Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Harold's Halloween 2012

[A lot of people are familiar with Edgar Allan Poe's famous poem The Raven, from 1845. What a lot of people don't know is that that was Poe in a good mood, or good for him, anyway. At least his wife Virginia was still alive. This is what Poe wrote like when he was really depressed, after she died.]


The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crispèd and sere —
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year;
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of Weir —
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

Here once, through an alley Titanic,
Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul —
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
There were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that roll —
As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
In the ultimate climes of the pole —
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
In the realms of the boreal pole.

Our talk had been serious and sober,
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere —
Our memories were treacherous and sere —
For we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year —
(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)
We noted not the dim lake of Auber —
(Though once we had journeyed down here) —
We remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

And now, as the night was senescent
And star-dials pointed to morn —
As the star-dials hinted of morn —
At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
Arose with a duplicate horn —
Astarte’s bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.

And I said — “She is warmer than Dian:
She rolls through an ether of sighs —
She has seen that the tears are not dry on
These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
And has come past the stars of the Lion
To point us the path to the skies —
To the Lethean peace of the skies —
Come up, in despite of the Lion,
To shine on us with her bright eyes —
Come up through the lair of the Lion
With Love in her luminous eyes.”

But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
Said — “Sadly this star I mistrust —
Her pallor I strangely mistrust: —
Oh, hasten! — oh, let us not linger!
Oh, fly! — let us fly! — for we must.”
In terror she spoke; letting sink her
Wings till they trailed in the dust —
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dust —
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

I replied — “This is nothing but dreaming:
Let us on by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
Its Sybillic splendor is beaming
With Hope and in Beauty to-night: —
See! — it flickers up the sky through the night!
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright —
We safely may trust to a gleaming
That cannot but guide us aright,
Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.”

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom —
And conquered her scruples and gloom:
And we passed to the end of the vista,
And were stopped by the door of a tomb;
By the door of a legended tomb: —
And I said — “What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?”
She replied — “Ulalume — Ulalume —
’Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!”

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
As the leaves that were crispèd and sere —
As the leaves that were withering and sere,
And I cried — “It was surely October
On this very night of last year
That I journeyed — I journeyed down here —
That I brought a dread burden down here —
On this night of all nights in the year,
Oh, what demon has tempted me here?
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber —
This misty mid region of Weir —
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.”

Said we, then — the two, then — “Ah, can it
Have been that the woodlandish ghouls —
The pitiful, the merciful ghouls —
To bar up our way and to ban it
From the secret that lies in these wolds —
From the thing that lies hidden in these wolds —
Had drawn up the spectre of a planet
From the limbo of lunary souls —
This sinfully scintillant planet
From the Hell of the planetary souls?”

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

The Wrath of Gawd?

I hate to sound like an Oklahoma televangelist, but maybe Hurricane Sandy is God's wrath on New York and New England. Not so much in punishment for their many, many sins, but basically because the Almighty is trying to choke off all those evil Democrat votes in those goddamned blue states. Even God is sickened and offended by the obscene spectacle of Barack Hussein Obama squatting and shitting in the chair of real presidents. Not to mention that ho with the planet-sized ass Moochelle.

Monday, October 29, 2012

This Really Blows

What do you want to bet that the Democrats use Hurricane Sandy as an excuse to postpone the elections?

Sunday, October 28, 2012

Excerpt From Freedom's Sons, Chapter 38

[Some weeks ago I ran an excerpt from my draft novel Freedom's Sons, wherein a young girl named Danielle, living in Montana 40 years after the Northwest War of Independence, is giving the alleged truth about that war in a conversation with her grandfather, a Union veteran. I promised some of our people who thought I came on a bit too strong in that passage that our own old NVA vet would get his licks in at the appropriate time. Danny has now been forced to flee to the NAR because the FBI tried to murder her boyfriend. This is from Chapter 38. - HAC]

“I thought I could get second and first class [citizenship] by having lots of babies?” said Danny mischievously.

“Yeah, you can,” agreed John. “Second-class anyway, on the birth of the third child. You get your third-class when you complete your national service, because you’ve earned it by showing responsibility and giving something to the Republic, so the Republic gives you something back, that one basic vote. After that it makes sense to give older people with more life experience more say in the government of the country, as well as certain people like mothers who have a real stake in what happens in society. Not like you guys, giving any ape with two arms and two legs and a nappy head the same vote you give a surgeon or a physicist.” He grinned at her. “Of course, if you really want to go for an early first, you could always apply to join the Party.”

“Oh, God, my grandfather would drop dead of an apoplectic seizure!” said Danny, making a face. “And my father and mother would drop right beside him. I’m not really interested in politics, though. Politics is what got us into all this mess to begin with, and don’t worry, I know better than to say anything like that at the dinner table with your grandfather around!”

“Mmmm, yeah, maybe springing a thought like that on him off the cuff isn’t such a hot idea,” agreed Johnny with a nod. “But you know, Danny, maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if you were to try and get Pop off alone and sit down with him and talk to him. Yeah, he can be cantankerous and opinionated and a pain in the keester, I guess like most old people are, but he’s earned the right. He’s a bona fide, dyed-in-the-wool revolutionary hero, and he’s one of the reasons you and I are even here at all.”

Johnny went on. “You know, after independence Pop could have been one of the big shots if he’d wanted to. He knew them all back then, all the big names, Red Morehouse and Corby Morgan and Winston Wayne, just about anybody who ever was somebody in the Party or the NVA. He met the Old Man himself a few times, and he even knew Melanie Young when she was still in Montana—bet you didn’t know she was born just down the road here in Walkerville? That was before she had to go on the bounce, and ended up with Tom Murdock out on the coast. After Longview, the new government practically begged all the old hands to stay on and take on major political and administrative roles, but some like Pop weren’t having any. They’d done what they had to do, and now they were going back to pick up what was left of their lives and get on with living, and Pop was one of those. He came back to this place, and the only thing he ever asked of the Republic in return for his service was the return of the deed to this ranch that the Jew bank had foreclosed on. Which he got, and then he got on with life, with one major interruption for the Seven Weeks War. Look, Danny, you’ve already started taking History and Moral Philosophy class at Cataract … ”

“Yeah, that’s the one I have to pass,” she said.

“Yup. No grades, only a pass or fail. That doesn’t mean you have to agree with anything Mr. Nixon says. You can argue with him all you want. Hell, he likes kids to argue with him!”

“I’ve already noticed,” said Danny dryly.

“But before you graduate, your H&MP teacher has to certify to the school and the state that you have at least some basic understanding of how our country came to be, and why, and how things are in the world. You don’t have to agree with any of it, but you have to know it, basically so if you screw up you don’t have any excuse. What I’m saying, though, is if you want to do more than just pass the course, Danny, if you really want to understand, then you couldn’t find anyone better to tell you how things really were than Pop.”

“Johnny, a month or so ago my grandfather drove me all over the American part of Jefferson County, showing me all these places where really bad stuff happened during the Trouble—sorry, I mean the War of Independence,” Danny corrected herself. “Murders and bombings and ambushes, and some of them were really bad. At least he made it sound that way, and he says your grandfather was responsible for some of it.”

“He was probably responsible for most of it,” said Johnny with a chuckle. “And he won’t deny it. Why don’t you ask him about it?”

So Danny did. She found old man Selkirk in his private den in the ranch house after supper, sitting in his armchair reading The Way We Live Now by the 19th-century novelist Anthony Trollope. “People really read a lot of books over here,” she began tentatively. “Not like at home, I mean over on my side of the Road. I mean, I know this is my side of the Road now … ”

Selkirk chuckled. “I know what you mean, Danielle. Our television signs off around midnight, with the national anthem, and we’ve only got four channels anyway. One channel for news and politics and current affairs, one entertainment channel, one educational channel, and one privately owned channel so we can let people breathe and experiment and sometimes let off steam a bit. Any more than that gets unhealthy, and the tube starts replacing reality in people’s minds. Like a lot of things, TV can serve a useful purpose, but only in moderation. Our people should always have something better to do than stare into a stupid electronic screen.” He held up the book. “Bet you didn’t know that most of the major literary figures of the Nineteenth and a good bit of the Twentieth centuries were anti-Jewish? This is a good example. The villain of the piece is a Jew swindler named Melmotte, who’s one of the slimiest hebes in all literature.”

“I never even heard of Trollop,” said Danny, shaking her head.

“That’s Troll-ope, and no, I suppose you haven’t,” said old Selkirk, shaking his head with a sigh. “What America has done to generations of young white people is criminal and unforgivable. You have no idea where you’ve been or where you come from, so how the hell can anyone expect you to know where you should be going?”

“My grandpa told me where I come from,” said Danny. “He told me what happened back then, when he was a deputy and you were a spucky …” She had blurted the word out through careless habit, and she slapped her hand over her mouth in sudden fear. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean to say …"

“I’ve heard the word, Danielle,” the old man said with a chuckle. “Never was quite sure what it meant. I think some Jew disc jockey in Seattle made it up. They also used to call us goots, which I think is a corruption of the word gook from Vietnam days, but I’m not sure who came up with that one or why, either. Usually it was just terrorist. Or racist terrorist, or racist murderers, or Nazi psychopaths, or murdering racist fascist Nazi terrorist psychopaths, or some other combination of any of those. They never really had much imagination when it came to us. I guess we freaked them out too much. On the other hand, did you know the English language has over a hundred different terms for ‘nigger’?”

“Uh, no sir, I didn’t know that,” said Danielle. “Mr. Selkirk, my grandfather told me a lot about you down through the years, none of it good. A few weeks ago when he found out I was seeing Johnny, he took me on a kind of ghoul’s guided tour of places over on our side of the Road where all kinds of horrible things happened back during the Trouble, and your name got mentioned a lot. Johnny said I should ask you about it.”

“So ask,” invited Selkirk.

“Why did … I guess I just want to know why it had to be so bad, so bloody and violent and terrible?” said Danny, picking her words very carefully. She was intelligent enough to understand that her own grandfather’s view of Ray Selkirk was bound to be heavily slanted due to four decades of walking around with a bad leg, but she also knew that the elderly man sitting in front of her had been considered a monster in his own time, and she needed to understand how far she could go with him before he took something she said or did wrong, and grew fangs.

“Because ZOG wouldn’t have it any other way,” Selkirk told her. “Because for almost a century before the Trouble as you call it began, the white people of America had done everything they could do to try and get these motherf—sorry, ma’m, I apologize, my language is from another age and I know it’s not appropriate for this one—because we did everything we could do just to get these people to stop.

“Normal white people never minded if Jews wanted to go to church on Saturday, or niggers wanted to jive around in juke joints and snort cocaine and cut each other up on Saturday night, or silly college kids wanted to act like little know-it-alls and play-act like they were commies, or rich men wanted to keep getting richer, or even if a few perverts wanted to sneak off into closets and do filthy things with one another. All of this stuff went on before, but it never oozed out into the sunlight and the normal world, where normal people lived and worked and went to church and got married and raised families from birth to death. The weirdness and the filth and the madness and the evil was always offstage, in dark corners or way high up in society out of sight. But then the madness and the badness started to flow under the locked doors and down out of the tower rooms, and it started getting into everything and poisoning everyone’s lives. Federal Reserve in 1913, a completely pointless war between brothers in Europe in 1914, the election of a syphilitic and a dyke to the White House in 1933 … ”

“What’s a dyke?” asked Danny. “That’s some kind of dam the Dutch use to keep back the sea, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s a damn something, all right,” muttered Selkirk. “Never mind, girl, that part of your education definitely ain’t my responsibility. What I’m trying to say, Danielle, is that like an apple with just a little spot of decay on it, eventually the whole fruit rotted, and the rot spread. The good people of America were too busy living. They were enjoying life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, like they used to say, so the Jews and the bad white people took over and decided that everybody had to be like them, to think like them, to live like them. They spent a good hundred years trying to force it on the rest of us. All down through those decades we begged and pleaded for them to stop, and they wouldn’t. They blocked off democracy and the law, took over the government and the courts, and made everything dependent on huge amounts of money that normal people could never raise, so normal people had no power any more. We complained, we protested, we petitioned for redress of grievances, we called idiot talk show hosts on the radio and we bitched and moaned, every now and then we got together and waved a few signs in the streets, and we voted for some ass—pardon me again, ma’am, we voted for some fools called Republicans who forgot us and betrayed us as soon as they plunked their keesters down in their seats after the election. And they added insult to injury. The Jews and liberals controlled all the media, so every television show and movie mocked us and belittled us and spat on everything we cherished.”

“They still do, sir,” said Danny. “I’m a Christian, remember?”

“Yeah, so you know. But believe me, Danny, it was a lot worse back then. Worse than you can imagine. They didn’t just hate normal people’s religion, they hated our beautiful skin and hair and eyes and our magnificent minds and our mighty souls, for they themselves had none of those things, and it drove them mad with hate. It became pretty clear that they didn’t just want to lord it over us, they wanted us all dead. All white people who didn’t bow down and kiss their assorted body parts, and even those who did were only buying themselves a little time. I know you probably think I’m just regurgitating Party propaganda, child, but no kidding. They really wanted to kill us all. No more white people, anywhere, ever. And for generation after generation, all we would do was weep, and wail, and gnash our teeth, and wring our hands, and beg and plead with them to stop. That was all we ever wanted. We just wanted them to stop!

“So what happened then?” asked Danny.

“We made them stop,” said Ray simply. “You know how. Your grandfather told you how, and I imagine he told it pretty much right.”

“Did you really have to murder all those Mexican people that one time, to make the bad people stop doing what they were doing?” asked Danny quietly.

“Yes ma’am, I did,” said the old man. “I suppose I could try to explain it to you, but I doubt you’d get it, because you weren’t there. You’ve never had to live like that, a stranger and a victim in your own land where people with dark skins hunt you as prey, so you’d damned well better hunt them back, better and meaner. You could never understand, and that’s a very good thing. You shouldn’t have to deal with horror like that. We did it so you would never have to. Danny, there are some things in life that just have to be done. You don’t go all broody and introspective like Hamlet and dither about it. You just get on with it, you do what has to be done, and you don’t spend the rest of your life repenting, or justifying, or agonizing over it. The continued life of this wonderful and beautiful race of ours is the ultimate justification for everything, because politically correct horse dung aside, the fact is that we are the world. Really. Shakespeare once wrote all the world’s a stage, or I suppose in these times it might be said that all the world’s a movie. If it is, then white people have all the speaking parts. The other races are just extras for the crowd scenes.” 

“My grandfather said it wasn’t necessary,” Danny persisted with quiet stubbornness. “Grandpa said we should have chosen to die rather than be cruel to the dark people to survive, because we’re supposed to be better than that.”

“I’m sure he did, and the horrifying thing was that even in the face of extinction, there were white people who truly felt like that. Still are, I imagine, even to this day, in spite of everything America has become. The Jews have done a slap-up job of destroying our minds and making us hate ourselves, I’ll give ‘em that. There are white people in what’s left of the United States today—very wealthy white people, of course—who genuinely believe that our race deserves to perish from the earth for the crime of making this planet a place of civilization and man’s creation. White people who actively work for the destruction of this country because we will not think and believe like them, and be like them, and accept their moral superiority and obey them. That’s the true essence of liberalism, white people doing what they’re told. Goodthink, as Orwell called it. You know who George Orwell was, Danny?”

“Uh, no sir, I’m sorry, I don’t,” Danny admitted.

“That’s a pity, because you’re really missing something. George Orwell was a Communist who lived long enough to learn wisdom, and his last two novels redeemed his life of error. I’ll lend you those books, and I think they’ll help you understand,” said Ray. He shook his head. “You know, I swear, white people are the only race that is even capable of formulating such a thought, that we deserve to die. You ever notice that? We’re the only race on earth that possesses a conscience. We are the only people in human history capable of feeling guilt and shame. You’re a Christian, you say. You know the story of the Garden of Eden and the serpent who persuaded Eve to eat of the forbidden fruit?”

“Uh, have you read the Bible, sir?” asked Danny in some surprise.

“Sure,” chuckled the old man. “Haven’t you ever heard that the devil can quote Scripture? You know one interpretation of that chapter is that the forbidden fruit was actually the knowledge of sin. Adam and Eve took a chomp and then all of a sudden they realized they were naked and started grabbing for the nearest fig leaf. The white race is the only human species that is capable of understanding the concept of sin, of offending God and incurring His wrath. Niggers have no sense of sin. They only fear the whip, and when you take away the whip you get—well, look at what’s left of Chicago and Minneapolis today, and see what you get. Asians are more advanced. They have a deep sense of honor and sometimes ethics, but that’s not the same as a conscience. Only white people have that. I’m sorry, miss, I’m rambling, like old men do. Where were we?”

“You said you had to use all that terrible violence to make the bad people stop doing what they were doing,” Danny reminded him.

“Oh, yes,” said Ray. “Well, we did.”

“Reverend Billy Bob Pritchard, he’s the head of our church, and he delivers a digital sermon every Sunday from our home church in Tulsa, he says violence never settles anything.”
Old Ray sighed. “Look, Danielle, let’s bring this closer to home. I know that whatever you think of me, which probably isn’t much, but you care for my grandson, and regardless of the skeletons in your family closet I’m glad to see that. John is right at that age where he needs a good woman and responsibility to steady him down. I have reservations about your religion due to some things that happened in my own past, but that was many years ago, and I get that Christianity in an all-white society is a lot different from what it became under political correctness, when it morphed into a monster like a werewolf under a full moon. From what I’ve seen so far, I think you two would be good for each other. But what do you think would have happened if we hadn’t used force a few weeks ago to get him back from those snakes who were planning to do him harm? Where would he be now, and what would he be suffering? Where would you be, and what would you be feeling? I’m sorry, ma’am but this idea that violence never settles anything is simply not true. It has settled the fate of people and nations quite effectively and finally, ever since history began. Do you know that all of us, both my family and yours, exist only because of a single act of violence?”

“Something from the War of Independence?” asked Danny, getting the name right this time.

“No. I believe you’ve mentioned that one of your teachers at Cataract High School is a lady named Mrs. Allura Campbell, correct?”

“Yes, sir,” said Danny. “The Campbells have had me and John over for dinner at their house.”

“Of course, I knew that,” muttered Ray irritably. “My mind must be starting to wander. You know who Mrs. Campbell is, or rather who her mother was?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Danny. “Georgia Myers, who killed President Hunter Wallace. That’s why they call Allura the Daughter of the Nation. The whole country kind of adopted her after Lieutenant Campbell’s father and Elizabeth Parris smuggled her back to Montana in the last weeks of the war. It’s famous. Mrs. Campbell is the only history teacher I know of who has a section about herself in the textbook.”

“It’s Elizabeth Cardinale now,” remarked Ray. “I knew that goombah husband of hers Vince back in the day, when he was a Volunteer. Maybe you’ll get to meet her if they ever come out here for an Old Fighters’ reunion.

“Anyway, do you have any idea the effect that nuclear explosions in Missoula and Butte and Kalispell would have had on this part of Montana, Danny? I and my children who were born at the time would all be dead, but so would your own grandfather and your parents, and you and your brother would never have existed. This entire part of the world would be nothing but a radioactive wasteland that could be seen at night from satellites as a big glowing patch of sickness and emptiness. God knows how many people of all races would have died in this country, in the U.S. and Canada, even in Aztlan and Mexico, all because one gibbering madman hated us so badly that in his madness he would slaughter millions rather than allow an all-white nation to exist. That is how badly some of these people hate us, Danielle, and this one had the power to act on his hate. A brave woman stopped him, by stabbing him through the eye with a pencil and then surrendering her own life as the price of that deed. Two lives for how many untold millions saved and how many millions who would never have been born except for an act of violence. Your preacher is wrong, Danielle. Violence most certainly does settle things. A lot of things.”

“My grandfather would agree with you,” said Danny with a sigh. “He just thinks they got settled wrong.”

“I know,” said Ray with a chuckle.

Danny was looking at a framed portrait of a young woman standing on the mantelpiece of the fireplace. She was a pretty girl, dressed in a leather mini-skirt and spiky-haired, with body-piercings and jewel studs, a style fifty years out of date no woman in the Republic and few in the States would be seen dead in these days. Ray noticed her looking at it. “That’s my sister, Carol. It was taken before the war, when she was about your age.”

“Why does she look like that?”

“Just a child being silly. Even out here in Montana, white kids lived in a television and computer world that came from the degenerate cities. Niggers were supposed to be cool, so white kids tried to dress and act like them. Carol’s whigger phase was short, thank God, but she liked that photo because it bugged the hell out of Mom and Dad,” Ray went on with a laugh. “I keep that one in here because she liked it so much. Reminds me of a time I can’t really remember any more, before all the sh—all the trouble started. We have a better picture of her on the wall in the living room, taken later, without the nose ornaments and the hair spikes.”

“Yes, sir, I’ve seen it,” said Danny. “I think she looks sad in that one.”

“She was,” Ray told her. “It had started by then.”

“Mr. Selkirk,” said Danny slowly, not knowing whether she dared broach the topic at all, “John told me what my grandfather did to Carol and her children. How he sent them off to that place in Nevada and they died there. I didn’t know. That’s one thing he never told us about, ever. I am truly sorry.”

“What for?” asked Ray. “You didn’t do it. You weren’t even born then.”

“But why?” asked Danny, shaking her head. “I don’t understand how he could do something like that.”

“The same way I could put bullets into the heads of all those beaners, Danielle,” the old man told her. “Because it was his duty.”


Saturday, October 27, 2012

NF Videos By Plasterman

Dear HAC:

Here are some of the videos I have made:

And here is my (quickly thrown together) website:

Thank You,

Friday, October 26, 2012

A Deliberate, Willful Refusal To Understand

[A blast from the past, almost ten years ago. Time sure flies when you're having fun. - HAC]

December 6th, 2002

Racial Comrades:

I got another e-mail tonight similar to God knows how many letters I have received down through the years. The upshot of it was: "Harold, what in God's name is wrong with us? Why does everything we touch seem to turn to shit? Why can't we get our act together?"

I've got canned answers for this out the wazoo on file, but not tonight, I think. I have been studying this problem for thirty years, and I get no further forward, no closer to grasping the true essence of it. Every time I think about it I come up with some new angle, some new way of looking at it, and it all amounts to zip as far as actually solving it goes. But let me see if I can encapsulate it here as best I can.

It has to do with the one issue that we will turn a double-backed flip to avoid confronting: the issue of character. The character of our self-appointed leadership and the character of we, ourselves, as a community.

Something is broken inside us. Some psychic, mental and emotional switch isn't completely closed. This whole character defect manifests itself, as best I can describe it, as a collective, willful, deliberate and self-destructive refusal to understand. 

It manifests itself as an almost intolerable aversion to truth, and a willingness to go to almost any lengths to avoid having to confront and deal with unpalatable truths. It manifests itself as a violent, almost visceral refusal to be convinced by reason, to accept facts and to act upon them. It manifests itself in our clinging like grim death to certain practices, people, policies, and tactics, and by a mule-stubborn, blind refusal to re-think or abandon these things under any circumstances, including complete failure.

Toward the end of his life, the late Robert Miles was convinced that we as a people and as a racially conscious community have a bona fide death wish, a desire for the peace of oblivion  rather than the pain of struggle for life. I don't want to believe that, but I have to say that sometimes, with the best will in the world, I cannot discern any other explanation for why we do some of the things that we do. Someone once wrote that the essence of stupidity is to keep on doing the same thing over and over and yet each time to expect different results. That is the story of our "Movement."

We are now being presented with one last, final chance to overcome this deep and incomprehensible blackness in our souls. If we do not overcome it, if we do not learn to live in the real world and to understand that we must take action against an existential threat to everything that has made the world as we know it, then we as a race will become extinct.

The demographics do not lie. Not only are we about to become a minority on this continent, but the factor of age will make it impossible for us to survive as a people. My duty station within this mess is to say out loud that which no one else will say, because these things must be said, they must be understood, and they must be acted upon or the White race isn't going to make it. I long ago accepted that in the case of most of you, everything I say simply goes in one ear and out the other. There is a tiny minority among you who do appear to be listening, but somehow I have to increase that percentage.

I have been told that I scold and lecture and harangue too much. That may be, but given my lack of resources, what the hell else can I do to get your attention? I am told I need to be "upbeat". But for Christ's sake...upbeat about what? We are losing on every front and every day our numbers grow fewer, our heads grow grayer, our attention span grows shorter, and our minds grow more confused. If any of you have any ideas as to how I can improve my presentation, A) Without lying; B) Without simply ignoring vitally important but unpalatable truths, and C) Without pretending that serious problems and issues which affect our racial survival don't exist, then I am very much open for suggestions.

The truth is out there, and it can set us free. But you must hear it.

The plan is clear and it will work. But you must do it.

Time is not our friend, but we still have some we must use it.

The ball can be set rolling, but it must be done now.

Somehow, I have to cut through the stinking and putrid mountains of bullshit that we have heaped up like Bronze Age primitives as a kind of fortress to protect our tender egos and insulate ourselves from the cold, unrelenting truth. How? How do I do this? How do I get you to listen and act?

How do I get you to understand that all roads but the road to the Northwest are proven dead ends and potentially lethal wastes of our last remaining precious time on earth? The true road is known. It is marked. It leads clearly and unambiguously Northwestward. And yet as I try to lead you down that road I look back and I see hundreds of you wandering off into the swamps and chasms of fifty years of failure, and others of you simply sitting or lying in a stupor.

How do I get you to cease this grotesque, bizarre, mystifying refusal to understand? 

Thus endeth today's rambling.

Thursday, October 25, 2012

New Yenta Photo

Let's see now: should I run Jewish Women again? I've re-posted it about half a dozen times in the past six years, and various people are still finding it and adding comments, some screaming abuse, some surprisingly on target. 

The funniest thing is all the Jewish men who post agreeing with me, usually concluding with some comment to the effect of "now you know why we go after shiksas."

Above we see the late, unlamented, and trashed-out Amy Winehouse, "the modern Streisand." (No, I am not making that up.) 

Tuesday, October 23, 2012

Radio Free Northwest - October 25th, 2012

Effie Sue Washington on the presidential debates; HAC preaches a sermonette on how education is no substitute for action, Gretchen reviews a book on modern Movement tactics, and the 1809 disappearance of British diplomat Benjamin Bathurst. Plus three spooky Halloween musical selections and one that's just gross.

Monday, October 22, 2012

The Murder Of Jeff Hughes - October 23rd, 2009

[This is pinched from the website of some hippie-dippy leftie who would bitch and moan and shriek if he know us wicked racists were quoting him, so screw him, he doesn't get a credit. But it is the best "official" account of Jeff's murder I've found. - HAC]

This post, one of the last before concluding my police accountability project, takes a belated look at the Jeffrey Scott Hughes killing. The case received relatively little media coverage and wasn’t taken up by any of B.C.’s “official” (government- and mainstream media-approved) activists. But of all the police brutality cases I’ve read about in B.C. over the last several years, this is possibly the most disturbing.

Following the direction given by a coroner’s inquest, media coverage largely attributed Hughes’ death to a lack of communication among police. But the events suggest something far more chilling. A group of poorly trained Nanaimo RCMP officers waited, with growing excitement, for the opportunity to kill Hughes, regardless of justification. When they finally got their chance, they fired wildly, showing their inability to handle guns and endangering others besides their target. 

After up to 20 shots, three bullets struck Hughes in the back. As he lay on the ground slowly dying, police refused to call in an ambulance that was waiting nearby. Instead, they contacted their PR department. Several cops spent several minutes watching Hughes slowly die, even though they saw no sign of a weapon on him. Eventually more police arrived and, long after Hughes had stopped moving, they approached the body. They said they found a flare gun. 

Victoria police, on behalf of the Vancouver Island Integrated Major Crime Unit, dragged out its investigation into the shooting for 19 months. Predictably, they exonerated the Mounties. But they refused to say why. VicPD refused to disclose how many officers were involved, how many shots were fired, how many bullets struck Hughes or why he was even shot. 

A week-long coroner’s inquest was held last July. A number of tax-funded lawyers, including inquest counsel Rodrick MacKenzie, attended to support the police. Just one lawyer, Douglas Christie, who represented Hughes’ brother Russell, questioned the police account of events. Coroner Marj Paonessa consistently sided with the police and the government lawyers.
Paonessa was seen entering and leaving the building with Victoria police detective Michelle Robertson, who took part in the cop-on-cop investigation. 

The coroner’s jury didn’t have the authority to assign blame. But it did accept all of Christie’s recommendations, suggesting strong skepticism about the police story. 

Hughes was “known” to police, but not for criminal activity. He evidently held racist views and even hung a Nazi flag on his wall. Several of his neighbours were native drug dealers.["Native" is the official Canadian term for Indian. - HAC] But a Cree neighbour, 75-year-old Dino Davis, described Hughes as a good man who ran errands for her. She told media that the flag was a “scare tactic” to deter thieves. She told the inquest, “They killed the wrong man.”

Another neighbour was Dana Wagg, who said he’d been a journalist at the 1990 Mohawk standoff in Oka, Quebec. He said, “Jeff was kind and helpful. He was coming out of himself and being a bit more friendly. However he was pissed off at the loud partying.” Their apartment building had been the location of loud, all-night parties for at least a month before Hughes’ death. Wagg added, “He wanted to live in peace and quiet. Instead he’s dead. His life could have been turning around.”

Hughes had been a 10-year volunteer with the Georgia Strait Alliance. The environmental group’s administrative director, Cathy Booler, knew about the Nazi flag but told media, “He was a person trying to turn his life around. He had quite a kind heart.” She said Hughes had become very depressed shortly before his death and told her he needed to get out of his building and out of Nanaimo. Neighbours said he had a job interview in Vancouver scheduled the day he was killed.

Hughes’ racism was frequently cited by both police and media after the shooting. That information often overshadowed the manner in which Nanaimo RCMP killed Hughes. The accusation of racism, ambiguous as it is, probably explains why B.C.’s “official” police accountability activists, the B.C. Civil Liberties Association, have said nothing about the shooting. Yet the group has shown no interest in the beliefs of people like Frank Paul or Clayton Alvin Willey, very dangerous non-whites who died in police custody. Could it be that political correctness trumps concern for human life? 

Evidence at the inquest consisted mostly of police radio calls and uncorroborated police testimony. 

The events began early in the morning of October 23, 2009. Hughes phoned police at least once to complain about his neighbours’ loud all-night party, an ongoing problem with the drug dealers who lived in the small, run-down building. For reasons not explained, police did not respond to Hughes’ complaint. David heard Hughes ask his neighbours several times to quiet down so he could sleep. He told them he had a job interview the next morning.

At about 4:00 a.m. Hughes, a small, slight, 48-year-old man who might have had a physical disability, approached his neighbours. One of those present was Jesse Crnec, who stands over six feet tall and weighed 175 pounds. He punched Hughes in the face, knocking him flat on his back. As a teenager tried to lift him up, Crnec slammed his knee into Hughes’ face. Several others at the party bragged about the assault with loud comments like, “We hung a good one on him.”

Hughes returned to his own apartment, leaving a trail of blood down the hallway. At some point he turned his own music up loud. That prompted building manager James Hyzelendoorn to call police. Nanaimo RCMP, who refused to respond to Hughes’ noise complaint against a group of criminals, responded in force to Hyzelendoorn’s noise complaint against Hughes.

Police arrived at Hughes’ building at 5:47 a.m., 10 minutes after Hyzelendoorn’s call. But they apparently did not approach Hughes’ apartment until 6:03 a.m. The reason for the 16-minute delay isn’t clear.

RCMP Constable Matthew Watkin testified that Hyzelendoorn told him Hughes had assaulted someone. It’s interesting that Hyzelendoorn would make such an accusation or even lodge a noise complaint against Hughes, since it was some of his other tenants who were violent criminals and regularly held all-night parties. CTV News showed Hyzelendoorn storming away from the inquest building, refusing to talk to media.

At 6:03 Watkin and Const. Derek MacFarlane went to Hughes’ door. They didn’t try to phone him. The coroner ruled out Christie’s question of whether they had even asked him to turn down the music.

Watkin testified that he identified himself but Hughes swore at him and said he’d shoot him if he came inside. At the inquest, Watkin was vague about the details. He had written a duty report, although not until the day after the shooting. When Christie asked that the report be entered as evidence, government lawyer David Kwan objected.

Officers’ notes and reports are often entered as evidence for obvious reasons. Time (in this case, nearly two years) causes memory to fade and also allows more opportunity to cook up lies. Nevertheless the coroner sided with Kwan, offering this strange explanation: “The best evidence is live testimony.” This is the same coroner who was seen with one of the police investigators before and after at least one of the inquest sessions.

Watkin stated that, with MacFarlane standing right behind him, he crouched down. Watkin said Hughes then opened the door, pointed a handgun four inches from Watkin’s face and threatened to shoot him.

After Hughes was killed, tactical officers said they found a flare gun on his body. Apparently a flare gun looks much different than a handgun. But the coroner ruled Christie out when he asked about the appearance of the gun that Watkin said Hughes pointed at him. Neither Watkin nor MacFarlane explained how they could have mistaken a flare gun for what MacFarlane described as a “revolver-style handgun.”

Watkin testified that after Hughes pointed the gun at him, he and MacFarlane retreated down the hall and Hughes went back inside his apartment. More police arrived.

At 6:37, Const. Sean Ziegler said over police radio: “Know your crossfire that there’s no blue on blue.” That cop jargon sounds like a warning to stay out of their fellow officers’ line of fire. It sounds like they were getting ready for the kill.

Fourteen minutes later Ziegler shouted: “He’s got a firearm. He’s waving a revolver.” Hughes was still inside his apartment.
At 6:56 Hughes opened the door and left his apartment. An apparently excited Ziegler immediately shouted, “We’ve got a green light, we’ve got a green light you guys.” That sounds like cop jargon granting permission to kill.

Hughes left the building and walked down an alley leading to the street.

The police had taken cover behind cars. MacFarlane testified that Hughes was wearing headphones and pointing a gun towards the street, away from MacFarlane. The officer said he stood up from behind Hughes and shouted at him to drop his gun. He said Hughes turned and pointed the gun at him. MacFarlane says he fired three times, missing him each time. Then he heard further shots.

Watkin, however, told a different story. According to his testimony, he stepped out from hiding as Hughes was still walking down the alley. Watkin testified that he shouted, “Drop the gun!” Hughes turned to look at him, then turned away again. Watkin shot at him six or seven times, apparently as Hughes had his back turned and was simply walking away from him. Watkin said one of his shots might have struck Hughes, yet he continued walking around a corner.

Const. Heather Cook testified that she ordered Hughes to drop the gun and then fired four shots at him. The jury heard that Corporal Paul McIntosh fired several more shots.

Out of something like 18 to 20 shots, three hit Hughes, all in the back. One hit him in the heel, another in the upper leg, another passed through the back of his arm and entered his chest. Hughes fell to the ground, but was still alive. Police refused to call in the ambulance that was waiting nearby.

They did call their media department at 6:58 a.m. The spin doctors were given advance notice but the ambulance was kept waiting. Hughes was still alive.

At 6:59, Cook said, “He’s still breathing. Did anyone see where the gun went? He’s moving his head and every now and then he puts his hands on his crotch.” Police still refused to call in the waiting ambulance.

The armed cops continued watching Hughes for several more minutes. The ambulance continued waiting.

At 7:16, the RCMP Emergency Response Team arrived. Also at 7:16, Nanaimo cops told Victoria RCMP staff sergeant Norm McPhail that Hughes had fired at them and was now in custody.
An ERT tactical officer, Sgt. Kirby Anderson, eventually approached Hughes’ body and said he found a flare gun. The flare gun was not entered as evidence. Police did say that the flare gun had not been fired.

Finally, at 7:21, an RCMP dispatcher laughed out loud as she told the ambulance driver that Hughes was dead.

The combination of cowardice and callousness is staggering. Yet inquest counsel MacKenzie tried to portray the shooting as a result of miscommunication between police. To some extent the jury agreed. But, given that almost all evidence consisted of uncorroborated police testimony, Christie asked the jury to recommend police keep an audio-visual record of serious incidents. Over the objections of the lead investigator, VicPD Staff Sgt. Keith Lindner, the jury adopted all of Christie’s recommendations. That suggests strong skepticism about the police story.

However a coroner’s jury can’t assign blame or make binding recommendations. The inquest, following the long, drawn-out Victoria police cover-up, falls far short of the scrutiny Hughes’ death deserves. In any case, RCMP officers are almost never held accountable for their actions. B.C.’s new Independent Investigations Office might improve the investigative process but the IIO is actually designed to assuage public concern while supporting the police as much as possible.

The problem doesn’t just lie with Nanaimo Mounties. At least some of the officers involved now work in other parts of the country. Nor is this an exclusively RCMP problem. These cops have the unequivocal support of the Victoria Police Department, the Vancouver Island Integrated Major Crime Unit, the B.C. Coroners Service and several government lawyers. With the police status quo firmly entrenched, there’s little anyone can do to seek justice in this case or try to prevent similar outrages from happening in the future.

 Jeff Hughes’ needless death speaks volumes about police recruitment, police training, police culture, police ethics and police accountability. It leads to a despairing conclusion: Canadian police officers can get away with being contemptible, callous, cowardly killers.

Sunday, October 21, 2012

A Little Old Right-Wing Lady Writes

[A very good, concise statement of what most Whites feel these days. Read it well. THIS IS WHAT WE HAVE TO CHANGE. We also need to lower the median age of our audience (for that’s what we have right now) by about 20 years. Sorry to all you old coots and crones—remember, I’m one myself—but revolution is a young man’s game.  – HAC]

Dear Mr. Covington:

          Thanks for the very interesting, though unsettling CD of your interview with Ragnar. His revelations of the current European picture make it sem they have it worse than we do, at least right now.

          While I appreciate your optimism, I truly believe his scenario is the more likely—another generation and we’re toast, literally. I think so many of our real males have been eliminated in the many wars we have been propagandized to fight over the last 200-lus years, that the few left can’t get it together to accomplish effective change.

          My great-grandfather was killed in the Civil War. My father was 60% disabled in World War One. My two brothers were in World War Two. One came home disabled, the other arrived in a box. My daughter believes that Whites should stop reproducing as they are simply making replacement parts for the machine.

          The fact is that those responsible for this mess never seem to receive punishment. I believe this leads to two opposing responses: one is berserkers who totally lose it and go off the cliff. The second and more frequent reaction, in which most of us get trapped, is apathy. We are all so shell-shocked we can’t seem to make any effective moves to save ourselves.

          I seem to swing back and forth between the beliefs. I am religious because of the Bible’s accuracy in forecasting exactly what is occurring right now. But then I also, every now and then, think “Holy shit! All we are is some fancy Nintendo game, no better than an ant colony!” I hope, since I am old and diabetic, I won’t have long to find out.

          Hang in there and stay safe,

-Mary W.

Saturday, October 20, 2012


The latest official EU graphic. Tells us a lot, I think.

Friday, October 19, 2012

More HAC On Video

Another submission from our Colonel House Academy of the Cinematic Arts, this one by Comrade Shane.

Thursday, October 18, 2012

Radio Free Northwest - October 18th, 2012

HAC rambles disjointedly about grand juries and their use by the Tyranny, we hear the third and final segment of Edgar Steele's last interview, and Harold eulogizes our slain comrade Jeff Hughes, who was murdered in Vancouver, B.C. by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police on October 23rd, 2009.

Monday, October 15, 2012

Freedom's Sons, Section IV, Chapter 35

XXXV. Drunkards, Fools, And Children

(40 Years, ten months and 14 days after Longview)

The good Lord looks out for drunkards, fools, and children. – Old Folk Saying

Danny was now firmly in the Tolliver family doghouse. She spent an entire day being hauled around the American side of Jefferson County by her grandfather, to the site of every atrocity committed by the NVA during the War of Independence. There Elwood regaled her with explicit blood-and-gore recountings of every bullet fired, every bomb detonated, every brutal punishment beating, and every family run out of the county never to return. When they got home that night, she was confronted by both her parents. Her father Wendell seemed more concerned for her than angry, but he and Alice were of one accord that her whatever-this-was had to stop. With Elwood acting as the third member of the inquisitorial tribunal, they demanded that she foreswear ever to see, speak to, or think about John Selkirk again, on pain of boarding school in North Dakota.

To her own surprise, she balked and refused to be browbeaten or intimidated. Rather than screaming and shouting, or otherwise engaging in teenaged girl-hysterics, she had gone stubborn and quiet and largely mute, except to say, “Mom, Dad, I’m not going to make you any promises I may not be able to keep. Yes, I lied to you about Johnny and me. That was wrong, and I’m sorry. All I can promise you is that I won’t lie to you any more, and I won’t do anything without telling you first. If you’re going to send me away, then I guess you’re going to do it, but it won’t change anything, and I think you should consider that decision very carefully, because it would be something I will never forget, or forgive. Yes, I get it, this is a problem and I may be in over my head. But it’s my problem, and punishing me won’t help.” Her calm and quiet deliberation chilled the three adults’ blood. She didn’t realize it, but there was nothing she could have done that might have frightened them more.

The result was that Danny was permanently grounded. No outside activities except church or someplace else where she was in plain sight of a family member at all times. (Her younger brother Wade didn’t count.) Her phone and computer privileges were taken away, as well as her driving and horseback privileges. Wade’s phone was also taken away as a precaution “so your sister doesn’t talk you into doing something you shouldn’t,” which made Danielle really popular with her brother. She was not even to go out onto the property to work unless one of the three adults accompanied her to whatever field or barn required something done. “You can’t keep me under house arrest forever!” she snapped once at her grandfather, who was about to drive her out to help him run the hay-baler. “Do you think Johnny will just give up on me without a word of explanation?”

“No,” agreed Elwood. “I wish he would. I hope he does, because then you’d see he isn’t the young Lancelot you think he is. But I’m sorry to say, no, most likely he won’t give up. When that Selkirk kid doesn’t hear from you for a while, if he’s really as stuck on you as you think, then he’s going to come sniffing around here looking for you.” Elwood opened a box he had placed on the kitchen table and drew out a gun belt and holster containing an old-fashioned custom stainless steel .357 Magnum with a five-inch barrel, Pachmayr grips and two speed-loaders Velcroed on the back of the belt, which he buckled on.

“What, you’re going to shoot Johnny?” she demanded incredulously.

“Do you think I’m strapping this on as a joke, girl?” growled the old man. “Guess you didn’t learn anything at all from our little talk the other day. Guns aren’t funny, they’re not props, and they’re not for dramatic gestures. Yes, I will quite happily shoot anyone who threatens my family, especially one of those murdering beasts from Over the Road!” Elwood’s face seemed to twist with rage, but he kept a grip on himself. He drew the .357 from its holster and broke the cylinder. “I carried this gun in the PATUs, although even back then it was outdated. You know it’s almost a hundred years old? That’s the good thing about guns. You maintain ‘em right, keep the rust and verdigris off them, keep the moving parts lightly oiled to seal out the air, and they’ll still work for a century or more. Killed two racist spucky bastards with this gun. I reckon I’m good for a third if need be. You still don’t understand how serious this is, do you?” He looked up at her. “I hope you don’t have to find out, honey. Now let’s go.”

There were a few tense days wherein the details and logistics of enrolling Danielle in Fallbrook Academy were seriously examined, and the conclusion Alice and Wendell reached matched that of old Elwood. It could be done, but it would be a serious strain on the family’s finances and on the operation of the ranch that would be better avoided, if there were some way to do so without Danny being carried off over the border by her lusty Aryan swain to be used as breeding stock for the next generation of Selkirks. Finally, her father and mother told her that she would be allowed to begin her senior year at Jefferson High, but when school started she would be driven there and picked up by either themselves or her grandfather. Then, to her horror, they invoked an almost-forgotten state law from 50 years before which allowed parents to place tracking bracelets on the ankles of “problem” minors. They applied to the family court judge in American Butte for an order to that effect, and got one, but the project fell through when it turned out that no one in Montana had any of the archaic bracelets left in stock, and the sheriff’s department had long ago lost track of the necessary equipment to monitor such devices, nor did they any longer have personnel trained to operate such devices even if they could find it in the courthouse sub-basement, or wherever it had been gathering dust since before the Seven Weeks’ War.

It was a bad week for everyone.

* * *

          Over the border, Johnny Selkirk wasn’t having nearly as rough a time of it from his own family, but things were a bit tense. He wasn’t too worried about Danny’s immediate welfare, since in a small town like Boulder a family drama such as the Tollivers’ was meat and drink to the local gossips. This meant that enterprising vendors of informational services in Jefferson County picked up on it, which in turn meant that Civil Guard Lieutenant Bobby Campbell in Basin with his freshly replenished snitch fund of New American dollars knew almost as soon as Danny herself did that while she would remain grounded, she wasn’t headed for educational exile in Fargo. Bobby passed it on as a courtesy to John when they met one day in town, with a polite suggestion that he might want to let matters lie fallow for a while in the interest of not getting Danny into any more trouble. “You sneak over there and see her anyway, they might decide to re-assess that North Dakota option.”
    “You cops giving advice to the lovelorn now, Lieutenant?” asked Johnny.
   “All part of the service, citizen,” replied Campbell. “Seriously, it’s not in anybody’s interest for this to get out of hand. Her grandfather and maybe some others will probably pull down on you if they see you Over There, and somebody will get shot. That’s a call I don’t want to get from Sheriff Lomax on our little hotline. Add to that the fact that there’s some strangers over there in Boulder with hidden agendas who might want to stir up trouble in aid of whatever the hell they’re doing, which we haven’t figured out yet. Plus there’s the fact that if you really do like this girl, you could mess up her life real bad, John.”
      “I know it,” Johnny replied with a sigh. “My dad and my grandfather have already given me stern talking-tos about my wicked and impolitic ways. For your information, Lieutenant, I think the wildest thing Danny and I ever did together was race my Pegasus in the stock car air show in Butte back in July. The way people talk, you’d think I’d descended on her farm with horse and foot, carried her off to my robber’s den and chained her in a dungeon or something.”

          “Which would make her feel even worse, if trouble comes out of something genuinely innocent, when you two really haven’t been doing anything wrong,” replied Campbell soberly.

       “Oh, I wouldn’t say innocent,” said Johnny, shaking his head. “Let’s just say open and aboveboard.”

          John’s grandfather, former NVA Captain Ray Selkirk, put it to him even more directly after dinner that night, out on the porch of the Selkirk ranch house six miles or so west of Wickes. Selkirk, a thin and wiry white-haired man with a permanent scowl and a nicotine-stained moustache who looked like he’d been weaned on a pickle, came out onto the porch with a bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand; Johnny and Hatch always made sure to replenish his supply when they were on their contraband-smuggling trips. “Here, take a slug of this,” the old man ordered his grandson, handing him the bottle and lighting up one of his own long black cheroots. “You and me need to have a word or two or three, young man. You gonna marry that Tolliver girl?”

          “Probably not,” replied Johnny, drinking from the bottle.

    “What do you mean, probably not?” demanded his grandfather.

          “Meaning I haven’t asked her yet, and even if I was so inclined, in order to ask her I’d have to be able to meet her and talk to her, and folks around here seem to have decided there’s something wrong with that!” replied John with exasperation. “Her grandfather is threatening to shoot me if he sees me anywhere near her, or as near as I can figure if he sees me anywhere Over The Road. Ben Lomax is threatening to arrest me for traffic violations if I go Over There, that Guard lieutenant in Basin is giving me friendly advice not to try to see her which might not be so friendly next time, if it threatens to cause him bother, and you and Dad keep trying to ship me off to college. By the by, Danny’s family is threatening to send her off to school too, in North Dakota.”

          “Do you want to marry her?” demanded Ray.

          “I think I might, yeah,” Johnny sighed. “If we could ever just spend some time together and concentrate on seeing if there’s anything there, and not have to worry about who’s gone see us, and whether there’s gone be any political repercussions because of the fact that there’s this strip of asphalt running through the ten miles between us.”

          “It’s more than just a strip of asphalt, boy.”

          “Yes sir, I know, and I meant no disrespect,” said Johnny. “But the Republic is supposed to be a Homeland for all white people, right? So why does that not include Danny Tolliver?”

       “I understood what you meant,” said old man Ray, swigging from the bottle. “One of the reasons we went through all that hell back then was to simplify life. Make things black and white, right and wrong again. I think we succeeded to a large degree, but them damned exceptions and shades of gray just keep on creeping into life no matter what.”

          “The Old Man used to say that shades of gray are where the Jew lies in wait to do harm,” Johnny reminded.

          “Good, you paid attention in school. So why not go pay attention in Kennewick A & M for two years and come back with a degree you can use to run this place better, or join the Engineers instead of just being a rifleman on your  reserve call-ups? Something you can use to get your second-class citizenship?”

          “And you figure two years in Kennewick will be enough to make me forget about Danny, or make her forget about me?” asked John.

          “I don’t know. Would it?” the old man asked.

         “What have you got against her?” demanded Johnny. “She wasn’t the one who sent Carol and the children to Nevada, that was that old bastard Elwood Tolliver! She wasn’t even born when all that happened, and neither was I. Pop, you were a hero. I understand that, and I would never disparage what you and your men did for us all, any more than what Dad did in the Seven Weeks’ War. I just got out of the army myself, and if it happens again and needs to be done, I’ll go over to Boulder in my gear with my X-4, although I hope and pray that day never comes. But this thing between you and Elwood Tolliver was forty years ago, Pop. Not my war. It has to end sometime. Why not now, with me and Danny!”

          “Does Danielle feel the same way?” asked Ray morosely. “Does she want to marry you?”

          “I don’t know. Like I said, we’ve never really had the chance to sit down and talk calmly about it without somebody worrying at us or pressuring us.”

          “To answer your question, boy, I haven’t got anything against her personally, although in view of who she’s grown up around and that tub-thumping hoot-and-holler religion her family are into, I’m not expecting to be impressed.”

          “Not all Christians worship Jews,” said Johnny.

          “Well, we won’t get into that,” said the old man. “But there is one thing I want to make crystal clear to you. When you are with her, you damned well will remember who you are and who you represent, not just in the eyes of Danielle’s family but in the eyes of everybody on the eastern side of that highway! You will treat that girl with the respect, courtesy, and gallantry that marks a real man. If you want her, then you stand up by her side and take her as your wife, like a real man does. If not, then you break it off clean and go find yourself a Northwest girl, or let your mom and dad or a matchmaker find one for you. You do not just play with her for a while and dump her. Elwood Tolliver’s girl or not, Union or not, she is a white girl, and you were raised better than that. There’s most likely going to be trouble over this, and when it comes I will not have it said that it happened because a grandson of mine comported himself in the manner of a nigger!”

          “Don’t worry, Pop, Danny’s religious and I respect her faith more than you seem to. We’ve already settled that the hot and heavy stuff is on hold. I won’t embarrass you,” replied Johnny in a surly voice.

          “That’s not what I’m worried about,” said the old man. “I’m worried that Elwood Tolliver may carry out his threat to kill you, and I’m going to have to go in there to that living room and tell your mother and your father that their son is dead, because forty years ago I started a job I didn’t finish.”

          “Why didn’t you?” asked Johnny. “Finish the job, I mean? Why did you just kneecap Tolliver?”

          “Long story,” said Ray.

* * *
          On the afternoon of September the fifth, Ms. Gabrielle Martine of the Economic Recovery Administration decided that she was bored, so she would go visiting. She decided to visit Lieutenant Robert Campbell the Third in the Civil Guard Station in Basin, just drop in and say hello to the man she had come to view as her “opposite number.” 

Why she decided to do this was difficult for anyone to understand. It might have been described as hubris in a white person, but in a black it was not so complex as that: simple, childish stubbornness which demanded that Gabi do something she had been told not to do, precisely because she had been told not to do it, by white people. Repeatedly told, in fact. The big mystery was why she never understood that she would almost certainly be shot on sight the moment she set foot anywhere on the western side of Interstate 15. “I thought all American kids were taught in school that the Northmen are marauding ghouls who eat little black babies for breakfast?” commented Monty Sanderson later, when he heard what happened. “Hell, they probably would do, if there were any little black babies Over There to eat. What in God’s name was she thinking of?” 

The subject had resurfaced on numerous occasions since the meeting where Gabi had first brought it up. Virtually everyone around her had attempted to explain, with varying degrees of politically correct circumlocution, that what she proposed to do was impossible, not to say insane. Brandon Blackwell told her, “In the first place, Gabrielle, I have to remind you that it is illegal for a United States citizen to enter the Northwest Republic under any circumstances without a travel permit. It has been illegal for forty years, and even today is still a serious offense that could have adverse effects on your career. To take even so much as a step towards that highway, you have to get authorization from the Office of Northwest Recovery or the Justice Department.” (Thus the American government stubbornly maintained four decades of pretense that the NAR was a criminal matter, and not a political issue, certainly not a foreign policy one.) 

“So I’ll get a permit,” said Gabi brightly. “You can take care of that for me, Brandon. Call Ayesha Jones at the ONR in Burlington, or if you can’t get hold of Ayesha see if you can track down Julie Chan, I think she’ll be in D.C. for the formal opening of Congress before she flies back to Burlington.”

“If you insist, ma’am,” said Blackwell, with a formal show of resignation. He then disregarded Gabi’s command to try and obtain a permit, hoping her short attention span would kick in and she would forget about it. She didn’t. For two days she pestered him on the subject of the permit, until Blackwell changed tack and did, in fact, submit a formal request on her behalf to the Office of Northwest Recovery for a Northwest Exclusion Zone Entry and Travel Permit. (When the United States bureaucracy absolutely had to refer to the NAR in any formal way, it was either as “the racist entity” or the “exclusion zone.”) Under “purpose of proposed visit” in the long form he had to fill out, he put “confer with Northwest police and military officers regarding future of region,” which he figured would cause all kinds of bells and whistles to go off back in Burlington. That comment alone should be enough to get her recalled to Burlington and himself along with her. Maybe even get her sent to a punishment posting in Mississippi, where she would be forced to live only among her own kind, with no white servants. That was fine with Brandon Blackwell, so long as he didn’t get transferred to the bizarre, all African-American “prosperity zone” in the deadly malarial Delta swamps along with her. 

Gabi e-signed the application without a murmur and he duly sent it off, hoping that either the request would simply disappear into the bowels of the bureaucracy back in Burlington and no more would be heard of it, or else it would generate such consternation along the power corridors and in the cubbyholes of the ERA that even if Gabrielle weren’t relieved and ordered home, she would at least be called on the carpet and commanded to stop rattling cages Across The Road before she woke up the animals. Either way, it should have been an end to this Meet-The-Gestapo madness. 

Instead, after another two days, Blackwell came into the conference room in the Boulder Hot Springs Inn and Spa, an elegant hotel dating back to 1881 when it had been a watering hole for newly-wealthy silver rush millionaires, where the team had set up their headquarters. On the teleprinter he found a hard copy of Gabrielle Martine’s duly signed and stamped travel permit into the Northwest Republic, good for six months and “multiple entries.” There was no cover letter or accompanying comment of any kind, no acknowledgement of the fact that due to Ms. Martine’s negritude there would be no multiple entries, only the first one, from which she would not return. 

Blackwell was startled. It didn’t make sense to him, and like all bureaucrats, when confronted with something that didn’t make sense or looked dangerous, his first instinct was to kick the can on down the road and wash his hands of it. Knowing full well who was really in charge, he went to find FBI Agent Mona James. He found her in one of the rooms hunched over a computer going over something on the screen with the British officer, Colonel Malcolm Hart, while Agent Hornbuckle sat at the round table between the bed and the rumbling air conditioner, reading the Bible. The two of them turned off the computer and closed the cover as Blackwell entered the room. He did not know what they were doing together, nor did he care. He tossed the permit to Mona. “Agent James, you’re pretty well connected back in Burlington. Any idea who wants our boss dead?”

“Wait a minute, they approved it?” said Mona, stunned.

“As you see.”

“Who signed it?” asked Mona, holding up the paper and examining it. “Simonetta Toledano from the ONR. She’s an assistant director, so this comes from the top. She wouldn’t sign it without Director Goldblum’s okay.”

“The chaps at ONR are presumably aware of the Republic’s shoot-on-sight policy regarding dark pigmentation?” asked Hart. Like most real soldiers, he disdained the use of politically correct terminology.

“Of course,” replied Mona.

“Then Brandon is quite right,” replied the Colonel in his imperturbable Empire Club manner. “This has to be deliberate. Someone in Burlington wants Ms. Martine killed by Northmen, almost certainly in public when she tries to stretch out her hand in peace and good will, all that rot.”

“Why?” asked Hornbuckle from across the room.

“Who knows?” replied Blackwell with a shrug. “I can’t say I’m surprised. Nobody seems able to figure out why they sent a black woman on this assignment at all, other than to provoke the fascists into doing something violent.”

“They’re racists, not fascists,” said Mona absently, looking at the paper in her hand and trying to think. “Not necessarily the same thing.”

“Whatever,” said Brandon with a shrug. “Maybe she’s just a sacrificial lamb of some kind. Maybe she got inconvenient for somebody back in Burlington and they put this asinine constructive engagement idea in her head so she’d stick her head in the lion’s mouth and get it bitten off. Having the goots do it would give whoever it is plenty of plausible deniability.” He carefully avoided looking at Hart, since he wasn’t sure he understood why the Brit was along, either. “The question is, what do we do about it?” He looked pointedly at Mona.

“Uh, we don’t have any secret orders to whack Gabi, do we?” asked Agent Hornbuckle. He understood that any such orders would have been given to Mona and not to him.

“We do not,” said Mona firmly. “So far as I know, we really are here to protect her as well as assess the security and intelligence situation.”

“Maybe somebody in Burlington is setting us up as well,” said Hornbuckle with a frown. “A couple of FBI agents who die defending a woman of color from Nazi murderers would be great propaganda.”

“If it were twenty-eight years ago and Hunter Wallace were still in power, I’d agree with you,” said Mona thoughtfully. “I hear he tried something similar once with his own CIA director. But it’s not. To the best of my knowledge, the government is quite serious about the constructive engagement thing. I think they want to make sure the Northwesters don’t help themselves to any more land in North America when the major urban upheavals begin and the mass migrations from the city overwhelm much of what’s left of the American infrastructure.”

“So what do we do?” asked Blackwell again.

“Can you hide this document somewhere she can’t get hold of it, until I can make some calls?” asked Mona.

“Sure, but she’s going to get an email notification as well,” replied Blackwell. “She may already know about it.”

“You’ve got her password, don’t you?” asked Mona. “Can’t you get into her account and delete it?”

“I can try,” said Blackwell. “Let me use that laptop.” He sat down and in about thirty seconds he was into Gabrielle Martine’s email folder. “Crap!” he exclaimed. “She’s already opened it! She’s probably heading for the office now to get the hard copy off the printer!”

“Okay, give it to her,” said Mona with a sigh. “Tell her you were on your way to find her, but don’t mention you stopped here first. We’ll have to stall her while I make those calls to Burlington. We need to think up some kind of make-work for her to occupy herself with for a couple of days while I try to find out what the hell is going on.”

Once she got the travel permit, Gabi wanted to immediately arrange an official visit to the Northwest Republic, joyfully conscious that she would be the first American official ever to do so, and a Womyn of Color at that. Blackwell called in Sheriff Ben Lomax to the ERA office for backup. When he heard what Gabi wanted to do, he pulled his .45 Peacemaker out of the holster and handed it to her. “Tell you what, ma’am, let’s save everybody a lot of time. Take this. Cock the hammer back, then stick the barrel in your mouth, right up against your top palate, and pull the trigger. Yeah, it will make a mess for us to clean up, but this way at least we’ll have a body to ship back to your family in Vermont or wherever. The Northmen will simply leave you out in some canyon for the buzzards.”

“Sheriff, I appreciate your concern, but I really think it’s misplaced,” Gabi told him. “I know that the people in the Northwest racist entity have some very retrograde attitudes toward people of color, but how are we ever to change that if we never even sit down to discuss our differences? I’m not naïve. I don’t expect to be welcomed with open arms, and I expect hostility. This Lieutenant Campbell may well refuse to meet me … ”

“I told you, he already did,” said Lomax. “In no uncertain terms.” He had not thought it politic to repeat Bobby’s Doctor Doolittle remark verbatim.

“Then if he won’t come to me, I will have to go to him,” explained Gabi patiently. “Yes, he may refuse to see me even when I go right up and knock on his door. I’m prepared for that. I know he has to follow his superiors’ orders and his government’s official policies, just like I do. I’m not asking him to sign a treaty or negotiate any kind of agreement, even an unofficial one. But that may come one day if people of good will on both sides of this terrible and artificial border can at least start treating one another like human beings. Is this Campbell fellow really so unrealistic? After all, he’s willing to meet with you to resolve mutual problems, as you recently proved. Is he really so bigoted or restricted by his upbringing that he won’t even meet with me at all or exchange a civil word?”

“Jesus Christ!” whispered Lomax, staring at her in amazement. “You really don’t know, do you?” He looked at Blackwell. “How is this possible?” Blackwell just shrugged. Lomax turned back to Gabi. 

“Let me spell this out for you, ma’am. I live here. You do not. I know these men from a lifetime of living beside them. You do not. This Northwest Civil Guard officer met with me, reluctantly, because I am white. It is not something either of us want to make a habit of. Campbell will not meet with you, not under any circumstances, nor will any of them ever address a word to you, civil or otherwise, because you are not white. You are black, and in their eyes you are an animal. They will not treat you like a human being, not ever. What part about they will shoot you dead is it that you do not understand? If you set foot across that road into their country, you will not stand a chance with those men, nor will anyone who goes with you. If you must commit suicide in this bizarre manner, please don’t take anybody else with you. Your FBI agents are almost as badly hated as you are Over There, I’m sure your English mercenary friend has better sense, and nobody local here will go with you, not even crazy bitter-ender coots like Elwood Tolliver.”

Gabi sat there stupefied at his outburst. Never before in her life had a white person ever spoken to her like this. The rules in America were clear: black and brown people alone could speak of race. Whites were allowed only to maintain a respectful silence, and then agree. Lomax had some hope he might finally have gotten through to her, and he decided to quit while he was ahead. He stood up and addressed Brandon Blackwell. “When she’s gone, who takes over the ERA mission?” he asked. “You?”

“Not senior enough,” said Blackwell. “They’ll have to send somebody else out from Burlington.”

“If you can’t talk her out of it, go ahead and make the call,” said Lomax. “This town still needs all that money and all those jobs. I think between myself and the other local community leaders we can convince the Northmen this wasn’t anything we had a hand in. Just some crazy black lady trying to prove some kind of point nobody will ever understand.” Lomax considered saying “nigger” but decided against it; the hatespeech laws were still on the books even if they were never enforced any longer, so no sense in completely wrong-footing himself.  He turned and stalked out the door.

“Well, Gabi?” said Blackwell. “Should I make the call?”

“He’s talking bullshit! The kind of virulent knee-jerk racism he’s describing hasn’t existed in this country for two hundred years!” she protested feebly.

“Over The Road is not this country any more, Gabi, and the kind of white men who live there haven’t existed for two hundred years, either,” Blackwell told her. “Extinct Tasmanian tigers aren’t the only species the Northwest Republic has brought back from the dead.”

* * *

          Everyone thought they had talked Gabrielle Martine down from the ledge, but they were wrong. The more Gabi brooded over it all, the angrier and more stubborn and sullen she became. How dare they? Brandon, Lomax, the Northwest racists, they were all white, so how dare they tell her what to do? That wasn’t supposed to happen. Did they not realize that she had come a long way, baby, that she was Moving On Up? The very idea that there was any place on earth reserved for white people and white people alone, someplace where she was not allowed to show her black face, began to obsess her even more than was usual with the “African-American managerial class,” one of the many euphemisms used for several generations to describe the small handful of negroes who through some genetic quirk and generous dollops of affirmative action and preferential treatment, were of sufficient intelligence to be trainable to function on a nearly-white level. 

Her whole attitude was a complete anachronism that had nothing to do with anything in the real world as it had existed for the past forty years, but it was by no means uncommon. Like many of her kind, and indeed like most of the American ruling élite, Gabi Martine was like a fly stuck in amber. In the Twilight Zone through which most of the shell-shocked American governing class staggered, the Northwest American Republic did not exist. 

It could not exist. It was unthinkable, and whatever kind of tortuous doublethink that was required to work around the fact that the NAR did exist was embraced and practiced without hesitation. America consisted of fifty states, from sea to shining sea. It was all one, yet diverse (e pluribus unum). The President of the United States was the Leader of the Free World and the most powerful leader on the planet, even the one who had been stabbed through the eye with a pencil in the Oval Office just before he was about to destroy the continent in a fit of insanity. America’s cities were not festering slums jammed tight with primitive savages about to explode if their EBT cards missed a payment. Oh, no, no, no, not at all. America’s Designated Urban Zones were grand and glorious showcases of multicultural diversity which proved once and for all that all men and women were equal, for sure, for sure. There was no white country in the Pacific Northwest, ripped by force from the benevolent hands of the federal government by undefeated and indomitable armed force and courage. Oh, no, no, no, whatever gave anyone that idea? Such a thing would be an abomination, a paradox, a cosmic contradiction that would tear apart the very fabric of space and time and cause bloody rain and plagues of frogs. It could not be, so it was not.

Although seldom articulated, this was the thinking that had guided and dominated American policy for the past forty years, a manic refusal to accept the reality of what had happened at Longview. It permeated every aspect of American upper class society, where Gabrielle Martine had been raised as a dark child of privilege, she and her kind being required to maintain the all-important fiction of racial equality which was the central premise of all liberalism. She also absorbed and internalized the comforting delusion that Longview, the Seven Weeks’ War, the Northwest space program and planetary colonies, the Northwest cancer cures, the return of the Tasmanian tiger, the imminent implosion of the old America when the non-white cities overflowed their razor wire perimeters and could no longer be contained—none of it was really happening. This was the glorious age when Hillary Clinton received her first presidential nomination from the Democratic convention, to the thunderous cheers and the mindless chanting and dancing of the Macarena. Time had stopped on that night.

It therefore followed that no white racist would ever dare to actually do anything to Gabrielle Martine because her skin was black and she was in the wrong place. That sort of thing simply didn’t happen any more. The idea was absurd. White folks knew better these days, in the United States, and as to these people in the Northwest, they weren’t real. Something one saw on television as stereotype villains. They were some kind of cartoon characters. 

So on the afternoon of September the fifth, brimming with self-confidence and three lunchtime martinis, tired of her FBI bodyguards’ constant argument and refusal to accompany her on a sight-seeing tour of the NAR Border District, Gabi Martine hopped in her long and luxurious government-issue Lexus Model Twelve and rolled westward down Second Avenue, out of Boulder. She crossed under the Interstate Fifteen underpass where she noted the special trailer by the side of the road without realizing what it was. Since there was no formal border post, nor even a sign or a line painted on the asphalt, it took her a moment or two to realize that she was now in the racist entity itself. The GPS in her vehicle was not programmed to direct her to Basin, since such programming would have required an admission that Basin and the Northwest American Republic existed. But Gabi had a copy of an old map donated by the Jefferson County commissioners hanging on the wall of the office in the hotel, and she had memorized the route, so she barreled down what was still known as Old Depot Hill Road heading for her appointment with destiny. Imagine, the McCurtain finally breached by an African-American Womyn! She could see the opening credits of the movie that would be made about her rolling in her head as she drove.

It had never occurred to Agent Mona James that her ostensible boss would actually be so stupid as to simply get in a car and drive across the border on her own—what black person possibly could be so brainless?—but as a precaution Mona had tapped into the GPS trackers on all four staff vehicles and programmed them to send her an alarm on her phone if one of them crossed the interstate. She had just finished an afternoon quickie with Colonel Hart when her phone bleeped. She reached over, grabbed the phone from the nightstand, and swore. “Fuck! That crazy woman has crossed into the Exclusion Zone!”

“Gone walkabout, has she?” said Hart, sitting up and pulling on his underwear. “Well, that’s going to be a sticky wicket. I suppose they really will kill her? Yes, of course they will. What do you plan to do about it?”

“I don’t know what the hell I can do about it!” she snarled, leaping up and pulling on her clothes. “I can’t go after her, because I’m almost as dark as she is. None of the locals will. You and Hornbuckle could try.”

“Hornbuckle is an FBI agent, who is also therefore on these barbarians’ shoot-on-sight list, white or not. I am an officer in the United States Army, or rather one of its subcontracting components. None of us, including you, is supposed to even be this close to the border. If any of us is killed or captured on their side of the Road, then there will be a barney almost as big as Madam Gabrielle getting it will cause. You’re sure Burlington really wants to set up this industrial and economic zone here?”

“Yes, again, to the best of my knowledge,” said Mona.

“Obviously somebody back there in maple syrup country doesn’t want that to happen,” said Hart crisply, buttoning his tunic and settling his beret jauntily on his head. “Hence the fact that this delegation has been led by a black nanny with cobblers for brains, whom the people who sent her had to know would do something exactly like this and get herself done in, thus causing enough hanna-hanna to scuttle the project. Who would want that?”

“The ONR itself was never happy with the idea,” said Mona. “The current director, Goldblum, is a Jew and he gets apoplectic at anything even remotely suggesting normalization of relations. The ONR as a whole was enraged when they got demoted down from full cabinet status at the time of the move to Burlington, and they’ve been trying to get back up there ever since.”

“I suspect that was because the American government was finally forced to admit that the Northwest isn’t going to be recovered, and one doesn’t need a full cabinet ministry to go through the empty motions and keep up appearances,” commented Hart dryly. “At any rate, I think we can assume Gabi has gone the way of all dusky flesh west of here, or she’s about to. What are you going to do? Go back to Burlington? I need at least a few more days here.”

“Speaking of going through the motions, we need to at least look like we’re doing so,” replied Mona. She looked in the mirror to pin on her earrings, then  flipped open her phone. “Hello, may I speak with Sheriff Lomax, please? Agent Mona James. I need to speak to him right away. We have a problem.”

Ten minutes later, while Mona, Hart, and Brandon Blackwell were in Lomax’s office listening to the sheriff rant and curse, Gabi roared by a Northwest pickup truck going the other way coming out of Basin. In the truck were Basin town manager Leland Hauser and his wife. “That was an American car we just passed,” said Hauser.

“How do you know?” asked Mrs. Hauser.

“It had license plates on it. We gave those up forty years ago,” replied Hauser. “I could have sworn there was a female nigger driving it.”

“Yeah, right,” said his wife. “If you won’t get corrective surgery, Lee, will you at least wear your glasses? Looks like you need ‘em.”

It  was right at four o’clock in the afternoon when Gabrielle Martine pulled up in front of the Civil Guard station on Basin’s one major street, appropriately enough called Main Street. She got out of the car and looked up at the flagpole on top of the old fire station, flying the Northwest Tricolor and the green and white Civil Guard flag beneath it. She was thrilled with a sense of history, history of her own making. 

There was no one on the street; Basin was a tiny place, and it was a work day. Across the street and down a ways George Bassett, the bartender at the Four Deuces, opened the front doors of his establishment and hooked them back, leaving the traditional bat-wing doors swinging freely. He walked out with a push-broom to give the boardwalk a brush-down, then looked up and saw what appeared to be a tall black woman wearing an American-style business suit and skirt, standing in high heels in front of the Guard station. The suit was almost as unusual as the woman’s skin color. Northwest women in this part of Montana wore the same long skirts and calico blouses and practical hats, bonnets, and boots as their great-great-grandmothers had worn, although the material was better and lighter. When they were riding or working they wore the same jeans and plaid shirts as men; the Ministry of Culture had long recognized that sartorial and fashion manipulation had limits. Bassett had only seen a woman in high heels on a few prior occasions; they weren’t really infra dig for the mountains of Montana.

He stared for a moment, then pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed 999. “Civil Guard, Sergeant Boardman speaking,” came the desk sergeant’s voice.

“Hey, Joe. This is George. I’m out in front of the Deuces opening up. You got a nigger outside your station.”

“Huh?” replied Sergeant Boardman.

“There’s a big car with American plates parked outside your station, and there’s a she-boon dressed like some kind of department-store dummy from Jew York at your door,” said George. “Now she’s coming inside.”

Sergeant Joseph Boardman looked up and saw an elegant black woman striding confidently up to the duty desk. “Good afternoon, Sergeant,” she said, flashing him a smile from huge white teeth. “Is Lieutenant Campbell in? I’d like to see him if he has a moment.”

Boardman put down the phone and began to laugh, and then laugh uproariously. He wasn’t sure who would be pulling a stunt like this or what it was in aid of. Presumably someone in the Guard pulling the leg of the new station boss. Maybe that Colonel from Missoula who was the Lieutenant’s father, or some of his buddies with a sense of humor. Whoever it was, it was a great makeup job. Probably an actress from one of the movie or TV outfits; they could make up a white person so you’d swear he or she was black as the ace of spades, and the camera would make you believe it. “Sure, I’ll call him!” the desk sergeant said, gasping with laughter. He picked up the phone and called up to Bobby’s office. “Hey, Lieutenant, there’s someone down here to see you!”

“Who?” asked Bobby upstairs.

Boardman could no longer resist. He started ooking and eeking and making monkey noises into the telephone, jumping up and down in his seat screaming like a chimpanzee. Gabi stared at him, not quite quick enough on the uptake to realize that the sergeant was describing her. Upstairs, Bobby stared at the phone in his hand with the monkey yells coming from it. “Boardman, are you drunk?” he snapped. He put down the phone and hurried downstairs. 

When he entered the lobby he took one look at Gabi Martine, who was still staring at the sergeant-turned chimp, and he understood what had happened. “GOD DAMN!” he roared. He leaped forward and as Gabi was turning toward him, before she could say a word, he grabbed her by her lacquered hair, pulled her off her feet, and slammed her face into the wall twice, hard, breaking several of her teeth and leaving smears of blood and mascara on the wall. He dragged her screaming and terrified down a small corridor, opened a maintenance closet, and threw her inside very hard. She went down with a crash of mop buckets and shelves. Bobby slammed the door and leaned over into the stairwell. “Sweeney!”

The corporal stuck his head over the balustrade. “Sir?
“Go to my desk, top right hand drawer, get my gun and bring it down here!” Sweeney’s face disappeared. 

Sergeant Boardman appeared at his side. “Sir, that—that was an actual nigger? For real?”

“Yes, it’s a real nigger!” shouted Bobby. “What the hell were you thinking, making a damned fool out of yourself?”

“I thought it was some kind of joke, sir,” protested Boardman. “How the hell was I supposed to know? I’ve never seen one before, not a real one!”

“Couldn’t you smell the damned thing under all that perfume?” Bobby heard moans and movement inside the closet. He went to the duty desk and pulled a long, heavy nightstick out from behind it. It was the only weapon the Basin Civil Guard ever actually used, and that only on rare occasions, to get the attention of rambunctious drunks who were too fuddled to understand what was being said to them. He walked back to the closet door just as it opened. He saw a bleeding black face looming in the darkness and he lashed at it savagely with the nightstick; it screamed and the door slammed shut again. Sweeney appeared breathlessly and handed Bobby his service pistol, a nine-millimeter chemical cartridge gun since smaller Guard detachments hadn’t been issued the new Wilkerson kinetic discharge plate weapons yet. “Oh, I got this phone off your desk as well, sir,” said the corporal. “It was ringing.”

Bobby looked at it and saw a missed call. “Yeah, I imagine it was,” he said. “That’s the hotline phone. Wonder what Sheriff Lomax wants to talk about?” He stood there with his two fellow officers staring at him for ten seconds. His legal and constitutional duty regarding the contamination was clear, but he went ahead and called Lomax back anyway, on the wild off-chance that there was some reasonable explanation. “Sheriff? Lieutenant Robert Campbell here.”

“Thank you for returning my call, Lieutenant,” said Lomax formally. “I’m afraid we have a problem.”

“I’m aware of the problem, yes. Some of your livestock broke out of the pen. I’ve got the animal contained in our broom closet as we speak.”

“Oh, Jesus!” muttered Lomax. “Is she alive?”

“Not for long.”

“What happened? Did you find her out on the road somewhere?”

“No, she walked right into the police station and asked for me,” said Bobby. “Is she on drugs, or is she just so bird-brained stupid she doesn’t know who or what she is, where she is, or who we are?”

“I don’t know about the drugs, but as to the rest, yeah, that pretty much says it all,” said Lomax with a sigh. “Look, Lieutenant, I have some government people here with me, who expect me to speak some razzle-dazzle or pull some magic beans out of my pocket and make everything all right. I have tried to explain to them that I have no such magic beans, and that there exists something called the real world, but I’m not sure they get it any more than that pathetic creature in your broom closet does. One of them is making signs that he wants to talk to you.”

“This is a human being we’re talking about, right?” asked Bobby.

“Yes, he’s white. Here he is.” 

A new voice came on the phone. “Hello, my name is Brandon Blackwell. Who am I speaking with?” 

“This is Lieutenant Robert Campbell of the Northwest Civil Guard,” said Bobby. There was a short but perceptible pause. 

“You’re the police officer who’s married to Allura Myers, the lady known in your country as the Daughter of the Nation?” he asked, to Bobby’s surprise.

“I’m used to my wife’s fame preceding me in this country, but I was unaware we were known Out There,” said Bobby. “Not sure I like the idea.”

“Nothing sinister intended, Lieutenant, just a routine intelligence workup as part of our assignment,” said Blackwell.

“Yeah, well, fair enough. I know who you are as well. You’re this monkoid’s white minder, right?” 

“My official title is Ms. Martine’s personal assistant, but yes, something like that. Sheriff Lomax had you on speaker, so I understand you have Gabrielle locked in a broom closet?”

“We don’t need locks on our broom closets in this country, because absent niggers and Mexicans, who’s going to steal janitorial supplies?” asked Bobby. “I have her in the closet, though, and I banged her nappy head a few times to settle her down.”

“Are you going to kill her?” asked Blackwell bluntly.

“I’m required to do so by the Constitution,” said Bobby. “Section One, Article Four, if memory serves.”

“Yes, well, the letter of the law can be a bitch sometimes, I know, but Lieutenant, before you proceed, I’d just like to offer this for your consideration. You are not the only one who is puzzled and disturbed that Gabrielle was chosen to head a mission of this sensitivity. She is singularly unqualified for it. In fact, you might say she was almost guaranteed to make a dog’s dinner of it.”

“So who chose her, and why?”

“The who I’m honestly not sure of,” Blackwell told him. “The why is I think because of the very reason that she is unqualified and so virtually certain to make a mess of things.” 

Behind the closet door, Gabi seemed to have recovered enough to realize she was being talked about on the phone. She began to pound on the door and scream incoherently to be released, with many muthafukkas. As with most of her kind, her quasi-white conditioning didn’t hold up well under stress, and her diction was the first to go. “Go get some pepper spray,” Bobby ordered Boardman. “Okay, so your government is run by idiots. We know this. Why should this cause me to be derelict in my duty to enforce the primary law of this country’s very existence?”

“Unfortunately, my government is not only run by idiots, Lieutenant,” said Blackwell. “It is run by some very nasty people who wish your country harm, some of whom don’t want this Community Prosperity Zone set up anywhere near you, when there might arise some genuine constructive engagement between people of the same race.” Boardman returned with a red canister. Bobby gestured towards the door. The sergeant shoved it open, leaned in, and let fly with a long squirt from the mouth of the can. Gabi Martine’s muthafukkas turned to screams. “After all, we might discover that neither of us are born with horns and pointed tails,” Blackwell went on. He could surely hear Gabi’s howls in the background, but he ignored them. “There are always those who profit by keeping hatred and mistrust alive, Lieutenant. I assume that they are responsible for this ghastly cock-up of sending Gabi out here, knowing full well that something like this would happen. Somebody wants you to kill her, Lieutenant, as part of some bizarre scheme or intrigue that might lead to something a lot worse than the death of one bureaucrat, or one monkoid if you prefer. I won’t quibble over terms. But you might want to think it through before playing into their hands.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll take it under advisement,” said Bobby. He closed the phone. He stared intently at the noisy door for a long moment. “Hell’s bells. All right, I will take responsibility for this. It’s a unique situation and I don’t like diving in until I know how deep it is. Sweeney, go get the paddy wagon and bring it around front.”

Thirty minutes later a green Civil Guard van rolled down Second Avenue toward Boulder, and pulled up beneath the old interstate underpass. Sheriff Ben Lomax and a washed-out looking middle-aged white man in a rumpled suit whom Bobby took to be Brandon Blackwell were waiting on the American side of the old trailer, a squad car with flashing lights behind them. Lieutenant Robert Campbell  and Corporal Mike Sweeney, both wearing sidearms just in case, got out of the van. Sweeney unlocked the rear doors, Bobby reached in and dragged a wailing and gibbering Gabrielle Martine out of the back, her hands cuffed behind her with a plastic tie. Her face was battered and still weeping from fear and the pepper spray, her Power Womyn suit was a bloody mess, and she had urinated and defecated on herself. He hauled her forward to the approximate location of the borderline between the two countries, shoved her forward at the waist, and with a mighty kick to her black buttocks launched her back into the United States. 

Bobby pointed his finger at the two Americans. “This only happens once, got that?” he told them in a steely voice. “The next time I find anything black or brown in my district I’m dressing it out like a deer, taking it out to the Forestry Service breeding and research station in Rimini, and feeding it to the thylacines!”

“What about the car she came in?” asked Brandon Blackwell mildly.

“We’re keeping that as a fine for trespassing and idiocy,” said Bobby. “I think Johnny Selkirk will buy it off us. He can soup it up and use it for his smuggling trips.”

          “Fair enough,” said Blackwell with a shrug.