Thursday, February 26, 2015

The Cleanup


               [From The Hill Of The Ravens by H.A. Covington]
                                                       Chapter IV.

Don went into his darkened library and sat down on the sofa in front of the low embers of the fire. He threw on another log, poked it desultorily, and stared moodily into the crackling sparks. He was by no means happy about opening this particular can of long-sealed revolutionary worms, and he wondered again whether John Morgan really meant for him to get at the truth, or find some way to bury it forever. Would he do so if it turned out that the price might be an innocent woman’s life? Don had the lifelong National Socialist’s iron sense of duty and dedication to the good of the Folk over all, but he had also perforce spent his life living in the real world. More than most, Don knew that sometimes one couldn’t make an omelette without breaking eggs. But if Trudy Greiner was in fact innocent of treason, she had already suffered through more than thirty years of living hell.

The Republic was almost unique in the world’s comity of nations for its complete lack of hypocrisy. It preached a stern and uncompromising truth and justice, and it practiced those things as well in a manner unknown since the early days of republican Rome. Adolf Hitler had always held civitas to be a paramount virtue, and although the Republic was by no means a National Socialist state, however Don and his comrades might wish it so, its moral and civic code was pure NS.

NAR politics and policy were remarkable for their almost total lack of the kind of gray areas that abounded in other governments. Cicero had said that existence of many laws was the sign of a corrupt society. The Republic’s entire criminal code was contained in a single slim volume of two hundred and twenty pages, in fourteen-point type to boot, clear and easy to read in every sense. A lot of citizens thought even that was too long. Some of the more extreme Christian sectaries wanted nothing more than the Ten Commandments.


Mostly it was just the obvious stuff. No deliberate and premeditated murder with the exception of the extremely formalized code duello which governed legalized dueling as the ultimate sanction to preserve civility within society. Dueling was legal in the Republic, but only between consenting male adults and only after a mandatory seven day waiting period for both parties to sober up and calm down, and only with advance notice to the Civil Guard and under the supervision of the National Honor Court. The whole thing was so ritualized that only one or two dueling fatalities occurred every year.

No robbing liquor stores. When one is in a position of fiduciary trust, one keeps one’s hand out of the till. Heroin, cocaine, LSD, and some particularly lethal American and Asian designer drugs were proscribed and the penalty of erasure was prescribed for possession of them, and death for selling them. Everything else was legal; the social stigma against addiction combined with the social safety net of guaranteed employment and a place in society for everyone kept drug and liquor problems peripheral. Don’t set fire to things.

About a quarter of the Republic’s legal code was common sense trivia: sanitation regulations to make sure people didn’t dump toxic waste on the street or into public waterways, buried or cremated the dead instead of keeping them in the master bedroom like Miss Emily, and traffic law necessary to keep everyone driving on the right and make sure motorists stopped at red lights, required in order to make sure Seattle and Portland didn’t turn into Cairo. Driver’s licenses had been abolished because they constituted a form of national identification which was antithetical to liberty and privacy, but if you got drunk and killed or injured someone else on the highway, you were held to account the same as if you used a gun. The Republic’s social contract was based on individual responsibility and common sense social duty.


One of the more truly revolutionary of those laws prohibited anyone from accepting any remuneration for the practice of law or legal counsel. Those who came before the courts could nominate one or more people to speak in their defense, and there were citizens of the Republic who, like Cicero, had gained fame with courtroom oratory that would have enthralled the Forum. The defendants just couldn’t pay such advocates anything. The NAR had taken Shakespeare’s advice to heart and killed all the lawyers. As a result, the law was held in more respect and society enjoyed a vibrant and vigorous health unknown anywhere else in world.

Another law prohibited the acceptance of any pay or items of value for the practice of any religious or sacerdotal office. The removal of the attorney from society made sure that the law served as a shield and not a sword, and most certainly not a trough at which parasites in expensive suits slurped away their lives at the expense of others. The removal of the priest with his tax exemption from the pecking order had in turn removed the problem of organized religion from the social and economic equation, and reduced religion to the purely theological level, which helped in maintaining the delicate social balance between peoples of conflicting faiths. Priests and ministers who were required to work for a living and pay taxes like everyone else found remarkably little time for political agitation. Churches that were required to pay property taxes found very little money left over for funding dubious social and political causes that had nothing to do with God.


More than anywhere else in many centuries, in the Northwest American Republic the law and morality were almost completely synonymous, since neither entailed a cash register. Never before had Don been given a single order by his superiors that he found morally objectionable or even dubious. But now, for the first time in his career, Don was confronted with the possibility that he might have to commit a moral wrong, a sin as the Christians would say, in order to best serve his people and his country. For if Trudy Greiner’s claim of innocence was true, then an immense amount of history would have to be re-written, and Don was not at all sure that would be considered politically expedient, true or not. BOSS did not only deal with state security. When necessary, it dealt with political inexpediency. Such was the reality of statecraft since time immemorial. What if she really is innocent? wondered Don in agony. Whatever then?

There was a soft knock on the door. “Dad?” asked Eva. She was in her nightdress, bathrobe and slippers. “You drunk?”


“No,” chuckled Don. “Although I’d take it kindly if you and Cindy would do breakfast tomorrow and let your Mom sleep in, OK? She might have a bit of a bad head.”


“You got it. Dad, can I talk to you about something? Something serious?”


“Ah, one of our little private chats? Any time, Evie. You know that. Park it there, squirt.” She sat down beside him on the sofa. “Now tell me, what’s on your mind?”


“Is Cindy El going to marry Mark Conway?” Eva asked.


“Yes. Okay, I think I see what’s coming.” He leaned forward and spoke to her gently. “Eva, arranged marriages have become a widespread custom in the Republic, an urgently necessary custom that has grown up because of our acute need to rebuild and reconstitute the Aryan family as the basic building block of society, and because there simply must be more of us! ZOG almost destroyed a three thousand year-old civilization by destroying the people who created it, and we have to grab back control of our destiny from them immediately, before the next generation. Marriage today is recognized as a civic duty for all our citizens, a vitally urgent matter of state. It is no longer a private matter, and hindsight tells us that it never should have been. The whole history of our race and our culture tells us that marriage is the natural state of men and women, and that when large numbers of people, especially women of child-bearing age, remain unmarried and babies aren’t being born, then that is a sign that something is gravely wrong.

"More than that, marriage is the union of two families, and that is something that concerns the entire community. Our ancestors recognized that fact, for millennia. Yes, I know that can be a pretty cold-blooded thing sometimes, if it is not done with compassion and humanity. But after some years we are recovering the ancient social skills necessary to make it work, and it doesn’t have to be a bad thing, Evie. Mark and Cindy are two shining examples of how the system can work. But as for you…honey, it’s a custom, not a law. When you get your citizenship certificate and you are a grown woman in the eyes of the world, then it is your absolute legal right to make your own choice. And I will never, ever criticize or try to pressure you. Nor will your mother, although I think she’s already trying to line up….”


“I go to Coven and I know who she’s trying to line up,” interrupted Eva with a small shy smile. “Let’s just say he’s a definite maybe, okay? But that’s not what I want to talk to you about. Dad, I want to ask you something, although I know it’s something you don’t want to talk about,” she went on tentatively.


“Er…honey, if it’s what I think it is, it’s your mother’s job to give you the Little Talk,” said Don, suddenly nonplussed.


“No, it’s not that,” said Eva with a giggle. “I know what men and women do with one other in bed, Dad.”


“Do you indeed? And how do you know?”


“I just know, OK? And not from personal experience, so please don’t go pistol-whipping any of the boys at school, will you? But that’s not it.”

“Then what?”

“Dad…what happened during the Cleanup?”

Redmond sat in surprised silence for a moment. “Lord, honey, what brought this on all of a sudden?” he asked.

“I was talking to…well, to a friend at school today. She says there’s a mass grave under the dump in Tumwater from the revolution, with hundreds of bodies of dead black people and Mexicans and Chinamen in it.”

“Your friend is full of sheep dip! No, honey, I can tell you right off, that’s wrong,” said Redmond immediately.

“How would you know?” demanded his daughter. “Is it because you know where the mass graves really are?

“Because that wasn’t…well, because I happen to know something about it from being involved in political policing.”

“Look, Dad, I’m old enough to know the truth. If you don’t want to talk about it, just say so. But if you do I want straight answers. If you’re not going to be honest, there’s no point in our taking this any further,” said Eva softly. She got up and walked to the door. “Good night, Dad.”

“All right,” replied Redmond, somehow understanding that this was not something that could be evaded. All of a sudden he knew that his daughter’s future quite possibly hung on this discussion. “In point of fact, yes, there are still some bodies buried out in the woods in various remote places around the Republic, but they were put there during the War of Independence and they’re combat casualties. Ours and theirs, when the NVA had to inter the dead and then move out, fast. After the revolution we weren’t able to find them all and give them decent burial, although every effort was made. Sometimes the guys just plain didn’t remember. Every now and then we still find some of those dead, and when we do they are exhumed and buried with all reverence and respect, where possible with either a Tricolor or an American flag on the grave, if the identities can be determined. The federal war cemeteries are the only places in the Republic where the American flag is allowed to be flown, as you may be aware. But there are no mass graves of the kind you’re talking about from the Cleanup. Not under the dump in Tumwater or anywhere else. The remains weren’t disposed of in that manner.”

“How were they disposed of?” cried Evie, frightened and upset.

“That I will not discuss with you,” said Redmond.

“Why not?” she demanded.

“Because it’s not important. Because those wretched people aren’t important. Because what was done was done so that we who kept faith with our blood and with common decency would never again even have to acknowledge that they ever existed. Evie, you asked me a question. In a way I suppose it’s a question that all of us who lived through that time always dread hearing from our children, but you’re right, you’re old enough. You say you know how babies are born, so you have a right to know how your country was born. I’ll do my best to give you an answer.

"But I can’t give you a simple answer, because there isn’t one. When nations come into being, especially when they come into being through revolution and turmoil, very little is ever cut and dried and there are always a dozen versions of every story. I’ll do my best to tell you about the Cleanup, but you must come back here, sit down, and let me do it in my own way. It’s going to take me a while, so bear with me.” Evie walked back to the fireplace and sat down at the end of the sofa. “I said I can’t give you a simple answer, but I can give you a short one. Do you want that or the long version?”


“I want both,” said his daughter.

“All right. The short answer is this. There are times when certain things simply have to be done. You don’t try to justify them, because they can’t be justified. You simply do these things, and you never talk about it afterwards. We did what we had to do. That’s it.”

“Okay, now for the long answer. You have to talk about it, Dad,” said Evie. “You have given me this great life and this great family and this great home, and don’t think I’ll ever forget it. You’ve also been my best friend, ever since I was little. If you’re worried about losing my love or my respect, don’t be. That’s never going to happen. But you have to tell me how my world came to be. All of it.”

“Jesus, you sure you’re only fifteen, girl?” asked Don in bemusement. He sighed and lit one of President Morgan’s Havana cigars. “Right from the start, let’s get some things clear. Your grandfather was involved in the Cleanup, very much so, because it was his duty. To a lesser extent, so was your Aunt Tori, and so was old Mr. Nash, your grandfather’s butler.”

“Corey Crotchety?” laughed Evie, unbelieving. “He’s just a grumpy old man! He wouldn’t hurt a fly!”

“That shows how little you know,” her father told her gently. “Mr. Nash was your grandfather’s…well, never mind. Let’s just say that back in those days he did a good deal of what was called wet work.”

“Mr. Nash?” exclaimed Evie incredulously, with a light little laugh. “He used to play dollies with me when I was little!”

“Yes. Mr. Nash. I would appreciate it if you would accept what I tell you tonight, at least for the time being, and that you not ask any of them about that part of their lives. At least not now. Nash would simply refuse to talk about it, but John C. and Tori would feel compelled to try and explain, and it would be very painful for them. Later, when you’re older, if you feel you have to…”

“Okay,” agreed Eva. “I won’t say anything to Papa John or Aunt Tori, and I still don’t believe you about poor old Mr. Nash. But Tori told me once that she killed a man when she was nineteen. An FBI agent.”

“Yes. She was defending the life of Bill Vitale, who was only an infant at the time. But that’s another story. You want to know about the Cleanup. Both of them made damned sure that your mother and I were not involved in any way, and that was absolutely the right thing to do. It was a terrible time, and John Corbett kept us both away from it.

"In any case we were both too young, younger than you are now, despite the fact that we were Volunteers during the War of Independence. There had been work for kids of our age during the revolution. There was none for us during the Cleanup. That was for men only, a certain kind of man. Men like Tiny Knowlton and Liver-Eating Thomson, men like that maniac O. C. Oglevy, men like Bloody Dave Leach, who as it happens I will be meeting very soon in connection with a case I am working on. That year I started with the first class of the NDF Military Academy in Sandpoint, and your mother had to take over the Morgan household when John Corbett finally came out of the mountains and was able to set one up. We were both of us otherwise occupied during that period of this country’s history, may thanks be unto God. I was on my way to becoming a man, and your mother was on her way to becoming a woman.”


“I didn’t ask you what you did, I asked you what happened?” insisted Eva. “I know that you and Mom and Papa John and Aunt Tori and Uncle Matt and Aunt Heather were all heroes who fought for our race and our freedom, and I respect you for that. But why won’t anyone talk about the Cleanup? We get all these TV shows and books and magazine articles and stories about the early days of the Party, and the Old Man, and all that heroic stuff that happened during the revolution. We know all about our space program and the Mars and Luna colonies, and how great our industry is and how we are beating the economic sanctions the Americans put on us, but no one ever talks about that time right at the beginning of the Republic. For years I have been hearing all this whispering about disappearances, torture, killings and mass graves and white women who went with muds being hung in public, about the streets in Seattle and Portland and Spokane running red with blood, real nightmare stuff. Dad, you’ve never lied to me, but I have always known there were things you wouldn’t tell me, things nobody would tell me. Please, what happened? What was it like?”

“Can I have a minute to chew on that, honey?” asked Redmond. He took a minute, a long minute while he puffed on his cigar and the smoke rose in lazy wreaths about his head. “Okay, Evie, I’ll do my best. I know you have been taught some things about the past in school, but I’m sure they don’t really seem real to you. In a way, that’s good. There’s been a complete transformation of our world since the revolution, and it’s all been infinitely for the better. The most wonderful thing about the War of Independence is you and your brothers and your sister, because if that revolution had not taken place, you wouldn’t exist. Do you know how it all started? I mean the actual shooting bit? This holiday we’re all going to be celebrating in a couple of weeks, do you recall how it originated?”

“10/22? The Coeur d’Alene uprising? No, Dad, I’ve not got the slightest idea. I’ve only written about two dozen essays and term papers on it since I’ve been in school, like every other school kid in the Republic!” said Eva in some exasperation.

“Then tell me what started it all,” directed her father.

“At dawn on the morning of October 22nd, United States Marshalls and the Federal Child Protective Services Bureau, otherwise known as It Takes A Village, conducted a raid on the home of Gustav and Margareta Singer on a quiet residential street in Coeur d’Alene,” recited Evie from memory out of her textbooks. “They were coming to seize the three Singer children, Swanhilde Singer who was ten, Eric Singer who was two, and Isolde Singer, the baby. It Takes A Village used to come and steal poor white families’ kids because they were religious or they had pride in their own race, and sell the kids to rich people called yuppies who were supporters of the government and Politically Correct. The money was called the adoption bond, and sometimes they could get hundreds of thousands of dollars for white children, because in those days there were so few white babies being born. The federals had adoptive parents selected for the Singer kids, who had already put down a cash deposit. A rich stockbroker in New York, some government bureaucrats in Washington, and Swanhilde was earmarked for two women in California. Why would they give a ten year-old girl to two women, Dad? You’d think they could get married and have children of their own?”

“Never mind,” said her father grimly. “Go on, honey.”

“The Singers were Old Believers and somebody had called It Takes A Village and accused the Singers of using their children in black magic rituals and teaching them to be racists by giving them Germanic names and reading them stories about the old gods of Asgard and Valhalla. So the feds sent their goons to take the children away. Well, this time the yellow hog-jawed doo-doo birds got a surprise!”

“I gather now you’re telling it your grandpa’s way,” said Don with a smile. Evie giggled.

“I like his way better than the schoolbooks’ version,” she said merrily.

“Normally I don’t like to hear that kind of language out of my baby girls, but in this case it’s appropriate. Go on.”

“Gus Singer up early because he was doing overtime at his job, he looked out his window and saw them outside and realized what was happening, and he was able to get to his hidden guns in time. He killed one of the SWAT team when they broke down his front door, and they ran away, but then they surrounded his house and were about to start firing tear gas into the place, never mind that the kids were in there. Then all of a sudden the windows opened in all the houses up and down the street, and all the neighbors who had hidden away their own guns after the Schumer Act stuck the barrels out and opened fire on the feds. Seems that Gus Singer was quite a well regarded man in the neighborhood because he had saved some old people a few months before when he ran into their burning home and pulled them to safety. The neighbor people who survived later said they weren’t Party members, nobody ordered them to do it, but all of a sudden that was just it. They’d had enough.”

“Yes, and that was the miracle of 10/22,” said Don softly, staring into the fire, after all these years still awed by a feeling of divine presence in that day. “Finally, finally, after all those years of crawling on our bellies and thumping our tails between our legs like whipped dogs, white men finally had enough! Then it got on the news, and while the bullets were still flying the local Party people in Coeur d’Alene got their own guns out of hiding and took over the government offices and television stations downtown. They overran the police headquarters and got more guns, and the Old Man was flown in from Spokane in a stolen police helicopter. He lined up every white man with a weapon, had them raise their right hand and put their hands on the Bible or Mein Kampf as their consciences dictated, and told them they were now the Northwest Volunteer Army. The Party and the NVA proclaimed the Republic, and all of a sudden it was a revolution.

"The first Republic lasted sixteen days before the uprising was crushed,” Don reminded her, “You remember seeing the last Tricolor that flew in Coeur d’Alene in the Hall of Heroes when you were little, Evie? The one that was all shot up? I think that’s our country’s most sacred relic. That, and the gold cross that was around Melanie Young’s neck when she died. But after that came the guerrilla war, year after bloody year of it, and finally we drove ZOG out and forced them to the table at the Longview peace conference.”


“And after Longview came the Cleanup,” said Evie pointedly. “Sorry, Dad, you’re not getting off the hook.”


“I’m not trying to, honey. Do you get the point I’m trying to make? What finally pushed white men over the edge, Evie? It wasn’t the affirmative action that made it impossible for us to get jobs or get our kids into college. It wasn’t the humiliating Diversity Oath that rubbed our noses in the mud every time we took a new job or tried to get a mortgage or needed something from the government. It was when they started coming for our children. I think there is a kind of biological instinct among all living things that demands they protect their young, and which simply will not be denied.

"Men are intelligent and therefore it is possible for the forces of evil to manipulate mens’ minds, suppress and distort that instinct for a while, but never permanently. Somehow, something just tripped in the minds of those people on that street in Coeur d’Alene that morning. Something a whole people had been awaiting for almost a century. They saw those federal murderers in their arrogant big Bakelite helmets and their body armor and knew that they were coming for children, for their children, for all children. Without one single word of political indoctrination, all of a sudden those ordinary neighbor people got it. In one flash of cosmic consciousness they understood what people like the Old Man had been trying to tell them for decades.

"They knew what they had to do, and they did it. They took up weapons into their hands and they fought to the death against the federal government of the United States of America, the fount and wellspring of all that was evil in their time. That’s the real story of the Cleanup, Evie. We knew what we had to do in order to secure the existence of our people and a future for white children, and we finally did it.


“What you have to understand is that at the beginning of this century our people, our Folk, the white-skinned race that we call Aryan, was on the verge of extinction. Had nothing been done, by this time your mother and I would be among the youngest white people still left alive on this continent, if we were still alive at all, which is doubtful. Just as white people in the United States are now an aging, shrinking minority, many of whom risk their lives every year running the border from the U. S. and from Aztlan in a desperate attempt to reach the Republic. I know that to you these are just words. You can’t imagine what it was like. Thank God for that! That’s what we were fighting for, so that our children would never know just how real and terrible it all was.

"I can only remember a little of it myself, for which I am grateful. But the danger was real, it was imminent, and it was overwhelming. The powers that ruled the world then and still rule most of it today had condemned the white race to death.


“Then, in this one incredible starburst of wonder and glory, the revolution happened. You know that I am a National Socialist myself, but that doesn’t mean that I do not believe in God. I do, and I will always be convinced that the Party, the revolution, and the War of Independence that made that revolution a reality were the result of divine, cosmic intervention. God finally raised His hand to save his most beloved children from death.

"He didn’t do it with a thunderclap or a Biblical flood. He didn’t do it with Jeeeee-zus coming down and touching his toe on the Mount of Olives in Jerusalem and rapturing the faithful and sending 144,000 righteous Jews running into a chasm. Somehow God lifted the clouds from our minds and enabled a few of us, men like George Lincoln Rockwell, Richard Butler, Bob Matthews, Robert Miles, the Old Man and your own grandfather, to shake the Zionist poison from their minds and recover their courage and fight back. It is said that the Old Man has spent his entire life wondering why we did not fight. I have spent mine wondering why we did. It’s always fascinated me.


“Eva, you know that video they play every night at midnight when the television broadcasting day signs off? That scene at the end of the Longview peace conference, when Cathy Frost walks out of that hotel with a Tricolor under her arm? In dead silence, surrounded by media and dignitaries and bureaucrats? No speeches, no word of warning, just all of a sudden they all came out and walked up to the flagpole outside the hotel. She steps forward, this woman whom everyone watching knows has lost her husband and her children to the Zionist murderers. This proud and quiet woman who was so hideously tortured and degraded in prison. She calmly hauls down the American flag, hands it to the American general, and then runs up the Tricolor, and the loudspeaker system suddenly bursts forth with A Mighty Fortress Is Our God?

"No other words were necessary. All of a sudden every white man and woman watching, reporters, soldiers, diplomats, no matter which side they are on, bursts out cheering and crying, jumping and shouting and laughing and pounding one another on the back? In that moment all the world knew that from that day on, there was a new nation on the face of the earth. The world also knew that from now until the end of time, somewhere on the planet there would be men and women with white skins and fair hair like yours and beautiful green eyes like your mother’s. You may have noticed that whenever I’m home, I always go to bed before the nightly sign-off, no matter what’s on? It’s because I cannot bear to look at that tape even today, without weeping.”


“I cry when I see it, too,” admitted Eva softly. “Sometimes.”


“I’m glad, Evie, because that tells me you understand a little of what it means every time you look up and see that green, white and blue flying in the sky. Okay, I know I’m beating around the bush here, so I’ll tell you what I can about the Cleanup.

"That day at Longview was a wonderful, great historical moment, but like all such moments, it passed and the Party had to get down to the hard business of making a state and governing. It was months before the details of the treaty could be worked out, and more before the last federal troops and police were pulled out, and they were bad months. There were constant clashes even after the signing of the treaty. The NVA had just become the Northwest Defense Force, and we moved out of the forests and the mountains into the towns and cities.

"Sometimes the feds and the local ruling élite, the lefty liberals and the Chamber of Commerce business types who had grown fat and wealthy under American rule, didn’t feel like giving up power to the Party. They tried to resist and we had to administer a very sharp lesson so that everyone would know that things had changed. Those were very edgy times. I actually saw more street fighting in Seattle after the treaty was signed than I had done before, during the rebellion. But one day the last federal soldier withdrew and the Homeland was ours. And then, we had some cleaning up to do.”


“Was that when you killed all the Jews and the people with dark skins?” asked Eva.


“Actually, no,” said Don with a smile. “I know that’s a common rumor, but I do remember enough to tell you that’s not true. We actually didn’t catch many Jews. They almost all ran away during the revolution, as soon as they saw they wouldn’t be able to contain it. The few who were dumb enough to stay and try to play macho man didn’t make it, but there weren’t many of them. They all spoke enough Hebrew to understand Mene, mene, tekel upharsin.

"The various non-white minorities who lived in the Northwest under American rule were also more or less driven out of the Homeland during the revolution itself. After all, many of them had fled their own countries to get away from men with guns and they were no more willing to stand and fight here than they were in Roachistan or wherever. The most effective way we found to persuade the muds to go elsewhere was not to kill them, but to apply economic pressure. Oh, sure, there were a lot of instances where NVA people attacked and killed non-whites, usually in retaliation for their attacks against white people. But we never made a practice of killing them for its own sake. There were simply too many of them. We could have slaughtered muds until we rotted, and we would have accomplished nothing. They weren’t the problem. The federal government of the United States was the problem, and beyond them the super-wealthy men who owned America.


“Even though he was in prison, the Old Man had the brilliant idea of cutting off the mud people’s cash flow from the taxpayer and from the wealthy men and corporations who brought them here in the first place. He was able to get the order out from his isolator cell, and we followed it. Employers who hired Mexicans or Chinese or Somalis came in to work one morning and found their establishments burned to the ground. We did the same to hundreds of the little corner shop and convenient stores and motels owned by Koreans and Indians and whatnot.

"We didn’t have to kill anyone. The rich men got the message very quickly and much more effectively. If we’d killed their mud labor they would simply have brought in more, but burn down their buildings and their equipment? Their means of production? That hit the rich men where it hurt. They became sudden converts to the many benefits of hiring white labor, and all of a sudden the pastures for Third Worlders got very much greener elsewhere than the Pacific Northwest. After Jerry Reb burned or blew up all the welfare offices, destroyed the records, and publicly flogged, tarred and feathered some state and federal bureaucrats, the welfare system broke down and there was a massive flight of blacks and browns and yellows out of the Homeland.

"After the first year of the war the United States government never got a penny in taxes out of the Pacific Northwest. That’s how colonial wars are won, Eva. How we won. The generals never surrender. The accountants do. The Pacific Northwest became a luxury that the Americans couldn’t afford. I helped torch the IRS office in Olympia myself. Your grandfather let me strike the match,” chuckled Don reminiscently. “But yes, when the muds declined to take the hint and leave our land, they were killed. It was race war, honey, and your uniform was the color of your skin. I make no apology for that. We were doing what we had to do to ensure the continued existence of our own people. By the time the Cleanup came, the non-whites and the Jews were almost all gone, some dead, but most of them fled back to the States.


“But there were a lot of problematic white people who were still around. You have to bear in mind that there were some people in the Homeland who had a vested interest in the old order, who had done well and made piles of money under the Americans. There were also those who either could not or would not adapt to living in a country based on racial foundations, or any moral foundations. Like the non-whites, most of them had sense enough to understand what would happen to them without the federal authority to protect them, and they ran.

"A minority of them didn’t. The stupid ones, the arrogant ones, the ones filled with hubris who thought they were John Wayne waving the Amurrican flag and who simply could not comprehend the type of total transformation that had taken place within the souls of an entire race of people. So they stayed and they gave trouble. They got one warning, because we knew that in some cases they genuinely, honest to God could not understand that things had changed. We weren’t punishing them, we were simply explaining the new reality to them in a way most calculated to make sure they got it. Usually that one warning came in the form of a very brutal public beating.”


“The Biff Boys!” said Evie.

“Yes, that’s one of my favorite TV shows as well,” chuckled Redmond. “They were also called Thumper Squads. The boys didn’t just beat people up, though. Their purpose was to accomplish a specific psychological and political goal, not just beat people for the hell of it. When it was appropriate, they also did funny stuff like grabbing Christian preachers who talked sh…who, uh, preached against the Party from the pulpit, stripping them naked and chasing them down the street with flowers sticking out of their butts.” Evie giggled. “That was actually a lot more effective than killing the idiots, you know. Kill them and you make martyrs out of them. But it’s kind of hard to take someone seriously when you’ve seen them doing a River Dance on a leash, butt nekkid with a flower sticking out of their ass. There were all kinds of merry little japes like that, not fatal or even painful, just humiliating and ridiculous. Then there was my absolute favorite of all time. There was the Kitty Call.”

“Oh, come on, now, Dad! Did that really happen?” laughed Evie.

“Oh, yes,” said Redmond with a reminiscent smile. “Yes, it really happened. Some nutty professor type on our side invented it. I’d suspect Dr. Joseph Cord, if he didn’t have a reputation for being completely humorless. The Thumpers would grab some liberal jackass or some red-white-and-blue John Wayne wannabe, take him down to the Civil Guard barracks and give him a forced scrub bath with this chemical substance that took a long time to get out of his skin, something that made him smell like the most powerful catnip imaginable. For weeks after that, everywhere he went, the poor SOB would be followed by dozens of mrowling, half-drunk cats who would be all over him, purring and rolling and jumping on him and trying to eat him.

"It’s kind of hard to make a bold anti-fascist stand against evil racism and incite people against the Party in the name of Mom, God, and apple pie when you’re covered with lunatic cats, and afterwards people can never quite get all those kitties out of their mind. You know Jay Simpson, the Leader of the Opposition in Parliament? Every now and then if he starts getting too loudmouthed at Question Time, the Party MPs start meowing at him. It breaks up the whole crowd and totally blunts anything Simpson is trying to say. I really wish they’d bring that one back to deal with subversives. Who needs the hangman’s noose or the whip or the cerebral decorticator when you can neutralize a traitor with a following of furballs?”


“You really don’t want to talk about it, do you, Dad?” asked Eva softly. “Look, I guess I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, I don’t want to talk about it, but I have to. It’s a legitimate question, honey,” said her father soberly. “Okay, I’ll drag myself kicking and screaming back to the point.

"A lot of disloyal people couldn’t be dealt with through beatings or cats, because they really were potentially dangerous to the revolution, or more often because there was also a matter of moral justice involved. For three generations America did terrible things to our people, and that was very bad. But certain people, certain white people, actually benefited from those things, benefited in money and power and position in the community, and that was far worse. The tyrant’s crimes were done with the active assistance of many of our own blood, out of willful ignorance or greed or perversion of thought.

"There are times when the willful, deliberate refusal to understand constitutes a crime and must be punished. There was a cosmic, karmic debt to be paid. Depravity and crapulence must have consequences, or else the world ends. Those who had harmed the Party in any way, those who had openly sided with the United States and given aid and comfort to the tyrant, and those who had defiled their bodies and contaminated their souls through carnal lust with non-whites or with…well, in other ways…they were killed, Eva.”


He looked at her. “Yes, honey, they were killed, and their remains were disposed of in such a manner that no trace of their very existence would ever be found. They were returned to the earth, in every sense of the word. Where possible, all documentary evidence that such people had ever existed was destroyed. Their birth certificates, their public records, even private things like photographs and other traces, were removed from existence.

"They had helped oppress and murder and defile their own, and for that we made them take their medicine. Every last bitter drop. We killed them for the sake of all those who had gone before and suffered, for the sake of all those like you who were to come. We killed them because it was the right thing to do.

"Those people were a cancer in our body, Eva, and we burned them out with fire and sword. Our race was diseased, and we had to sweat blood in order to get well again. This country is a small encampment in a world of darkness, Evie. We have a few small campfires that give us a little circle of light, where we can find warmth and shelter, but beyond that little pool of light there are monsters who wait in the darkness to devour us all. One of them came into this house many years ago and tried to hurt Johnny, as you remember. Your brave and noble mother took care of the son of a bitch.

"Those wicked and stupid people let the monsters in and fed them. To this day there are men like Charlie Randall who stand between us and the monsters. May God bless and guide them in their duty, and may God bless and forgive those of us who did what we had to do to get those few little fires lit and give our terribly endangered race this perilous little island of safety. As small and as uncertain as it is, it is more than we had when I was born. That’s all I can tell you, honey.” He spread his hands.


“You stand between us and the horror as well, Dad,” said Eva. “You’re BOSS.”

“I try, hon.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Well, like I said, you had a right…”

“No,” she said. “I don’t mean for answering my questions. I mean thanks for being who you are and what you are. For standing between me and Cindy El and John and the horror beyond the campfire.”

“You’re welcome, honey,” said Redmond with a smile.

His daughter rose, kissed him and went upstairs to bed. Don puffed on his cigar for a while. “You heard?” he asked over his shoulder to a large armchair in the corner.

“I heard,” said Tori Stoppaglia.


“I was waiting for you to jump in,” said Don.


“No need,” replied Tori. “You did a great job, Don.”


He was silent for a while. “I really don’t remember all that much, you know. How bad was it?” he asked her.


“Worse than anything you can possibly imagine,” replied Tori. “Worse than anything that had gone before. Our hearts turned to stone in those days. It was the only way we could do what had to be done. Don, thank you for not making me tell her. I couldn’t bear it, although every day my mind and my heart tell me that we could do no other than what we did. I couldn’t lie to her, and then for the rest of her life she would think of…that time…whenever she thought of me. Thanks for sparing me that, Don. It’s best for Evie as well. She has no need whatsoever to carry that burden. It is not hers. It is mine and John Corbett’s, and the others’ as well. That’s one of the reasons I skipped the reunion tonight. My own time is coming soon, Don, and the weight of it is making me afraid. I didn’t want to remember.”


“God knows your heart,” said Don. “He knows what happened, better than you do. God also knows what would have happened had any of you flinched or fled from your duty. You need not fear Him.”


“We did what we did so that she and all of her generation wouldn’t have to.”


“If our fathers, or our grandfathers had done their racial duty then you would not have been forced to do it. If you hadn’t done it at long last, then nothing would be left of a three thousand year-old civilization. Someday the sun will rise and we won’t need the campfire any more. Because of what you did in the darkness, Eva and her children will be able to live in the light. Thanks, Tori.”


“You’re welcome,” said the old woman.


http://www.amazon.com/Hill-Ravens-H-Covington/dp/1410765601/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1425022253&sr=1-1&keywords=the+hill+of+the+ravens

Wednesday, February 25, 2015

Radio Free Northwest - February 26th, 2015



HAC on self-destruction (don't do it), Stefan and Annie on persuasion, Gretchen on a book of New Right essays, Brian on Rasputin, and the panel boys on their own Northwest conversions.

By the way, I will continue to date these RFNs on the Thursday of the week since that’s the day they are broadcast on All Nationalist Network.


Tuesday, February 24, 2015

A Blast From The Past: Dreaming The Iron Dream


[A Golden Oldie, by special request from a fan from Back In The Day. Obviously, this pre-dates my Northwest period. – HAC]

[April 20th, 1999]

DREAMING THE IRON DREAM

Comrades and Brothers:

As the last summer of this most terrible of centuries begins, I find myself thinking of a day in early summer twenty-eight years ago.

On that day, having completed my last final exam and thus my last day at Chapel Hill High School, I walked up to my car in the parking lot on a hill beside the school. I stopped at the summit of that hill and turned, looking back at the buildings, remembering all that had occurred there over the past three years. In that moment I made a silent vow to myself that I would devote my life to ensuring that someday, no White boy or girl would ever again have to go through what I had to go through in that place.

To my frequent amazement, this vow of mine I have kept through almost three decades of chaos and madness. The century draws to a close and it is not inappropriate, I think, for us as a group to pause for the few remaining months of it and assess where we have all been and what we have done.

Many years ago an author named Norman Spinrad wrote a book called The Iron Dream. The book was not a very memorable one, a kind of literary joke, purporting to be what Adolf Hitler would have written had he emigrated to the United States after the Beer Hall Putsch and become a science fiction writer in New York. Yet the phrase has stuck in my mind. I think it is a good one, very descriptive of the kind of vision that National Socialism has for Aryan mankind. National Socialism itself might be said to be an Iron Dream, a vision of a world and a human identity that endures like hard metal instead of decaying like mere flabby flesh, and where the soul of man is hard and strong instead of weak and vacillating. The Iron Dream is the hidden, instinctive soul of our mighty race; it lurks beneath the surface of the mind and desire of every White man and woman ever born, for it is the gift of the God or gods who forged our people from the ice and snow and granite of the vast forested expanse of our ancient homeland.

All my life I have dreamed the Iron Dream. I do not know why; some are simply born out of step with their time, I suppose. Even as a child I understood that things around me weren’t right somehow, that this was not the way life is supposed to be. Always I have been haunted, obsessed by a vision of a world very different than the one which I grew up in, an all-White world with very different standards and priorities. A world of strength and valor and glory, full of all the qualities and virtues and experiences which have been so deliberately bred out of us by Judaic materialism. When I was young I had an idealized view of the past, all White faces, of course, but I had no idea of what this brave new world should be like in the future, until I discovered and understood the true meaning of Adolf Hitler, the Third Reich and National Socialism.

I have served the Iron Dream since that time, because for me there was no other conceivable path. Every opportunity which presented itself for me to conform (and there were many) I rejected out of hand. It wouldn’t have been so hard. Like the ancient Roman emperor Domitian, all the power structure asked was that occasionally, I burn a small pinch of incense on the altars of the false gods of Judaism and materialism. But never once in my life have I burned that small pinch of incense which would have been my ticket into the wonderful world of money and consumer goods—that symbolic gesture of submission which would have meant, among other things, that I would have a medical insurance policy when I reached age forty-five.

At age seventeen, I recognized a racial, moral imperative which demanded my full attention and dedication, and I have submitted to it without question ever since. Not the usual twentieth century life story, to be sure, or at least not a very common one since 1945. “Making my peace with the system”, a phrase I have actually heard used in the past few years by some people who were once active in the resistance, is something which simply never occurred to me. I talk about Holy Aryan Poverty, and possibly some of you think I am making a virtue of necessity. I am not. If I had it all to do over again I’d change some things, sure, but I would take essentially the same path I have taken. I have never looked back.


Taking Up The Burden

I have spent a large portion of my life making demands on you people—collective, generic “you”, those of us who are racially conscious and who know the truth. I am forever asking you to do things that you do not wish to do. In essence I have demanded, and continue to demand, that you come up to my standards. I have done so not in my name, but in the name of the Führer Adolf Hitler and in the name of generations of White children yet unborn, both of whom have the right to demand that sacrifice and that action from you. I have done and said things that have made you extremely uncomfortable. I have spoken aloud of things you feel are better left discreetly unspoken; I have pointed the finger and named names, saying “Thou art the man!” I will continue to do and say these things, because it is my duty to do so, because these things must be done and said and no one else will.

Fraud is the curse of our Movement, more than anything else the cause of fifty years of failure. Let me tell you how to spot a Movement fraud, in one easy lesson. A Movement fraud demands only two things of you: your money and your applause. He never asks you to take any risk; indeed, he would prefer you did not, because if you lose your job you can’t contribute money to him, can you? He never asks you to undertake any inconvenience. He never asks you to sacrifice or to endure persecution and pressure and loss and danger for the Aryan race; he convinces you that he will do all these things for you, that the Great Result can be achieved without you yourself assuming any part of the burden which history has placed on our generations of Aryan men and women. In this, the Movement snake oil salesman lies.

Nothing worth having is ever obtained without a struggle and without cost, and everything worth having is always the result of duty accepted and fulfilled. The Iron Dream can be made reality—indeed, time and again down through the centuries our people have made it a reality— but it requires blood and sweat and gold and tears, prison and death and long years of toil and grinding poverty. Anyone who does not tell you this is lying.

Above all things, National Socialism means duty. Duty to one’s self, to be true to one’s racial destiny. In this soft and supine era most White men run away from duty, will do anything to avoid it, for it is difficult and demanding and interferes with their television. Yet throughout past ages, real men have always embraced duty, sought it out, made it the touchstone of their lives. Man without duty is simply a pig wallowing in a trough, another form of animal life. Man without a higher duty to spiritual principle is no more than a Jew.

To be a National Socialist—to dream the Iron Dream—is to become a servant of history, to take upon oneself the burden of deciding in what form human destiny will be shaped. To be a National Socialist means taking on not only responsibility but moral authority, the right to determine the fate of others, and that is a terrible duty to assume, one which frightens and horrifies most modern men. To be a National Socialist entails the courage to determine that this society is sick beyond saving, and that mercy itself requires its swift extinction. To be a National Socialist requires cultivating the character, the intelligence and the moral strength to recognize the true issues at stake for our race and our civilization in the face of overwhelming public distortion and pressure to conform, and to accept the persecution and the hatred that comes with non-conformity.

National Socialism Vanquishes Fear

One of the first things that struck me at Chapel Hill High, when I began to observe racial reality at first hand, was how afraid the White students and teachers were of everything. They were afraid of the niggers physically, but more than that they were afraid of becoming involved, of making moral decisions based on what was right as opposed to what was expedient, afraid of taking a stand in the face of the liberal power structure against the blacks’ violence and drugs and their destruction of the learning environment. For the first time I ran into a phenomenon I was to encounter again and again in my adult life: everyone around me knew perfectly well that I was right about the blacks, but no one dared to stand at my side and battle with me against institutional wrongdoing.

White fear has always filled me with shame, for more than anything else, cowardice disgraces our heritage and degrades our Folk. I have striven to show other White people, by the example of my own life, that they can rise above it. I have often thought that one of the reasons that I have always been unable to get any help is not because no one understands what is required, but because most people do in fact understand these things, and aside from all other considerations, they are terrified of the responsibility of taking upon themselves the burden of history. The human reality is that most people simply do not have what it takes to be a revolutionary, and that is true in every era. But the fact that most people aren’t up to the task doesn’t mean that the task need not be done. Racial survival is something we cannot take a pass on. The racial extinction of the White man is not an option. Someone has to step forward, and I have always accepted the fact that, for whatever strange karmic reason, I have drawn the short straw in this life. Sometimes I have wished it wasn’t so, but my duty station is assigned and I remain at my post.

The Western world has reached a turning point, by the steep stages of a crisis mounting for generations, a crisis brought on us through our own weakness and cowardice and sloth. Several times throughout this terrible century, in Rhodesia, in South Africa, in the American South, twice in Germany, Aryan man has attempted without success to resist the onslaught of the crawling chaos which is known under so many names— liberalism, socialism, diversity, Political Correctness, multi-culturalism, humanism, all the various nicknames under which Judaic Marxism and its twin brother Judaic capitalism disguise themselves. (Believe it, Marxism is still alive and well in the world today.) We have resisted thus far without success, but that does not mean that we must cease to resist or that those of us who know the truth can ever resign from the struggle. I say to you again, the racial extinction of the White man is not an option, and anyone who accepts it as such to avoid the effort and danger of racial duty damns his immortal soul to hell.

The Honor of Racial Service

We as a people must acquire the will to survive the crisis of civilization, where that will is elsewhere divided, wavering, or absent. At issue is whether our sick and weakened society, which we call Western civilization and which is the sole product of the Aryan race, can in its extremity still call up men and women whose faith in it is so great that they will voluntarily abandon those things which men hold good, including life, to defend it. To be a part of this process, to be a soldier in this world-shaking conflict, is not an onerous thing to be avoided, but an honor, the greatest privilege which can be granted any man or woman, and it is a destiny I would not have missed for the world. The pain that these past twenty-eight years have inflicted upon me is something I cannot even begin to describe to you, but I understood from the very beginning that such pain would be part of the price tag attached to doing my duty, and I accept it without cavil.

Some day you will accept it too, for despite my periodic dressings down I know full well that you are not bad people, and that you perceive in your hearts that you, as well, have a share in this destiny. However much they may deny it, there persists in every White man and woman a scrap of soul, some faint remnant of conscience. Few White men, no matter how sunk in the fleshpots of Jewish materialism, are so dull as not to understand in at least some part of their consciousness that the crisis exists. It is in fact a total crisis—political, moral, intellectual, religious, social and economic. Nothing more or less is at stake than the continued existence on this earth of people with White skins. You know this, and some day you will join me. This is inevitable, although I make no secret of my hope that it will be sooner rather than later.

Our Race Is Our Nation

National Socialists are bound together not only by a common devotion to our immortal Leader and his ideals, but by a bond of blood which reaches across the barrier of nations, differences of class and education, in defiance of every Jewish rule and tenet: our race is our nation. This mighty faith in our own heritage and destiny will some day give us the power to move mountains, and the time will come when at long last we will move men as well. National Socialists are that fragment of Aryan mankind who have recovered our people’s long-lost ability to hold convictions and to act upon them, to live, to die, and for our faith.

There is no greater human calling than to sacrifice one’s life—either in death or in selfless lifelong devotion, poverty, and obloquy—to an ideal greater than the personal self. This is what National Socialism calls upon Aryan men and women to do. In these times of timidity, prosperity, and inertia this is not a popular message, but a few in every generation respond to it. For idealism is in our very genetic makeup, and however deeply we smother it in the material wealth and indifference of the Judaic world in which we rot, it will always shine through. The spark of the divine essence within our Aryan souls is still there. You feel it yourself, or you would not be reading these lines now.

I know full well that this summer, as occurred to me on that summer day twenty-eight years ago, all across this land there are a small number of young men and women who are looking back at the place where they have just spent some wretchedly miserable years, and they are dedicating their lives to a future where it won’t happen again. I have already met some of this new generation and I hope to meet more of them some day, to give them the benefit of my experience and to let them know that they are heirs to the glorious legacy of Hitler and Rockwell. That legacy will come to fruition in the 21st century, and this will happen because a small band of us willingly gave up our places at the great consumer trough, our chances for what Politically Correct society calls happiness, in order to answer the call of our racial duty. It is we who will vindicate our people before the bar of history, we small band of brothers and sisters who gave it all up to do what was right instead of what was convenient or what was socially acceptable. I would not resign my membership in this tiny élite for any price.

It’s hell out here, people. It’s dirty, it’s shabby, it’s dangerous, it’s depressing, it’s hard and brutal. And it is unspeakably glorious. Join me!

Join me! Let us dream the Iron Dream together, that someday the world may awake to that day of blood and fire and renewal which will usher in the greatest Imperium of mankind.
     

Monday, February 23, 2015

P.S. To Last Post


I think the dictator's servants may finally have figured out that the way to keep Bill from writing all those embarrassing letters and articles, and filing all those annoying legal papers protesting against his hideous victimization, is massive "diesel therapy." 

This is a term within the prison-industrial complex for when the authorities keep one of their captives constantly moving from institution to institution across the landscape of the American GULAG, trying to keep him or her one step ahead of their attorneys, their paperwork, their family and friends and support system. 

In Bill's case, they've decided that one way they don't have to bother with coping with his stacks of incoming and outgoing mail, all of which must be photocopied and sent on to whatever faceless bureaucrat in Washington D.C. is in charge of his lifelong persecution and personal destruction, is to keep batting him back and forth like a badminton bird, so no one ever knows where he is and his mail can't catch up to him.

One thing Bill did mention in one of his letters (they were arriving seven or eight at a time from Loretto; the censors would stuff several weeks' worth all into one envelope, not even bothering to conceal what they were doing)--anyway, one of the things Bill discussed with some bureaucrat there was his status. By BOP rules he has been a model prisoner over the past six years and is entitled to minimum security, but the bureaucrat admitted that the BOP had been ordered by someone in Washington to classify and treat him as a super-max "gang leader." 

This is in keeping with the dictatorship's official narrative, which is based on the Fox Network television series The Following, that Bill is a bizarre cult guru with a secret army of "followers."

Anyway, Bill apparently likes Loretto, as much as one can like any concentration camp, and he was so impolitic as to reveal the fact that he likes it. So now it looks like Bill will not be allowed to remain there, and when they finally do settle him in one place, some years in the future, he will be confined in a super-max like Marion or Florence or Pelican Bay lest his "followers" rappel down the prison walls wearing ski masks and carrying Martian ray guns to free him, or whatever lunatic paranoid fears some D.C. guy in a suit entertains about him. 

Or pretends to entertain. More and more it's becoming pretty obvious that no one in the regime actually believes any of this crap. There is a distinct air about all this, of a nasty, snotty little boy pulling the wings off flies and burning ants with a magnifying glass. The abuse of Bill White has become nothing but an act of official sadism that is clearly gratifying whatever expensively suited and coiffured functionary has decided to make torturing this man his personal hobby.

Anyway, I will let you folks know whenever Bill lights long enough for some mail to reach him, maybe.





Saturday, February 21, 2015

Bill White Gets More Diesel Therapy

A quick note just to let readers know that Bill White is on the move again.  I have heard from a knowledgeable source I will not name that at this point he is at the Canaan concentration camp (again). He is probably on his way to a habeas corpus hearing in Chicago now scheduled for March 10th, where his Jewish judge will take a quick glance at him in his orange jump suit and say "yep, that's him!" and then throw him back into the system. 

There is also something called a "restitution hearing" scheduled back in Orlando for March 23rd, so Bill gets to be a guest of the torture cells in the Seminole County Jail yet again. At this hearing Bill will probably be ordered to pay ten zillion jillion dollars to the poor, timid FBI agent he so terrified and traumatized with his alleged Facebook posts. 

Needless to say, whatever else happens, he can never be released from prison until whatever insane sum the judge awards the secret policeman is paid. Now can he? That just wouldn't be fair, for a secret policeman not to get a huge sum of money from one of his victims. Wouldn't be just, don't ye know?

Stay tuned to see where he eventually ends up.  If they follow their usual course, his next stop will be Oklahoma City.




Friday, February 20, 2015

The Weird Aryan History Series



The following is the introduction to the Weird Aryan History Series, originally from around 2005:

Greetings,
Someone once said that Americans are a people without a past. I once saw a statistic to the effect that less than 50% of Americans (meaning White Americans) can name all four of their grandparents (I mean actually name them: Grandpa and Mee-Maw don't count) and less than ten percent could name more than one great-grandparent. Many Americans confuse the Korean War with World War Two. Something like 30% of reporters in the Gulf War did not know there had been a World War One, although you'd think the designation of World War Two might have tipped them off that there was a previous version floating around somewhere. (True story.)
We as a people have no idea where we've been, so it's no wonder we have no idea where we're going. 
My Weird Aryan History series is an attempt to remedy that, to inform White Nationalists of some of the more interesting events in the history of our people and let them know that yes, in fact there were Aryan events going on before the time of cowboys and Indians, which is as far back as most Americans have any historical awareness at all.
Beyond a highly inaccurate movie version of the Wild West, some Americans have a vague impression of the Civil War (some re-enactors are downright anal about the 1861-1865 period to the exclusion of the other 3000-odd years of Western civilization, just like some National Socialists can recite a day by day history of the Third Reich from 1933 to 1945 and nothing else at all.)

There is a dimmer impression in a few consciousnesses of George Washington crossing the Delaware, and guys in white wigs signing something in 1776, and beyond that there's Elmer Fudd in Puritan dress, wearing a cartoon steeple-crown hat and carrying a blunderbuss, hunting turkeys for Thanksgiving (nobody in the 17th or 18th centuries hunted with a blunderbuss) while having run-ins with Bugs Bunny. For 99% of Americans, that's it.
Now, in addition to being a people with amnesia, we are also a very sleazy people, as the current pre-occupation with Court TV and assorted media hyped crap indicates, from Scott Peterson to Natalee Holloway. Fine, I'm sleazy too. So I will be selecting all kinds of weird, wonderful, violent, bloody, bizarre, and ghastly stuff from the history of our race and presenting it for our own little tabloid show here on the internet. I started off last night with the mystery of the Princes in the Tower. 
These articles will in fact be mostly fairly long and detailed and you will have to dust off the old attention span and give it a good workout to read and understand most of them, but I will try to intersperse short little Aryan factoids as well. I think this will actually be a kind of entertaining project, something to occupy myself while waiting for the lights to go out, and something many of you will appreciate. If you don't, there's always the old delete button. 
Okay, are we clear on what the Weird Aryan History Series is and why? We do know that there is a purpose to it and it's not just Harold losing his marbles? Good. 
The series consists of 56 e-mails, including this one. I have sent them out before. A few of you loved it. Most of you--well, it was pretty obvious most of you just considered the series one of HAC's little eccentricities, and didn't even bother to read them. That always saddened and disappointed me. I don't understand why I could never seem to get any traction with this.
I mean, I just don't get it. How can anyone not be fascinated with all this stuff?

Anyway, to counter all this Black History Month crap, I am going to re-transmit the complete Aryan History Series, roughly two or three per day, so this will probably take about a month. It will give you guys some great entertainment, which seems to be largely what many of you are looking for. 
 However, I won't load up your e-mail boxes with stuff you're just going to politely ignore and delete. If you want to receive this series, let me know. I'll give it a couple of days for everybody who wants on the Aryan History List to let me know.
I need to warn you, though..some of these articles are pretty long, especially the first two, "The Princes In The Tower" and "The Wild Donnellys."

No, history did not begin with Amurrica. Yes, our race does have a past other than WWII and the Civil War and the cowboys. 

Want to find out about it? Let me know, and I'll put you on the Aryan History Series list.

-HAC


* * * 

Okay, so what's this about?            

I am now completing a project I recently undertook at the behest of Comrade Brian from Arkansas and some others, i.e. I am combining the entire Weird Aryan History series into a single novel-length document of over 100,000 words and converting it to .pdf format. 

This is not a "new Covington book". I wrote some of these articles but not all of them, probably not most of them. This is an anthology of information for personal use and reference only, but a lot of people seem to like it.
  
Anyone who wants a copy in .pdf, please let me know at nwnet@earthlink.net.


-HAC