More From A Distant Thunder
[Part two of the second chapter of the Northwest independence novel A Distant Thunder, wherein a very old veteran of the NVA talks about his experiences before and during the Northwest War of Independence. - HAC]
The little girl from the university tells me the purpose of me sitting here maundering into the videocam is to preserve all this clutter for posterity, and also so future historians can listen to me and from my babbled fragments reconstruct the reason for The Awakening, as they’re starting to call it. Yeah, I guess it’s a pretty interesting question, if you think about it. For almost three generations the white race ate every serving of shit that ZOG chose to dollop out to us, grinning like egg-suck dogs while we scarfed it all down and licked the plate.
So what changed? Just why, exactly, during the early decades of the twenty-first century did the white man finally decide to fight, at the eleventh hour and the fifty-ninth minute and the fifty-ninth second? What made the white man finally get up off his ass and pick up a gun after a lifetime of allowing the Federal government of the United States to do pretty much any damned thing it wanted to do?
Hell if I know.
I keep getting asked that all the time. I think some of us even talked about it among ourselves back then, to while away the hours on the bounce. Can’t really remember what we ever decided, if anything. Young people look at me like I have the key to some great secret. If I knew it I’d share it with you, believe me. It’s sure something we need. Whatever the hell it was, our race didn’t stumble across it until it was almost too damned late. But really, I don’t know. When you live through something, it doesn’t necessarily mean that you understand every little thing about it.
I’ll tell you this much: I don’t remember the war as being this big long heroic adventure that our NBA films and books and documentaries portray, that’s for sure. You want to know the truth of the matter, it wasn’t a very pleasant experience. War isn’t. Long periods of paranoid and nervous boredom broken by brief outbursts of madness and horror. But as to why white people finally revolted? The best I can tell you is that there wasn’t any one reason, it was a whole combination of things that just happened to fall into place just right. Or wrong.
You can only push people so far. At some point, there was just some final straw that broke the camel’s back, and thanks to the Party and the Incomers, the white racial settlers from around the continent who came to the Northwest, we were able to reach critical mass and blow. But precisely what that ultimate straw was, I haven’t got a clue. Didn’t then, don’t now.
Life is so utterly and completely different now that it passes comprehension. I don’t think anyone who’s not of my generation can really imagine what it was like back then. Sometimes I sit here and I look at my grandchildren and I see the calm and safe, all-white world of peace and plenty they live in, this beautiful town of mine and this land of ours, and I swear I think I dreamed it all or imagined it, that my childhood and my young manhood was some kind of nightmare I had and then I finally woke up in the world as it should be.
The main difference is that life is good now for most people. A white child has a chance now, a chance to be a child without fear and worry. A child can ride a bike and play down at the creek and walk home from school without any risk of being kidnapped and buggered and chopped into pieces by a pervert. A child has a chance to grow into a young man or a woman instead of a—well, what we were then, a kind of half-insane consumer zombie. People in the Republic are happy, mostly. Or at least you have a proper chance to be happy in the Republic, which we never had when I was young. Hell, when you don’t have to look at niggers every day and you don’t have to hear Spanish and Tagalog and Muckety-Muck being gibbered everywhere, you’re halfway to bliss already. And for those who feel the ancient restlessness and who want the sight of strange new things and the feel of strange new places under their feet, as is natural with our Folk, there are the very planets above us, or the scientific laboratories where Aryans are unlocking the secrets of the universe even as we speak. Whatever a white man or woman wants to be, now they can be.
But how can I describe to you what it was like when nobody was happy at all? It’s like that bit I mentioned yesterday about every other person you saw on the street being fat? You can’t really believe that, can you? When was the last time you actually saw a grossly overweight person in your time here in the Republic? Our national diet doesn’t include all that garbage people used to eat under ZOG. Junk food, junk politics, and a junk life.
The Northwest American Republic doesn’t poison its own people to make money. That fact alone should give you a shrewd idea of one big difference between now and then. We don’t do much of anything here solely for the purpose of making money, which is something completely unimaginable in the world into which I was born. That Jewess Ayn Rand got her books burned right alongside the Marxism and the pornography.
In cases where people have bona fide thyroid conditions, we now have a simple enzyme therapy that soups up your metabolism and in a couple of months you’re running marathons. That’s just one example of a social problem that existed before the revolution, and which is now completely gone. There were about a hundred other little pissant things we had to put up with then that don’t exist any more, from traffic jams to air pollution to functional illiteracy to foul-mouthed children talking like niggers.
Nowadays only dirty old coots like me do that. I apologize for my language, young lady, and I know such words aren’t used in polite society any more, and so they shouldn’t be. But if you want me to go back to that time then you’re going to get all of it, and one truth about those times was that the American dialect of the English language had become negrified or ebonicized or whatever the hell you want to call it.
We all talked like whiggers back then. We didn’t know any better. Hey, we heard blacks talking like that all the time on TV, and whatever was on TV must be right, eh? Polite or not, I’m sure you’ve heard it before from your older relatives. I once heard someone say we have the only society in the world where it’s the grandmothers who shock and embarrass their granddaughters at the dinner table.
Even now, I bet you half-disbelieve me or think I’m exaggerating, right? There never really was any such thing as fat people, and this old fool is making all this up, right? That’s okay, ma’am. Disbelief is human nature and in this case it’s a sign of healthy racial instincts. Christ, honey, do you have any idea how lucky you are not to have known any of this? How lucky you are that you don’t know? How lucky you are that you can disbelieve?
We did it all for you, you know.
The main thing I suppose that stands out in my mind about life in them United States was that everybody was miserable. Wretchedly, bitterly, soul-destroyingly unhappy. I think every white person alive in the year 2000 understood instinctively that something was terribly wrong with the world, even if they didn’t know what. My own childhood was pretty crappy, but it was by no means atypical, and in fact it was actually better than some. My parents were drunks but they didn’t divorce, they neglected me but they never burned my fingers on the stove or beat me black and blue when I was a child, and I always had enough innate good sense not to pick up their bottle and to stay away from drugs. I wasn’t born with HIV or addicted to crack cocaine because my mother was a junkie, and I wasn’t abducted and murdered and left in a ditch.
As horrifying as it sounds, in many respects my family was emotionally and socially quite typical. Everybody was dysfunctional. There was no “normal” left. From the richest kids on down to trailer trash like me, we lived our lives all doped up, dumbed down, zoned out, pregnant, half insane with rage all the time, confused, hostile, paranoid, dishonest, vicious and mean and looking out for nobody but Number One.
Everybody had problems, terrible problems that poisoned our very existence, and we were all being eaten alive inside like we’d swallowed acid. Life in the United States was a nightmare from which we were all desperately trying to awaken, but we never could. Nobody ever got a chance to stop and smell the roses. There weren’t any roses left any more to smell, anyway.
There was a weird kind of reverse Midas touch in operation throughout the world: everything America touched turned to shit. We were all too busy scrambling and scrabbling and scrimping for small sums of money to pay a hundred little pissant bills. Drivers used to go insane and murder one another over minor traffic mishaps. It was called road rage. Happened all the time. You know what happens when you keep too many rats in too small a cage, ma’am? They start attacking and eating one another. That was America at the beginning of the 21st century.
The majority of white marriages ended in divorce. At least a third of all young white men and women of marriageable age lived alone, because they couldn’t stand one another. Feminism taught women to hate men, and the men returned the favor. How can you marry and love someone you’ve been taught all your life to view as an enemy and a competitor?
A whole generation of white children grew up as latch-key kids, dumped in a day care center or a school every morning before Mommy and Daddy or the single parent of the household went to work. The kids came home to an empty house and the boob tube, sometimes with a TV dinner sitting in the oven. More than any nigger gun or knife, more than any needle of heroin or line of coke, more than any perversion of thought practiced by the Jews upon our minds, this so-called liberation of women destroyed two generations of us. When a race of people loses its women, it loses everything.
Oh, it wasn’t all bad. Nothing ever is. Sure, there was laughter, but it was a mechanical laugh track from TV. It was the shrill, forced laughter of people who were on the edge of the abyss and just barely coping, who knew they had to laugh at least a little to stay sane.
There were good times in the old America I knew, but they all involved either deadening your brain with drink or drugs or television, or withdrawing into some fantasy world on the computer every night, or else doing stupid, dangerous, pointless things for an adrenalin rush, like bungee jumping or rock climbing or leaping out of airplanes and skateboarding down on a parachute. The good times had a kind of brittle, hysterical edge to them, a conscious effort to escape from a world that everyone knew in their hearts had turned to purest dog doo.
Right, getting back on track, how the hell do I explain to someone who never knew it what life was like under Zion?
The first thing you have to understand is that in those days the United States was a society driven by one thing and one thing only, money. Christians call it the worship of Mammon. I have my own thoughts about God, but I will tell you this much: the only god America worshipped in the days of my youth was Mammon, gold ringing in the till so to speak. It wasn’t real gold and silver like we use today, but numbers on a computer spread sheet. They called it the bottom line and the bottom line ruled every aspect of our existence.
Everything was completely and utterly material, and if you tried to suggest there might be something more in life than chasing the almighty dollar you were looked at like you were a lunatic. I remember seeing these little computer-printed signs on office walls about how “Life is a game, and the one who dies with the most toys wins.” There were people who actually believed that. I guess they thought that if they could only live long enough, science would find some way for them to take all their money and silly little toys with them.
Seriously, I think that’s what they were trying for. One of the big things you always heard about on the news in them days was various types of genetic and medical research into the possibility of immortality. By the time I hit my own teenaged years, the first wave of post-World War Two Baby Boomers were finally being carted off to the cemeteries and the fogey farms, and let me tell you, they did not go gentle into that good night.
Those Baby Boomers fought and scratched and kicked and screamed every inch of the way, absolutely refusing to admit that their generation was finally getting old. One of the biggest growth industries in them days was plastic surgery, botox injections, hormone treatments, every baldness cure you can think of, anything that might halt or reverse the Baby Boomers’ aging process.
When I reached my own codgerdom I came to understand how they felt. Hell, no one wants to grow old, but dammit, you should at least try and be a man about it. There was always something desperate and pathetic about it in those days, all those hippy-dippy flower children from the 1960s scrambling and clawing to fight off the fact that their time was over now, and they’d pretty much all done what they come here to do. It lacked dignity, and sometimes dignity is all an old coot or old crone has left in life.
And if you work it right, that’s enough. Well, you wanted stream of consciousness. Remembering all those hippy-dippy assholes trying to stay young or at least middle-aged was one of the first things to float to the surface in my particular stream.
Money, money, money, it was all about money. Some asshole was always screaming at you demanding it, and no one ever had enough of it. Everybody except the very top echelon of truly wealthy people was always broke and up to their chins in bills and damned near insoluble financial problems. Mortgage, rent, credit card debt, car payments and repairs, sky-high utility bills, the astronomical cost of food and clothing if you were trying to raise a family.
And God help you if you or a member of your family got sick. Today in the Northwest Republic, the very thought of the medical vocation charging money to save people’s lives and make sick little children well is held in revulsion. Free medical care is held to be a right in the Republic’s Constitution right on up there with freedom of speech and religion and the right to keep and bear arms. But in those days a sick child or a heart attack would wipe out a lifetime’s hard work in a few months and destroy the future of an entire family.
America had three rules back then: don’t be poor, don’t be sick, and for God’s sake, don’t get old. I don’t exactly cotton to being ninety-one years of age, but at least I’m ninety-one here in the Republic. The thought of being old in the United States chills my blood to this day.
I wouldn’t have made it this far, actually, if we’d stayed with ZOG. The state would have dragged me away to the fogey farm under the Senior Citizens’ Quality of Life act, which basically gave the government the power to throw old people away once their insurance ran out, and some Third World quack would have given me the hot shot long ago, like that kike Friedman murdered my Dad.
The average life span of old folks locked up in those fogey farms was less than six months, especially the ones that were “privatized” as they called it back then, farmed out to entrepeneurs wearing turbans or yarmulkes. If I wasn’t legally euthanized I would have died of neglect or been poisoned or beaten to death by my Filipino and Nigerian “caregivers.” Elderly white people who had no money or whose insurance ran out, and that was most of ‘em, got the short end of the stick like you wouldn’t believe.
Social Security finally went down the tubes when I was—twelve? Thirteen? Can’t remember—but even before Social Security went, there were old white people in America who lived on dog food, at least at the end of the month before their checks arrived. Once Social Security was gone, life for old people was a horror beyond comprehension. If you had no children who were able or willing to take care of you, then the only alternative was one of those fogey farms run by the state if you were lucky and run by a turban or a yarmulke if you weren’t. Then came the hot shot.
Oh, there were a few of those hellholes run by “faith-based initiatives,” which was part of a complex system wherein tax money was funneled to the religious right in exchange for pro-Zionist bloc voting to keep the neo-cons in power and keep the endless war in the Middle East going.
I remember seeing busloads of old people being driven up to the polls in Dundee and marched in, with their preacher handing them their ballots at the door and a nice young deacon to escort each of them in and make sure they pulled the right levers. What were neo-cons? It means neo-conservatives. They were Jews who pretended to be conservatives. We eventually managed to track them all down and kill them. Anyway, at those “faith-based” fogey farms they made you jump for Jeeee-zus twice a week, as opposed to Jesus, in exchange for your bed in some crowded dormitory of sick and dying and half-insane old people.
But I’ll say this, they at least kept you alive so you could vote, and indeed you’d most likely vote a few times after you croaked, too. No, not Jesus, Jeeee-zus. What’s the difference? Jesus is the son of God, Jeeee-zus was who the tub-thumping fools in some of the churches jumped for. Long story, don’t worry, I’ll ramble over in that direction eventually, when I talk about the Wingfields. They were into Jesus, not Jeeee-zus. But that’s really how you want to end your days, eh? In a warehouse for geezers. Several years before the revolution an epidemic of suicide among the elderly broke out. Tens of thousands of old people every year killed themselves with gas or pills or hanging or any guns they’d managed to save from Schumer Act confiscation.
A lot of times it would happen when the cops or the IRS came to drag some poor old man or woman or couple out of their foreclosed home and take them to the fogey farm. The police would break in and find ‘em dead. There’d be some horrible story like that on the evening news nearly every day, back when I was growing up. That’s one thing I remember from my childhood. You always heard about old white people killing themselves.
Of course, life wasn’t exactly a breeze for young people either, if you had a white skin. Leastways if you had a white skin and you liked girls.
When I say that it was all about money, you understand I’m not referring to the consumer society of the late twentieth century. Three cars in the garage, split-level ranch home with a swimming pool in the back, two-hundred dollar tennis shoes named after some niggerball player, a closet full of clothes and a room full of computer toys, conspicuous consumption, the whole Brady Bunch scene—by the time I was coming along these things didn’t exist any more, except for a tiny minority of very rich people who lived in what were called gated communities, meaning fortified compounds with fences, armed guards and dog teams to keep the poor people of any race out.
The American kids I knew when I was growing up were all poor and wretched, because none of the rich kids went to public schools. They had their own private schools that cost more for a semester than my father made in a year. We all knew about the great American consumer lifestyle, of course, because we saw it every night on TV, but that was the only place it existed. On TV.
The fact was that during the first couple of decades of the twenty-first century, nobody had any money for all those fancy consumer goods and toys, except what you bought on your twenty-nine percent interest credit cards. In the latter part of the twentieth century you could actually do a Chapter Seven and get out of the cards, but then along came “bankruptcy reform” which was pushed by the banks and credit card companies, with a cute little sub-clause that allowed for “debt inheritance” so you couldn’t even really get out of that crushing debt by kicking the bucket. All of a sudden not only you but your children and your grandchildren were saddled with paying for that sport utility vehicle at twenty-nine per cent, for life.
The loansharks would load you up with credit cards by the time you were twenty-one, and then you spent the rest of your life in a kind of financial slavery paying the cards and their outrageous interest. If you were a guy, of course, there was the crushing alimony and child support from your first marriage. Everybody had a first or starter marriage in those days, and the way the courts were completely slanted against men, that was another form of financial slavery you could expect to last twenty or thirty years.
Basically, a white male lived his entire life paying bills, and as the years went by and ZOG became more and more confused and incompetent and greedy, they became harder and harder to pay. The economic power structure thought maybe ten minutes ahead, if that. It stands to reason that you can’t expect people to pay credit card bills on the one hand, while you’re shipping their jobs out to India and Malaysia and Guatemala by the millions on the other hand. You would have thought they would have figured that out and worked out some arrangement whereby at least the peons would have jobs to earn the money to pay their debts, but the system never did quite catch on to those little basics. Or maybe they knew it all along and just didn’t care. Maybe they were just evil.
It’s not that there was no work. There is always work to be done, anywhere, but for every unskilled and semi-skilled job there were hordes of Mexicans willing to work like cart horses for chicken feed. When the capitalists found it inconvenient to ship American jobs to the Third World, they brought the Third World here. When I was growing up you could still see a few white men doing manual labor, but by the time I was in high school every road crew, landscape crew, or roofing team was Mexican.
Whole industries became closed to native-born white Americans, as all the local convenience stores and filling station franchises and motels were bought up by Sikhs, Koreans, or Arabs who hired no one but their own relatives just off the jumbo jet. White faces disappeared from behind the counters of stores and the kitchens of restaurants. One job after another, bottom rung employment was closed off to whites, and those of us who didn’t have the skills or usually the money and connections to jump a few rungs never got on the ladder at all.
Since pretty much all the jobs that were available paid nothing but a crappy minimum wage that no white man could live on, never mind support a family on, it followed that no one could make it on just one job. Most people had two or three. It was by no means unusual to know a married couple who had five jobs between them, and that didn’t leave much for the young guys like me coming up on the bottom rung with a couple of strikes against them already.
The ZOG power structure had never really been comfortable with anything that involved white people taking money out of the kitty instead of putting it in. White males were like the peasants of the Middle Ages; our role in society was always to work so that all might eat. But capitalism decided we were too pricey, and so they brought in millions of Third World immigrants to replace us and more or less tried to breed us out of existence.
Gradually, over a period of about fifty years, all the entitlements were chipped away and replaced with things like those big grants to the so-called “faith-based initiatives” I mentioned. In other words, it was still possible for white people of the right politically correct stripe to get their hooks into Federal tax money, all right, but not as something you were entitled to because you’d worked like a dog all your life and paid in. Instead there appeared all kinds of political quid pro quo. The money was doled out in the form of “community grants,” etc. In other words, as bribes for votes and political favors. Politically, America became Chicago writ large. Racially, America became Brazil.
One of the ways I think ZOG might have avoided the revolution is if they’d just not insulted us all the time. If they’d let us retain some kind of sense of dignity, pride, and self-worth. But they just had to rub our noses in it.
Yet to me, and I know to most of my contemporaries, it never felt right. In Dundee itself, I am sorry to say race-mixing was, if not common, at least there. We only had a couple of blacks in town, but there were always illegal Mexicans looking for their La Gordas, white women who were so hugely fat that having a spic marry her to get his green card was the only way she would ever get a man.
The foulest thing of all was the sex education courses. Fortunately by the time it got really bad I was in high school and the system assumed I already knew the whole kama sutra, so all I had to do was collect my weekly condom ration in homeroom, which I then traded to convenience stores for a chili dog or a microwave burrito.