Come Home. Now.
It's a cool 67 at 8 o'clock at night. Another glorious sunset sinks slowly into the Pacific Ocean. I'm eating a phenomenal tuna casserole made with local ingredients [I'm writing this from XXX in Astoria and the food is fantastic]. In my view are well-worn old fishing boats manned by most of the last White hunter gathers that the Oregon Coast has.
This building used to be a cannery and right now there's a reunion of workers. Most of them appear to be in their 70s. Next to the pub there a historical gillnet museum displaying relics not of a age gone by, but a way of life, a way of life that we're striving to reclaim. Not only on those boats. but on the saddles of horses, the cab of tractors, at the controls of a machine, and at the desks where the White race world-wide will be saved.
Zack Hatfield and Jesse Lockhart were unable to join me as they were out on a tickle. Oh wait, they weren't, because you aren't here. The foundation hasn't been set yet. I haven't see any muds here tonight, but the fact there is a chance that I still can is unacceptable for any White person in any White country on the planet.
I'm writing this on my phone and you my be reading this on yours in a restaurant somewhere outside the Homeland or better yet in the Homeland. You could have a good chance of not seeing muds if you're in New England or some yuppie restaurant or redneck greasy spoon, but somewhere else you and your family could be surrounded by these animals. Your children, your White daughters surrounded by these animals and all you have to do to have half a chance at protecting them, not only now but in the very dark future, you need to be here in the Pacific Northwest where you're supposed to be to take the actions needed to fulfill the 14 Words, and you all have the nerve to sit in whatever hellhole of America you are and do nothing worthwhile.