poor and the lonely remember.

Then beyond the hill's crest I saw Kingsport outspread frostily in the gloaming; snowy Kingsport with its ancient vanes and steeples, ridgepoles and chimney-pots, wharves and small bridges, willow-trees and graveyards; endless labyrinths of steep, narrow, crooked streets, and dizzy church-crowned central peak that time durst not touch; ceaseless mazes of colonial houses piled and scattered at all angles and levels like a child's disordered blocks; antiquity hovering on grey wings over winter-whitened gables and gambrel roofs; fanlights and small-paned windows one by one gleaming out in the cold dusk to join Orion and the archaic stars. And against the rotting wharves the sea pounded; the secretive, immemorial sea out of which the people had come in the elder time.

Beside the road at its crest a still higher summit rose, bleak and windswept, and I saw that it was a burying-ground where black gravestones stuck ghoulishly through the snow like the decayed fingernails of a gigantic corpse. The printless road was very lonely, and sometimes I thought I heard a distant horrible creaking as of a gibbet in the wind. They had hanged four kinsmen of mine for witchcraft in 1692, but I did not know just where.

As the road wound down the seaward slope I listened for the merry sounds of a village at evening, but did not hear them. Then I thought of the season, and felt that these old Puritan folk might well have Christmas customs strange to me, and full of silent hearthside prayer. So after that I did not listen for merriment or look for wayfarers, kept on down past the hushed lighted farmhouses and shadowy stone walls to where the signs of ancient shops and sea taverns creaked in the salt breeze, and the grotesque knockers of pillared doorways glistened along deserted unpaved lanes in the light of little, curtained windows.

I had seen maps of the town, and knew where to find the home of my people. It was told that I should be known and welcomed, for village legend lives long; so I hastened through Back Street to Circle Court, and across the fresh snow on the one full flagstone pavement in the town, to where Green Lane leads off behind the Market House. The old maps still held good, and I had no trouble; though at Arkham they must have lied when they said the trolleys ran to this place, since I saw not a wire overhead. Snow would have hid the rails in any case. I was glad I had chosen to walk, for the white village had seemed very beautiful from the hill; and now I was eager to knock at the door of my people, the seventh house on the left in Green Lane, with an ancient peaked roof and jutting second storey, all built before 1650.

There were lights inside the house when I came upon it, and I saw from the diamond window-panes that it must have been kept very close to its antique state. The upper part overhung the narrow grass-grown street and nearly met the over-hanging part of the house opposite, so that I was almost in a tunnel, with the low stone doorstep wholly free from snow. There was no sidewalk, but many houses had high doors reached by double flights of steps with iron railings. It was an odd scene, and because I was strange to New England I had never known its like before. Though it pleased me, I would have relished it better if there had been footprints in the snow, and people in the streets, and a few windows without drawn curtains.

When I sounded the archaic iron knocker I was half afraid. Some fear had been gathering in me, perhaps because of the strangeness of my heritage, and the bleakness of the evening, and the queerness of the silence in that aged town of curious customs. And when my knock was answered I was fully afraid, because I had not heard any footsteps before the door creaked open. But I was not afraid long, for the gowned, slippered old man in the doorway had a bland face that reassured me; and though he made signs that he was dumb, he wrote a quaint and ancient welcome with the stylus and wax tablet he carried.

He beckoned me into a low, candle-lit room with massive exposed rafters and dark, stiff, sparse furniture of the seventeenth century. The past was vivid there, for not an attribute was missing. There was a cavernous fireplace and a spinning-wheel at which a bent old woman in loose wrapper and deep poke-bonnet sat back toward me, silently spinning despite the festive season. An indefinite dampness seemed upon the place, and I marveled that no fire should be blazing. The high-backed settle faced the row of curtained windows at the left, and seemed to be occupied, though I was not sure.

I did not like everything about what I saw, and felt again the fear I had had. This fear grew stronger from what had before lessened it, for the more I looked at the old man's bland face the more its very blandness terrified me. The eyes never moved, and the skin was too much like wax. Finally I was sure it was not a face at all, but a fiendishly cunning mask. But the flabby hands, curiously gloved, wrote genially on the tablet and told me I must wait a while before I could be led to the place of the festival.

Pointing to a chair, table, and pile of books, the old man now left the room; and when I sat down to read I saw that the books were hoary and mouldy, and that they included old Morryster's wild Marvels of Science, the terrible Saducismus Triumphatus of Joseph Glanvil, published in 1681, the shocking Daemonolatreia of Remigius, printed in 1595 at Lyons, and worst of all, the unmentionable Necronomicon of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred, in Olaus Wormius' forbidden Latin translation; a book which I had never seen, but of which I had heard monstrous things whispered.

No one spoke to me, but I could hear the creaking of signs in the wind outside, and the whir of the wheel as the bonneted old woman continued her silent spinning, spinning. I thought the room and the books and the people very morbid and disquieting, but because an old tradition of my fathers had summoned me to strange feastings, I resolved to expect queer things.

So I tried to read, and soon became tremblingly absorbed by something I found in that accursed Necronomicon; a thought and a legend too hideous for sanity or consciousness, but I disliked it when I fancied I heard the closing of one of the windows that the settle faced, as if it had been stealthily opened.It had seemed to follow a whirring that was not of the old woman's spinning-wheel. This was not much, though, for the old woman was spinning very hard, and the aged clock had been striking.

After that I lost the feeling that there were persons on the settle, and was reading intently and shudderingly when the old man came back booted and dressed in a loose antique costume, and sat down on that very bench, so that I could not see him. It was certainly nervous waiting, and the blasphemous book in my hands made it doubly so. When eleven struck, however, the old man stood up, glided to a massive carved chest in a corner, and got two hooded cloaks; one of which he donned, and the other of which he draped round the old woman, who was ceasing her monotonous spinning. Then they both started for the outer door; the woman lamely creeping, and the old man, after picking up the very book I had been reading, beckoning me as he drew his hood over that unmoving face or mask.

We went out into the moonless and tortuous network of that incredibly ancient town; went out as the lights in the curtained windows disappeared one by one, and the Dog Star leered at the throng of cowled, cloaked figures that poured silently from every doorway and formed monstrous processions up this street and that, past the creaking sigus and antediluvian gables, the thatched roofs and diamond-paned windows; threading precipitous lanes where decaying houses overlapped and crumbled together; gliding across open courts and churchyards where the bobbing lanthorns made eldritch drunken constellations.

Amid these hushed throngs I followed my voiceless guides; jostled by elbows that seemed preternaturally soft, and pressed by chests and stomachs that seemed abnormally pulpy; but seeing never a face and hearing never a word.

Up, up, up, the eery columns slithered, and I saw that all the travellers were converging as they flowed near a sort of focus of crazy alleys at the top of a high hill in the centre of the town, where perched a great white church. I had seen it from the road's crest when I looked at Kingsport in the new dusk, and it had made me shiver because Aldebaran had seemed to balance itself a moment on the ghostly spire.

There was an open space around the church; partly a churchyard with spectral shafts, and partly a half-paved square swept nearly bare of snow by the wind, and lined with unwholesomely archaic houses having peaked roofs and overhanging gables. Death-fires danced over the tombs, revealing gruesome vistas, though queerly failing to cast any shadows. Past the churchyard, where there were no houses, I could see over the hill's summit and watch the glimmer of stars on the harbour, though the town was invisible in the dark. Only once in a while a lantern bobbed horribly through serpentine alleys on its way to overtake the throng that was now slipping speechlessly into the church.

I waited till the crowd had oozed into the black doorway, and till all the stragglers had followed. The old man was pulling at my sleeve, but I was determined to be the last. Crossing the threshold into the swarming temple of unknown darkness, I turned once to look at the outside world as the churchyard phosphorescence cast a sickly glow on the hilltop pavement.
And as I did so I shuddered. For though the wind had not left much snow, a few patches did remain on the path near the door; and in that fleeting backward look it seemed to my troubled eyes that they bore no mark of passing feet, not even mine.

The church was scarce lighted by all the lanthorns that had entered it, for most of the throng had already vanished. They had streamed up the aisle between the high pews to the trap-door of the vaults which yawned loathsomely open just before the pulpit, and were now squinning noiselessly in. I followed dumbly down the foot-worn steps and into the dark, suffocating crypt. The tail of that sinuous line of night-marchers seemed very horrible, and as I saw them wriggling into a venerable tomb they seemed more horrible still.

Then I noticed that the tomb's floor had an aperture down which the throng was sliding, and in a moment we were all descending an ominous staircase of rough-hewn stone; a narrow spiral staircase damp and peculiarly odorous, that wound endlessly down into the bowels of the hill past monotonous walls of dripping stone blocks and crumbling mortar. It was a silent, shocking descent, and I observed after a horrible interval that the walls and steps were changing in nature, as if chiseled out of the solid rock. What mainly troubled me was that the myriad footfalls made no sound and set up no echoes.

After more aeons of descent I saw some side passages or burrows leading from unknown recesses of blackness to this shaft of nighted mystery. Soon they became excessively numerous, like impious catacombs of nameless menace; and their pungent odour of decay grew quite unbearable. I knew we must have passed down through the mountain and beneath the earth of Kingsport itself, and I shivered that a town should be so aged and maggoty with subterraneous evil.

Then I saw the lurid shimmering of pale light, and heard the insidious lapping of sunless waters. Again I shivered, for I did not like the things that the night had brought, and wished bitterly that no forefather had summoned me to this primal rite. As the steps and the passage grew broader, I heard another sound, the thin, whining mockery of a feeble flute; and suddenly there spread out before me the boundless vista of an inner world- a vast fungous shore litten by a belching column of sick greenish flame and washed by a wide oily river that flowed from abysses frightful and unsuspected to join the blackest gulfs of immemorial ocean.

Fainting and gasping, I looked at that unhallowed Erebus of titan toadstools, leprous fire and slimy water, and saw the cloaked throngs forming a semicircle around the blazing pillar. It was the Yule-rite, older than man and fated to survive him; the primal rite of the solstice and of spring's promise beyond the snows; the rite of fire and evergreen, light and music. And in the stygian grotto I saw them do the rite, and adore the sick pillar of flame, and throw into the water handfuls gouged out of the viscous vegetation which glittered green in the chlorotic glare.

I saw this, and I saw something amorphously squatted far away from the light, piping noisomely on a flute; and as the thing piped I thought I heard noxious muffled flutterings in the foetid darkness where I could not see. But what frightened me most was that flaming column; spouting volcanically from depths profound and inconceivable, casting no shadows as healthy flame should, and coating the nitrous stone with a nasty, venomous verdigris. For in all that seething combustion no warmth lay, but only the clamminess of death and corruption.

The man who had brought me now squirmed to a point directly beside the hideous flame, and made stiff ceremonial motions to the semi-circle he faced. At certain stages of the ritual they did groveling obeisance, especially when he held above his head that abhorrent Necronomicon he had taken with him; and I shared all the obeisances because I had been summoned to this festival by the writings of my forefathers. Then the old man made a sigual to the half-seen flute-player in the darkness, which player thereupon changed its feeble drone to a scarce louder drone in another key; precipitating as it did so a horror unthinkable and unexpected.

At this horror I sank nearly to the lichened earth, transfixed with a dread not of this or any world, but only of the mad spaces between the stars. Out of the unimaginable blackness beyond the gangrenous glare of that cold flame, out of the tartarean leagues through which that oily river rolled uncanny, unheard, and unsuspected, there flopped rhythmically a horde of tame, trained, hybrid winged things that no sound eye could ever wholly grasp, or sound brain ever wholly remember.

They were not altogether crows, nor moles, nor buzzards, nor ants, nor vampire bats, nor decomposed human beings; but something I cannot and must not recall. They flopped limply along, half with their webbed feet and half with their membranous wings; and as they reached the throng of celebrants the cowled figures seized and mounted them, and rode off one by one along the reaches of that unlighted river, into pits and galleries of panic where poison springs feed frightful and undiscoverable cataracts.

The old spinning woman had gone with the throng, and the old man remained only because I had refused when he motioned me to seize an animal and ride like the rest. I saw when I staggered to my feet that the amorphous flute-player had rolled out of sight, but that two of the beasts were patiently standing by. As I hung back, the old man produced his stylus and tablet and wrote that he was the true deputy of my fathers who had founded the Yule worship in this ancient place; that it had been decreed I should come back, and that the most secret mysteries were yet to be performed. He wrote this in a very ancient hand, and when I still hesitated he pulled from his loose robe a seal ring and a watch, both with my family arms, to prove that he was what he said. But it was a hideous proof, because I knew from old papers that that watch had been buried with my great-great-great-great-grandfather in 1698.

Presently the old man drew back his hood and pointed to the family resemblance in his face, but I only shuddered, because I was sure that the face was merely a devilish waxen mask. The flopping animals were now scratching restlessly at the lichens, and I saw that the old man was nearly as restless himself. When one of the things began to waddle and edge away, he turned quickly to stop it; so that the suddenness of his motion dislodged the waxen mask from what should have been his head. And then, because that nightmare's position barred me from the stone staircase down which we had come, I flung myself into the oily underground river that bubbled somewhere to the caves of the sea; flung myself into that putrescent juice of earth's inner horrors before the madness of my screams could bring down upon me all the charnel legions these pest-gulfs might conceal.

At the hospital they told me I had been found half-frozen in Kingsport Harbour at dawn, clinging to the drifting spar that accident sent to save me. They told me I had taken the wrong fork of the hill road the night before, and fallen over the cliffs at Orange Point; a thing they deduced from prints found in the snow. There was nothing I could say, because everything was wrong. Everything was wrong, with the broad windows showing a sea of roofs in which only about one in five was ancient, and the sound of trolleys and motors in the streets below. They insisted that this was Kingsport, and I could not deny it.

When I went delirious at hearing that the hospital stood near the old churchyard on Central Hill, they sent me to St Mary's Hospital in Arkham, where I could have better care. I liked it there, for the doctors were broad-minded, and even lent me their influence in obtaining the carefully sheltered copy of Alhazred's objectionable Necronomicon from the library of Miskatonic University. They said something about a "psychosis" and agreed I had better get any harassing obsessions off my mind.

So I read that hideous chapter, and shuddered doubly because it was indeed not new to me. I had seen it before, let footprints tell what they might; and where it was I had seen it were best forgotten. There was no one- in waking hours- who could remind me of it; but my dreams are filled with terror, because of phrases I dare not quote. I dare quote only one paragraph, put into such English as I can make from the awkward Low Latin.

"The nethermost caverns," wrote the mad Arab, "are not for the fathoming of eyes that see; for their marvels are strange and terrific. Cursed the ground where dead thoughts live new and oddly bodied, and evil the mind that is held by no head. Wisely did Ibn Schacabao say, that happy is the tomb where no wizard hath lain, and happy the town at night whose wizards are all ashes. For it is of old rumour that the soul of the devil-bought hastes not from his charnel clay, but fats and instructs the very worm that gnaws; till out of corruption horrid life springs, and the dull scavengers of earth wax crafty to vex it and swell monstrous to plague it. Great holes secretly are digged where earth's pores ought to suffice, and things have learnt to walk that ought to crawl."

Saturday, October 30, 2010

Bonus Podcast

Hi, guys:

Figured I’d throw in a wee bonus this week.


Friday, October 29, 2010

Male Chauvinist Piggery

Last Tuesday President Obama got off the helicopter in front of the White House - carrying a baby piglet under each arm.

The squared-away Marine guard snapped to attention, saluted and said: "Nice pigs, sir."

The President replied: "These are not pigs. These are authentic Arkansas Razorback Hogs. I got one for Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, and I got one for Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi."

The squared-away Marine again snapped to attention, salutes and said, "Excellent trade, sir."

Thursday, October 28, 2010

Radio Free Northwest - October 28th 2010

Racial Comrades:

The latest podcast of Radio Free Northwest, dated October 28 2010, is now available for download from the Party website at

In this episode I give listeners an update on the Edgar Steele case, talk about the Ku Klux Klan back in the old days, and continue with my comments on Northwest Front organizing and recruiting. Plus there is a special selection of Halloween music.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Classic HAC: The Bailout Made Simple

[Some Classic HAC from September, 2008 - lest we forget the glories of Republican rule. Did I nail it back then, or what? - HAC]

For those of you who are confused by what's going on with the Big Bailout, let me simplify all this for you:

*The bankers get $700 billion dollars. You get nothing.

*The bankers screwed up, and either lost your money or else simply stole it outright and fled to Israel with it. You paid your mortgage regularly and worked all your life to work up a little nest egg. The bankers get a pat on the back from the government with a comforting "Don't sweat it. I got this." You and your family get sodomized without benefit of vaseline, for the rest of your lives, which is how long the effects of this month will last.

*The bankers get to keep their immense wealth. You get to keep nothing.

*The bankers will continue to live in their huge mansions in the Hamptons, and their Central Park condos and their vacation homes on Maui. You lose your home and end up in a single-wide mobile home in a trailer park, if you're lucky, and under a bridge if you're not.

*The bankers will keep their jobs, or leave them with multi-million dollar golden parachutes to take a seat on the board of some other bank, just for something to do between golf games. You lose your job and will not be able to get another, because you are too old, too White, and too male.

*The bankers will spend the rest of their lives laughing at you over their cocktails at the country club. You and your family will be spending the rest of your lives screaming in horror and weeping in despair.

*There are an estimated 160 million privately owned firearms in this country. You will not have the physical courage to pick up a single one of them.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

America's Leaking Sewer Pipe

Just recently the progressives (who else?) in DC have started a campaign to make Puerto Rico a state. This little toilet has wanted to join the union for over a century, but up until now, even the most corrupt of our leaders knew that America could ill afford to drop the wall preventing all those countless millions of mulatto, black, and mestizo peasants from flooding in here. And flood they will, if that bill passes.

Just like every other mud on the planet, they all look upon America and the fruits of whitey's labors with a greedy eye. And like all the other muds on earth, ethics doesn't even enter into the equation. To a mud, it's all about what he can get away with...period. Puerto Rico is a nightmare of disease, drugs, prostitution, AIDS, murder, filth, and overpopulation, which is always a chronic problem in all mud nations on earth. And if we let these parasites in here, they'll make our Mexican problem look like a frigging holiday.

But not much about this new push is mentioned on any of the news channels, because the politicians have quickly learned to do things behind our backs, then spring them on us after it's too late to stop them. This is the height of arrogance, hubris, and evil.

Puerto Rico has always and forever been a parasite on America's teat. And being in a strategically important location, our military has used it for a base of operations for ages as a jumping off point to South and Central America and other regions of the Pacific.

Its inhabitants are primary mud, and mixed muds at that. You have blacks, Mestizos, Cubans, Polynesians, Haitians, and various damned ugly and degenerate mixes of all of them, that look like something out of an anthropologist's nightmare. Mexican looking muds with nappy hair and a gorilla nose, Mestizos that are black as pitch, and mixed whites that look like someone stirred a bucket of shit into the mix before they were born. The ugly market has been cornered in Puerto Rico, along with the stupids.

There is a white elite area there where thousands of very wealthy Americans and Brit families migrated to live like kings amongst the peasants...and they do. Servant labor is cheap and abundant in this poverty stricken nation, and so are everyday goods and commodities that you and I pay triple for here in the States. Same stuff, same brands, but at ridiculously low prices because that's what the market will bear.

This gives you a pretty good idea of just how deeply the companies of this world gouge into our pockets compared to the rest of the world. They sell their goods there at those prices and still make a profit. What does that tell you?

This huge white area is where many of the military families also live. It is, for the most part a gated community with very strict and effective security to keep them from being robbed blind by the mud population that eyes their little paradise with greed and malice. Servants are checked and scanned before entering and leaving, to make sure they don't bring any weapons in, or stolen goods out.

And they catch quite a few who think they are smarter than an x-ray machine. Muds will perpetually try to steal from you, regardless of the risk. They can't help it. It's part of their very nature to steal. In fact stealing is a part of both the black and Hispanic cultures, and is accepted as a part of living, just like eating or breathing.

Seldom is a fellow mud punished for stealing. When caught he is forced to return the goods, but as a rule is let go with a minor chewing. That's because they all do it. Stealing is no big deal to any of them. So to them, rich gringos look like ripe fruit for the picking. They actually get mad when we punish them for robbing us, blaming the theft on us for being so wealthy in the first place.

I'm not kidding here! That's really how they think. Is it any wonder that after 500 years, all of the Hispanic nations are still in the gutter? I think not.

Right now Puerto Ricans are restricted severely as to the number that can enter the U.S. But if this evil new bill passes the commie senate, we will be overrun with the thieving little bastards. Statistics have already proven that the crime rate in "Little Puerto Rico," a section of Tampa Florida that is primarily their gathering place, is through the roof compared to the surrounding areas. They even beat out coontown. Now that's doing something.

If we allow these bastards to join the Union, the new star on our flag should be painted shit brown because the crime rate in America will take a monster hit, and many more thousands of innocent, hard working white families will become the victims of these animals. I don't care what those glib politicians spout. Facts are facts and screw political correctness.

muds are criminals. That's a fact. And some muds are worse than others. That too is a fact. And if liberal America doesn't like it, they can kiss my white Aryan ass. All I can say is they had better not make that toilet a state, because if they do, all they're going to succeed in doing is giving us a lot more moving targets when the revolt hits.

Puerto Ricans are about as welcome here as AIDS. The only reason our crooked politicians want to make it a state is to further flood white America with mud. They know it, we know it, and the whole world knows it. It's time to take out the trash, and most of it is piled up in the House and Senate in Washington.

-Lone Haranguer

Monday, October 25, 2010

Edgar Steele Update

Edgar Steele's trial has been postponed until March 7. That’s four months of delay, for no apparent reason that anyone can determine. Obviously, the U.S. Attorney wants to avoid a public trial because they now have virtually no evidence except for the so-called tapes of Steele soliciting Larry Fairfax to kill his wife and mother in law, and of course there’s Fairfax himself, who is by now so completely discredited by his own behavior that I suspect the feds don’t dare produce him in a courtroom and on the record. My guess is they want the extra four months to bring more pressure on Ed Steele to cop to a plea, to publicly admit that something happened, anything, so as to let the FBI off the hook. Be interesting to see what kind of a deal they offer him, if we’re ever allowed to learn.

Of course, it also gives them another four months wherein Steele’s terrible health might kick in and solve the whole problem for them, with or without a little encouragement from the prison doctor. Bear in mind that 11 months ago Steele underwent very serious open heart surgery and his health has to be pretty precarious. That’s not something you just get up and walk away from. Anybody remember what happened to Jim McDougal in federal custody back in 1998, when it looked like he might break and his testimony before Ken Starr might have embarrassed Billyboy?

That will mean that by the time he comes to trial—if he ever does come to trial—Edgar Steele will have been in prison for nine months for a crime which it is becoming more and more clear every day he did not commit. I won’t even bother to ask what happened to the Constitutional guarantee of a speedy trial; we’re dealing with the government of the United States here, and they are allowed to ignore any and all sections of the Constitution as it pleases them.

The second item of news is that the federal judge has modified the no-contact order against Steele and his wife Cyndi, his alleged victim. Well, sort of. Edgar Steele and Cyndi Steele are now allowed to meet once a week in the Spokane County Jail, but they are not allowed to touch, they are not allowed to exchange any written notes or documents, and they are not allowed to say anything at all about the case.

Steele’s court-appointed attorney must present at all times and he is under court order to immediately suspend the meeting and have Steele hustled back to his cell if he doesn’t like anything either husband or wife says. Finally, all of these meetings are to be recorded and by order of the judge, the recording of each meeting is to be gone over with a fine toothed comb in order to make sure that Cyndi and Edgar are not communicating in some kind of secret code. No, I am not making this up.

I’m sorry if this seems to be rocking the boat at a time when Ed Steele needs all the support he can get, but I’m sorry, I simply don’t believe that a man who is being paid by the very court system and the very government that has initiated this whole grotesque farce and is clearly determined to destroy this man out of what appears to be nothing more or less than sheer vindictive malice, is capable of representing Steele with the kind of single-minded and complete zeal which any attorney is supposed to devote to his client’s interest.

The fact that the judge appointed Steele’s own ostensible attorney as the watchdog over these horrible government-supervised meetings tells the story, I think, as well as the fact that the judge assumes that this man who is supposed to be on Steele’s side will enforce this atrocity without question. I have a really creepy vision in my mind as to what these meetings will be like. What the hell are husband and wife supposed to talk about in a situation like that? The weather?

Sunday, October 24, 2010

One Year Later

For those of you who came in late, and don’t know who Jeff Hughes is, or was, he was the head of our sister movement in the Great White North, Northwest Front Canada. On the early morning of October 23, 2009, a female officer of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police fired ten bullets into Jeff as he stepped out the door of his apartment building on Vancouver Island.

The RCMP do not claim that Jeff was armed or acting aggressively or drunk or stoned. They don’t claim anything. They shipped the woman officer off to Ontario somewhere and refuse even to name her or anyone else involved in the incident. This woman emptied her gun into an unarmed man and then everybody just walked away and left Jeff Hughes dead on the sidewalk, and that was that.

No, really, I’m not making this up. That’s what happened. So far no coroner’s inquest, no official police inquiry, no nothing. I say again, the RCMP just gunned Jeff down and walked away, and that seems to be that. What gets me is that there hasn’t even been a Coroner’s inquest, which I believe is completely illegal under Canadian law. As always happens in a democracy whenever a White Nationalist is involved, they simply ignore their own rules and regulations, and all the lefty civil liberties types who would be screaming the roof down if it were a Jew or a brown-skinned minority involved, are as quiet as little church mice.

In the interest of accuracy I need to clarify that although I knew Jeff for almost seven years via the internet, I never met him personally, much to my regret. We never got the chance. He was barred from entering the United States because of an old criminal record he had from about 25 years ago, and I’m banned from entering Canada because of my novels, which are also banned in Canada, by the way. You won’t be arrested if they catch you trying to take a copy of The Brigade across the border, but Canadian customs will confiscate it, and so I assume if my books aren’t considered kosher for Canadian consumption than neither would I be if I ever tried to enter the country. Maybe one day I’ll try it just to see what would happen.

Anyway, Jeff and I never got to meet, but for many years we communicated regularly, usually every couple of days, by e-mail, chat room, telephone, sometimes by video, virtually every way you can get to know a man in this day and age without actually being in the same room with him.

Most of you are aware of the fact that on the whole I don’t think much of the internet. However, after about 15 years I think I’ve developed some skill in detecting when someone is BS-ing me. I’m sure most of you have some idea what I mean. Most of us by now can judge an internet contact after a fairly short time and tell whether or not they’re running some kind of game on us or they’re lying or just plain full of it.

Jeff was never like that. He rang true every time. Let me put it this way: Jeff Hughes was one of the very few people I ever met in the White Nationalist Movement that nobody ever said anything bad about, and if you know our Movement at all, you’ll understand how rare that is. Even his Indian neighbors up there on Selby Street who knew about his National Socialist beliefs had good things to say about him to the Vancouver media when they came nosing around after he was murdered.

Make no mistake; Jeff Hughes was a real loss. He wasn’t just one of these useless Net Nazis who hang around the Vbulletin boards under an alias and nobody knows who or where they are or what they do for the cause, if anything. Jeff stood up and resisted. He passed out leaflets and put up stickers and posted all over the internet and above all he talked to people personally, and in Canada that’s a deadly dangerous thing for a White man to do.

He especially loathed these godawful Human Rights Tribunals that the Canadian regime uses to suppress and punish dissent and Thoughtcrime among White Canadians, and more than once he rode hundreds of miles on a bus all over B.C. and Alberta just to sit in the audience when someone was being persecuted and destroyed by these ghastly kangaroo courts, just so there would be at least one friendly face there to support whoever was being victimized by Richard Warman or whatever kike brought the complaint.

The thing we need to understand about the case is that Jeff was already well known to the RCMP before they shot him. This wasn’t a confrontation with some unknown subject. He was an open Nationalist and he had been visited repeatedly by various kinds of Canadian political police, including a few weeks before he was killed, by a man named Sergeant Sean McGowan from the British Columbia Hatecrime Squad, who according to what I hear are the Ottawa regime’s chief headknockers in the province in charge of suppressing racial dissent on the part of European-Canadians. Based on what Jeff told me about that, it is my personal belief that the possibility can’t be discounted that Jeff was killed for the same reason the FBI attacked and murdered Randy Weaver’s family on Ruby Ridge in 1992.

Cops hate it when people refuse to become snitches, and they can be very vindictive about it, especially in custodial situations. The Northwest Front has a woman comrade named Pam Bailey who is now being held in solitary confinement in Oregon, possibly for the next four years until her sentence ends, due to a pattern of official harassment based on her refusal to become an informant. Ironically she and Jeff were corresponding when he was murdered. Police and prison officers hate worse than anything to be told to piss off when they order somebody to rat out; it challenges their authority and their petty self-esteem almost as much an assault. Like all bullies, cops and FBI tend to freak out when anybody stands up to them.

The upshot of all this is that Jeff’s address had to be red-flagged or whatever the Canadian term for it is. The RCMP had to know who was in that apartment.

Another thing. Why did the the RCMP, the Canadian national police force itself, send a dull armed response team including dogs to investigate a domestic disturbance call? In Canada there are local police departments just like there are down here. According to the official version of events, or one official version, anyway, since it keeps changing—anyway, the original call to the police was a noise complaint about some Indian dopers playing loud rap music, and yet it was the almighty Horsemen themselves who showed up. Now, down here in the States you don’t send the FBI or the SWAT team to respond to domestic dispute calls, unless the cops know there’s most likely something a lot heavier gonna down. So that whole business of Dudley Do-Right and the Mounties rocking up at six in the morning looks excessive. Looks more like a dawn raid to me.

One more thing I’d like to get into. There’s something that angers and disturbs me about all almost as much as Jeff’s actual death, although this may sound a bit irrelevant. Those of you on the Northwest Revolution list will probably remember a number of appeals from both Jeff Hughes and myself down through the years, practically getting down on our knees and begging some of our Canadian comrades to STEP FORWARD, to make the move to Western Canada and the Vancouver area in particular, and help Jeff with his work for the NF. No one ever responded. Jeff had Canadian comrades, of course, all of whom liked and respected him, but just like here, they were scattered all over his huge country, and his nearest friends were several hours away.

Now, after he was killed, one of Jeff’s neighbors posted a more or less eyewitness account of the whole incident to Stormfront, which in view of the fact that Stormfront is Richard Warman’s happy hunting ground, probably required a bit of courage, and don’t get me wrong, I appreciate this person’s coming forward. But the fact is that after all this time begging and pleading for someone local to come forward and help Jeff, or even move to the Canadian Northwest Homeland itself to help him, it turns out, that Jeff had a fellow White Nationalist living right across the street from him, and yet they never even knew of one another’s existence.

The same thing applies to all of us. We all complain about the isolation of being a lone Nationalist in a sea of political correctness, and yet for all we know we could have half a dozen comrades living within a couple of miles of us. That’s one reason for our e-mail contact list that the Front publishes, and so far we have I think 134 people out of a list of several thousand who are willing to publish their e-mail addresses and receive contacts with a view towards personal meeting, and if that doesn’t say something about the quality of the people we get in the Movement I don’t know what does.

Anyway, it’s been a year now. Nothing has been done and pretty obviously nothing will be done, until we achieve the Northwest Republic. I don’t know what the main drag in Vancouver is called, but someday it’s going to be Jeff Hughes Avenue and there is going to be a big-ass statue of Jeff right in front of the British Columbia provincial Parliament building, or better yet right in front of the old RCMP headquarters.

We miss you, comrade.

Saturday, October 23, 2010

The Truth About Jeff Hughes

Beautiful blog on Jeff. I don’t even know who put this up. I guess we have more comrades in the Great White North than I thought.

Friday, October 22, 2010

My Inner Monster

All my life I've been exposed to things, people, places and situations that the average Joe Blow only reads about in adventure stories or true crime magazines. Life has been interesting as hell but hard...damned hard at times. I didn't start out looking for these things, they found me. It's almost as if I were some kind of weird magnet or nexus for events to concentrate around. I've never been a follower, but always a leader of the pack because I wasn't afraid to step out and deal with situations.

In fact I've never understood people that didn't. When I see a problem, a wrong, or an injustice I always want to do something about it, not just
walk on by and hope "somebody else" deals with it, like the majority of my fellow whites do. To me these people are cowards, too afraid of risking their necks or their comfy little lifestyle to do the right thing. I've often wondered how they manage to sleep at night or consider themselves decent people.

Just because you haven't lived the kind of life I have is no reason to think you can't stand up and kick ass like me. You're free, white, and American aren't you? That's all you need.

We all have a responsibility..a duty to act when we see evil, regardless of the cost. This
is what separated Americans from all other peoples of the earth, and the reason our nation became the greatest in the history of man. We acted, we didn't just lay up and quake with fear. We liberated France and the rest of Europe while their own people hid in basements and forests, afraid to resist. And even now the cowards refuse to honor us or our hallowed dead that freed them. Because if it had been left to them, they'd still be in chains..and rightly so. The more I think about it, the more I realize Hitler was right in conquering those peoples.

Just look at the evil they've produced since then. In fact I can't find one single positive thing
that defeating the Reich has done for this world, though I can name at least a hundred things it damaged. Actually, the only people that benefited from their fall were the Jews. The evil, insidious Jews.

But our practice of taking on wrongs and injustices fell by the wayside as soon as the liberal humanist philosophy took hold. It taught "tolerance" above all else, as if getting along with every lowlife, pervert and degenerate was our race's prime directive.

And because of this new attitude we allowed evil to blossom everywhere. I bet none of you can name even one aspect of our society or culture that hasn't been corrupted, polluted, or flat out destroyed by this evil philosophy. We are a people under siege in our own homeland by enemies from within that tell us they're "on our side" as they pass law after law destroying our freedoms and rights, and bringing us ever closer to a communist police state. And still most of us are still hiding under the bed. I can't relate to you my deep level of disgust and rage at these cowards, and I now feel that they deserve the horrendous fate that's barreling toward them like a runaway freight train.

What we need are more people that are like me...willing to unleash their inner monster. We all
have one whether we want to admit it or not. Some are bigger and meaner than others, but we all have one that's more than capable of sending our enemies running for the tall weeds in real terror. All it takes is to drop your GSL, or Give a Shit Level. Once you do and start focusing on what needs to be done instead of worrying about your own sorry ass, your inner monster will rise, and all hell will break loose. We've always had evil men among us and near us who hated America and Americans and wanted both of us as dead as hammered mud.

Just to create our
nation took a lot of blood and guts, with us killing a ton of these cockroaches. And they'll always be there, hiding in the shadows, watching every move we make and every last word we say, just waiting for the opportunity to wreak havoc on our society again.

There was only one thing
that kept them in check all those years before now, and that was fear. Fear of our forefather's inner monsters. They knew that if pushed, these men would sacrifice everything to take them down and make them wish they had never been born...

Well, they don't fear us anymore..not like they used to, and this has given them the courage
to go on the attack. For the past twenty years especially, we have seen an orchestrated effort to completely reshape our homeland into a nightmare of Jewish oppression and police state control. \

Most Americans still don't realize this, though the majority now know that we're being
ruled by a cadre of mobsters. They just don't realize the depth and depravity of their agenda, or who these animals really are. This is because they've been asleep at the switch too long, and even the news media which used to warn them of evil people like those, is now under the enemy's complete control. You and I are their only source for the truth.

And that, my friends,
is why I have been harassed by both Homeland Security and the Secret Service right here in my own home, warning me to shut the hell up. Truth is a very powerful weapon, and I've been handing it out to as many patriots as would take it. I've been doing my level best to wake up the inner monster in all of them. Unlike most of my colleagues, I've never asked my readers or fellow patriots to follow me, just to listen to their conscience and then act on it.

The time is almost upon us when you will all have to make a choice whether to obey your evil government, which definitely does not have your best interests at heart, or to release your inner monster and join with other patriots in removing the enemies of white America from power and bringing them to justice.

Of course you'll be scared. Not just for yourself but for your loved ones. That's why I keep pestering you folks to perpetually prepare. Because the more you prepare, the less vulnerable you all are to our government's wrath. That part is totally in your control at this point. I wouldn't be wasting this precious time if I were you, because none of us knows just how long this grace period will keep lasting. It could end tomorrow.

I've had a few people ask me when I think the enemy will strike. And although I have a pretty good idea, nothing is written in stone. Heck, it could be another year...or it could be...tonight. We just don't know, and to be quite frank about it, I don't believe the enemy knows either. It all hinges on a multiple set of factors that all have to align at once to give them the optimum odds of success.

Always remember that these men may be psychopaths, but they're not fools. Their plans have been laid out, re-planned and reworked a hundred times over the decades, honing it to a near perfect storm of economic, social and political chaos intended to strike at the most opportune moment.

Our job is to be so ready, so prepared that it won't matter when they strike or how they strike, because we'll be able to defeat them hands down. To do that we must all learn to unleash our inner monsters. You can start right now by no longer ignoring injustices when you see them.

When some worthless nigger or thieving wetback harasses an old lady or steals something, or intimidates a family, or gets all niggery on you, you deal with his sorry ass right there on the spot. You instill in him the raw fear that his parents had for our parents. You write and call your leaders and you don't mince words. You call them the crooks and mobsters they are, and call them on their evil activities. You let them know in no uncertain terms that you and the rest of white America know exactly what they're up to, and that you will aggressively punish them if they don't back off. This is what I do every single day of my life.

And you know what? It feels good. In fact it feels damned good. There's nothing like the sight of some evil mud's backside as he hauls ass away from me, or the sound of a congressional aide as he sucks in his breath in fear at my words. They know they're guilty, and they know they deserve to be punished. But like the sneaky, cowardly weasels they are, they will continue to gnaw away at the foundations of our culture until enough of us put the fear of God back into them to send them scurrying back into the shadows where they belong.

You know what to do. Let them see your inner monster. I'm sure it's just as hairy, warty, fanged and clawed as mine is, and I'm sure that just like mine, it's howling and clamoring to be let out of its cage, so it can root and rip a bunch of lowlifes. It's up to you to let it out. You know what to do to prepare for this, and you know how to turn it loose. All that's left is the will to do it. Well?

What the hell are you waiting engraved invitation from Obungle?

-Lone Haranguer

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Radio Free Northwest - October 21st, 2010

Hi, guys:

The latest podcast of Radio Free Northwest, dated October 21st, 2010, is now available for download from the Party website at

In this episode I eulogize the late Comrade Jeff Hughes, who was murdered by the RCMP in Vancouver one year ago this week. I also talk about the future of the White internet and continue my comments on local organizing for the Northwest Front.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010


In my area of the state..heck, in all areas of the state now, the wetbacks have literally taken over.

One of the telling signs of this are the shops. Where there used to be bright, clean, well kept businesses with signs in English are now filthy, run down little shops with trash blowing out front, graffiti on the windows and walls, and bars everywhere to keep the merchandise in the store during the hours its closed.

When you drive down a city street it now reminds you more of Tijuana than California. The signs are now in Spanish, many hand painted and grossly misspelled, and wetbacks loiter out front in menacing knots, glaring at any gringo that dares to use his own highway. All the windows have bars and burglar tape, and huge storm doors cover the entrances. Graffiti festoons every wall, and tape covers an endless parade of cracked windows where drunken wetbacks and punks have thrown cervesa bottles just to look macho to their sluts.

There is now also a chain of wetback grocery stores dotting the state named "Rio Rancho." Whites call them "Gago Rauncho" because they are. During the summer months the stink in these places is enough to gag a buzzard.

That's because as Mexicans are so well known for, they practice absolutely no sanitation or hygiene of any type...especially in the butcher department. The reek of long rotten meat permeates the air and sticks to all the merchandise, so if you buy something and take it home, that smell will come with you, stinking up your whole kitchen.

They obviously treat their butcher department the same way burrito venders in Tiajauna treat their wares. I told you previously how the burritos in Mexico were so covered in flies that you literally couldn't see the burritos, well, imagine a whole meat department that way.

But the wetbacks that do business in these places don't care, because after all, they live the same way at home. Can you imagine what the bathroom looks like in a wetback hovel with nine wetlets and God only knows how many other aunts, uncles and other assorted members of their never ending "familia" living there? It's enough to make any self respecting Aryan shudder with pure revulsion. They probably have to use a putty trowel to peel their butts off the toilet seat when they're finished. Aaarrgh!!!

Mexican mariachi music blares through the entire store to remind any gringo customers that the wetbacks are here to stay. You'll be trying to talk to a store clerk who answers you in halting, wetback English when suddenly you're interrupted by a really loud "AARRIBAA!!! AAAHAAAAA!"coming from the speakers. It's enough to make your blood boil.

All the store signs and sale signs are in Spanish, and they sell all kinds of South and Central American produce there, such as cactus leaves, mangos, plantains, dried peppers, and a hundred other things that are just about as appetizing as throw rug soup. One thing I can say however, is they have the market cornered of grade A fresh tomatoes at prices American stores can't compete with. That's because they have "arrangements" with the border inspectors to get Mexican grown produce to their stores. No doubt their cousin Pedro. I've never seen such filthy, stinking stores in my life. This is a large chain, mind you, that now covers California.

A friend of mine is a walking stomach and will eat absolutely anything when he gets hungry, even ready-made food from one of these place's "delis." I was with him once when he bought two of their large bean and meat burritos. He plopped down on a bench near the store and began to wolf them down. I'd warned him repeatedly about buying anything from those animals, but true to form he didn't listen to me, only his growling gut.

Well, about half-way through the first burrito he bit into something that didn't taste right. So he stopped in mid-munch to inspect his food. There, staring at him out of the uneaten portion of his burrito was half of the biggest damned cockroach I'd ever seen. His eyes bugged out of his head like one of those cartoon characters, and he threw the burrito as far as he could in a howling fit of disgust. But before I could get in a good "I told you so." he doubled over and ralphed up his entire lunch, breakfast, and the past five meals before that. I silently backed off and took a walk, grinning to myself, allowing him time to go find a stick and scrape his insides clean.

Well, one good thing came of it..the dork stopped eating As I said, sanitation isn't a biggie with wetbacks.

The normal person would wonder why the Health Dept. hasn't shut these places down. Actually the answer is simple. Bribes. Almost all their stores are located in liberal controlled sanctuary cities where the city and county governments are run by rabid communists and wetbacks which means all the county and city health inspectors and employees are predominantly wetback as well. A few pesos in cousin Jose's hand and they get a triple A rating.
Even if the inspector has to slip in rotting cow blood on his way out.

That wasn't an exaggeration. I wish it were. Every store also has something you don't usually find at white stores...armed guards. That's because Mestizos know their own kind. They know damned well what murderous thieves they all are, and they know that to keep from being robbed and shoplifted out of business, they have to have a lot of protection and deterrents. Because if you so much as blink, your pants will be missing...

Many white stores now have security guards to deter niggers and wetbacks, but only the Mestizo stores have armed ones. That's because their own kind are much more likely to rob each other, just as niggers kill each other more than they kill anyone else. They have one inside the store, and one outside.

This explains why most of their prices..with the exception of produce, are much higher than everyplace else. They have to pay for the cops. But it's either that..or be robbed to death. A hell of a culture, eh? Some of my "racist" friends like to occasionally drop a sheaf of flyers in their parkinglots, warning them to get out of our country while they can, and calling them parasites, invaders and trespassers.

Of course this enrages the local Mestizos, which is the whole idea. A mad wetback is really a scared wetback. And they should be scared. After all..if the whites don't get them, what they've helped do to our economy will..and soon. What are those cockroach people going to do with all those hungry wetlets when whitey's welfare and food stamps run out, and they're forced to drag their spoiled, fat brood back to Mexico?

Talk about the wheel of karma turning full circle.. My heart bleeds purple peanut butter. I have NO sympathy for arrogant, greedy trespassers who come here to deliberately steal food from the mouths of my people, then try to steal the very land they're invading. Death rides on swift hooves.

Out in front of these stores are your usual cast of criminals. Moochers, meth heads, thieves with evil, beady, darting eyes, watching for the door left open or the purse unattended. Niggers saunter lazily across the parkinglot, casing the cars as well, and trash blows by in large drifts like huge, filthy snowflakes, snagging on the undercarriages of parked cars. Mongrel dogs with all their ribs showing are usually digging in the dumpsters..along with today's freshly arrived wetbacks, both looking for a meal. The La Bamba music is piped outside as well, as if to remind whitey they are here to stay. Boy are they in for a rude awakening.

This is what America is fast becoming thanks to Obama, Reid, Pelosi, Boxer, Bush, Kissinger, and every other crooked, evil politician that's served in Washington over the past century. Our people refuse to let their children grow up in the filth ridden hellhole these monsters have created for us all. No matter what it takes, no matter what it costs, we will not bend and we will never surrender.

We will once again have a clean, decent land to call home, and we will create a new constitution from the mistakes of the old, ensuring that evil men never again gain a foothold among our kind. And when the day comes when that store and all the stores like it are smoldering ruins in deserted lots, I'll drink a toast to my race.

-The Lone Haranguer

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Political Correctness

There is an annual contest at the University of Arkansas calling for the most appropriate definition of a contemporary term. This year's term was "Political Correctness." The winner wrote:

"Political correctness is a doctrine, fostered by a delusional, illogical minority, and rabidly promoted by an unscrupulous mainstream media,
which holds forth the proposition that it is entirely possible to pick up a piece of shit by the clean end. "

A Moral Universe

[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.