Saturday, August 27, 2016

Radio Free Northwest Call-In Show - August 25th 2016

Callers discuss life, law, and the economy in the future Northwest American Republic.

Thursday, August 25, 2016

The Ghost Dance - Part One 

I wasn't happy with those two Ghost Dance episodes I did, so I have combined the two, added some extra commentary and tightened it up a bit.

Monday, August 22, 2016

Radio Free Northwest - August 25th, 2016

HAC on what might happen in November and an excerpt from a British podcast. Gretchen on Jobbik and Lord Lucan returns from lying doggo.

Sunday, August 21, 2016

Slow Coming Dark - Chapter X.

X. Sicilian Defense 

Matt ended up having to sign out a car from the SBI motor pool to go home in. He turned the key to his front door at eight o’clock that night, walked into the living room, and saw John Visconti and Tony Stop sitting in his armchairs. Visconti was reading a copy of the New York Times and Tony was tussling with Trumpeldor, wrestling the feisty animal all over his lap while Trumpeldor chewed on his hand and claw-kicked with his rear feet, enjoying himself immensely. Matt eyed them sourly and went to the refrigerator. Two new six packs of St. Pauli Girl that he had not purchased were sitting in the fridge, with four beers missing. Matt grabbed a fifth one and returned to the living room. “You not only bring your own brew, but I see you’ve been so kind as to use coasters on my coffee table,” he said, pointing at their empties. “Who says you Mob guys haven’t got style? The answer is no, I’m not telling you where they’ve gone. This is getting too hot and I want them under wraps. But I’ll tell you what you want to know myself if it will get you two on your way. Although I really should be arresting you right now for wasting that Martin bitch.”

“She is one less Musketeer who will be coming after your wife and your daughter and Miss Silverman,” said Visconti. “I should think you’d be grateful.”

“I am, but frankly I’m surprised to see you here. I thought you’d be half way back to the Big Apple by now after that fiasco at the Sheraton. Instead you seem to have headed to the nearest dry cleaner to get your silk suits cleaned of all the blood.”

“These are new threads,” said Tony.

“That looks like a new Saturn out front as well,” said Matt.

“Our Nissan got kinda the worse for wear,” said Tony.

“Yes, I gather from the witnesses Ms. Martin put a few bullet holes in it. I suppose it’s crushed into a square by now? Never mind, I won’t ask. But you goombahs need to ease your bodies on out of this state, chop-chop. Special Agent Andrea Weinmann is on the warpath. Seems you extracted a couple of her teeth with that rifle butt, Visconti. Not to mention making her look very, very foolish and incompetent to that murdering bull dyke she works for up in D.C.”

“When ladies are unladylike, they must expect the consequences,” shrugged John.

“Not to mention the two remaining Musketeers.”

“Ah, now, that’s the problem,” said Visconti. “Have you any idea where they are or what they are doing? I don’t. That is not a good thing, for either of us.”

“I don’t think Bob Blanchette has himself listed in the Yellow Pages under A for assassins,” said Matt, swigging his beer.

“No, but he does have a phone number where he can be reached,” said Visconti. “You see, we have not come to you empty handed. We do have something to trade, Redmond.”

“Trade for what?” demanded Redmond. “Trade for one more sordid story about how Bill and Hillary Clinton committed a vile and perverted crime and are now spilling the blood of other people to cover it up? I’ve already told you, I’ll give you that for free, just as Alice Silverman told it to me.” In short, precise sentences, Matt told the two of them what Bill and Hillary Clinton had done to Alice Silverman and how Eddie Miami had come to his death. They both sat silent for a moment when Matt had finished.

“And these beasts in human form dare to look down on us?” said Visconti with contempt.

“That’s why my uncle died?” responded Tony, his face black with rage. “Because Bill Clinton and that hag he married decided to have a little fun one night? And then expected Joey and Eddie to clean up their fucking mess? Like we was their fucking garbage men or something? They say ‘Hey, guinea, here’s a coupla bucks, go throw this baby in the dumpster for us’? ”

Matt didn’t bother to point out that Joey LaBrasca had presumably agreed to be party to the crime on promise of a sum of money significantly larger than a couple of bucks. “That’s it, kid. Now I really would take it kindly if you two would vamoose. I appreciate the help you gave me back there, but we are still on opposite sides, you know, and I have no desire to get matey with you, despite the fact that you can afford better beer than I can.”

“It’s not quite that simple, as I think you’ll understand if you think about it a bit,” said Visconti. “To begin with, may I ask what spin is being put on that little fracas back at the hotel by our lords and masters?”

“Officially? The FBI and SBI were co-operating in a major drug bust that went wrong, leading to the tragic deaths of two FBI agents thus far and probably a third as well. That guy Lambert axed out on the sidewalk probably won’t make it. I am not sure who they have decided to put on the spot marked X for this so-called drug bust. Most likely it will be the Musketeers, since thanks to your intervention they’ve got at least one dead hoodlum to show for it all, but I wouldn’t be too surprised if you two as well were on the front page tomorrow. The Dixie Mafia meets the real item from the sidewalks of New York, that kind of angle. Andrea is very sore in every sense of the word tonight.”

“And your people are going along with this?” asked Visconti.

“My boss is chewing nails, but he is going along with it for the time being as a personal favor to Senator Jesse Helms. He and Weinmann got into a shouting match in the Sheraton lobby and damned near tried to arrest each other on assorted state and federal charges. But right now we all seem to want two things. First off, we want to find and neutralize Bob Blanchette and Luther Lambert before they can inflict any more slaughter on anyone, and secondly we all want the real reason for that little bloodbath at the Sheraton kept quiet. This thing has turned into one hellacious can of worms.”

“Do you want it kept quiet?” asked Visconti.

“There’s something else you don’t know about,” said Matt. “Something extremely serious.” Then he told them what he had learned from Jesse Helms that morning. “You understand that the stakes are now infinitely higher than simple vengeance for Pal Joey?  That we are dealing with a madman who really can kick over the whole table if he starts losing the game? I have advised Alice Silverman to go public with the whole story at a press conference to try and save her own life and that of the child, but even that is as risky as hell. It may well drive Clinton berserk.”

“More risky than even you know,” said Visconti. “Five kilos worth of risky.”

“Eh?” said Matt.

“Joey LaBrasca was supplying Bill Clinton with five kilos of uncut cocaine per month. The president and those in his closest circle must be high as a kite almost all the time.”

“Damn!” cursed Matt. “Damn!” He hurled his empty beer bottle against the wall, smashing it. “Jesus Christ, I spend the best years of my life fighting that poison and the people who traffic in it, and now we’re being ruled by goddamn junkies!”

“Given your DEA background, I don’t have to tell you that cocaine addicts are in a constant state of paranoia, riding an emotional roller coaster that borders on madness,” continued Visconti. “Clinton is entirely capable of starting a nuclear war with Red China. Or invading Canada. Or ordering some of his negro minions in the Secret Service to take your friend Mr. Helms out and have him stood up against a wall and shot, Latin American style. Or dropping his trousers and wagging his weenie at a White House press conference. He is on the way out of office and out of power. There are many sharpened knives waiting for him, and he knows it. His star is descending and that of his equally evil but far more dangerously competent wife is rising, which must be very humiliating for him. He may decide to lash out at humanity one final time, just for the hell of it, in some grotesque and bizarre way none of us can imagine. His removal now becomes a matter not just of vengeance, but of public safety, and I believe you people sometimes refer to yourselves as public safety officers. But it's not going to be easy. It will require the most careful planning and preparation of my career. Not being suicidal, I cannot do it alone, and men who can be on a grassy knoll at a certain time, do the job, and then disappear forever are not easy to find.”

Matt stared at him. “So you’re telling me it was....?”

“Yes. Long ago another president and his punk kid brother thought they could use us for what they wanted and then double-cross us. They both learned differently, as will Clinton. But I have to be able to work on this project without Mr. Blanchette and that mountain maniac sidekick of his to worry about. You have the one bait that will draw them like flies to honey, Redmond. I am asking you to help me lure them in and dispose of them, and thus remove not only the immediate threat to Miss Silverman but also your wife and daughter, not to mention yourself. I think I know how to tip Blanchette, but I have to know what to tip him. Otherwise this little game of cat and mouse can go on for weeks or months. From what you tell me, we may not have that much time. Or do you still have legalistic scruples about such a thing?”

“My legalistic scruples, as you put it, stop where the lives of my family and the lives of an innocent woman and a baby begin,” said Redmond. “But I do have scruples about endangering all of the above by calling down two world class murderers onto them.”

“Do you think you can hide from them forever?” asked Visconti. “Can Alice Silverman keep on hiding without the news media picking up the story very soon? Do you think you can conceal their whereabouts from this FBI woman forever? How do you know she and Blanchette are not working in cahoots?”

“Actually, I did find out one interesting tidbit from our federal Salomé,” said Matt. “She has orders to bring her boss the heads of the Three Musketeers on her silver platter as well as John the Baptist’s. My guess is that Ms. Reno is now more or less Hillary’s political whore as opposed to Bill’s, if she wasn’t always. I have this feeling that Hillary wants to tidy up nice and neat before she goes full bore into the New York Senate campaign, with all potentially embarrassing skeletons polished up and neatly packed away in the closet. I suspect it was always part of the plan for your Uncle Joey to end up dead. As Billyboy’s coke connection he was a very dangerous loose end who had to be tied up. Now the Musketeers are on the hit parade as well. Rather like the ancient pharaohs who buried their treasure, killed the slaves who did the digging, and then had the slaves who killed the slaves killed in turn to make doubly sure no one knew the secret.”

“Which will make Blanchette all the more anxious to tie up his own loose ends and disappear for a good long while,” said Visconti grimly. “Expunging this whole episode is now essential to his personal survival. I am offering you a chance to meet this crisis with some measure of control over the how and the when, and with Tony and myself in your corner when the main event comes. Otherwise we must both face the prospect of having these two dangerous men pop up when we least expect it. The immediate threat to your ladies is from these two men. When they are out of the picture, then Miss Silverman can re-emerge into the public view. Once she is there she will be protected to some degree. She’s a star, after all. The Weinmann woman and the law can only do so much to Alice when she is surrounded by her own not inconsiderable wealth, her own entourage, and her own batteries of attorneys which her wealth can purchase. But she has to lose Blanchette and Lambert first. What is Croatoan?”

“A little bit of North Carolina history,” said Matt with a chuckle. “If you ever get the chance, read the story of the Lost Colony. The first of my own ancestors who came to this land, some hundreds of years before the first Italian, I might add.”

“Columbus was an Italian,” Visconti reminded him gently. “A Genovese, in fact. And is not America itself named for another Italian, the mapmaker Amerigo Vespucci?”

“Ouch! Yeah, you got me there,” agreed Matt with a laugh. 

Saturday, August 20, 2016

Jewish Crook Laundered Money Through Wiesenthal Group

by Bill White 

Murray Huberfeld, a board member of the Simon Wiesenthal Center, laundered money through the Jewish group he made from defrauding the poor and  the terminally ill in insurance and usury scams. This is according to reports published in the Wall Street Journal, a federal indictment in the Southern District of New York, and Securities and Exchange Commission administrative proceedings.

“We had no idea,” Rabbi Marvin Hier told the media. Hier is an Orthodox Jew who traveled the world with Huberfeld, while his fellow Jew scammed “investors.” Hier has not been charged in the scheme, though not all indictments have been handed down.

Huberfeld now faces decades in federal prison as officials investigate his Platinum Partners Hedge Fund, another organization which Huberfeld helped lead.  According to the federal indictment, Huberfeld has been charged with raising the funds he donated in part to the Wiesenthal Center by shaking down union pensions, manipulating the dying with stolen personal data, and Bernie-Madoff-like inflation of his funds hard to value and illiquid alleged assets.  Huberfeld is also charged with diverting investor money to his own pocket by taking out high-interest loans in Platinum Partners’ name from his own family trusts.  Platinum Partners was valued, at its peak, at $1.25 billion, and hundreds of millions of dollars in theft appear to be involved.

According to members of New York’s Jewish community, Huberfeld’s reputation for money was enough to draw investments to him. “In the Jewish community,” one person close to Huberfeld told the press, “If you have a wallet, people perceive you to be a genius.”

Yet in 2015 Platinum told investors that “it wouldn’t immediately be able to pay out full redemption request,” and, that it was going to pursue an “orderly liquidation.”  According to Huberfeld, the problems stemmed from the Jewish funds’ over-investment in illiquid assets like illegal death-benefit scams and usurious, often phony loans to failing businesses.  Platinum has so far paid $1.5 million in fines to the Securities And Exchange Commission for stealing health care data, using it to identify terminally ill patients who were particularly likely to die in the very near term, and offering them a seemingly high “death benefit” payout in exchange for being named the beneficiary of their life insurance policies.  In addition to scamming the dying, and, their families, Platinum also invested in high-risk, high-interest loans that the SEC deems “Level Three,” a designation that allows the fund holding them to assign whatever value to them that it wants.  Over its eleven year history Platinum managed to never report a loss by simply increasing its own valuation of its worthless assets.  This worked like a Ponzi scheme; when the money coming into the fund was no longer enough to pay out, Platinum failed. 

Federal prosecutors have added to these allegations of fraud criminal charges of bribery, and corruption.  Huberfeld has been specifically charged with bribing Norman Seabrook of the New York Corrections Officers’ Benevolent Union in an effort to get Seabrook to divert $20 million in union cash to Huberfeld’s coffers.  Federal investigators also say that Huberfeld used family trusts to make high interest loans to Platinum to cover payouts to suspicious investors, and played funny with securitized insurance policies that Huberfeld had Platinum buy at face value from an insurance company his family trust controls and then mark down to near worthless market values, making Huberfeld $70 million off of Platinum’s losses.

Most notable, though, is the way that Huberfeld’s money was funnelled into promoting the phony myth of a Holocaust during World War II.  The Simon Weisenthal Center is named after a Jewish Communist guerilla who was put up by the Soviet Union after the war to hunt National Socialists who had survived the Jewish-led genocide of the German people in the 1940s. Wiesenthal, a career liar, and murderer, was hailed among Jews for his role in making their persecution fantasies seem real, and, an entire industry of extortion of white nations, particularly Germany, was built around these fantasies, financing, and, forming, among other lies, the false Israel in Palestine.  

Rabbi Hier and his Wiesenthal Center have been one of the Learned Elders of the Holocaust game, and Huberfeld’s scams have grown with Hier’s programs.  In 2005, Hier and Huberfeld, took their first trip together to the Vatican, where they met with the Pope, and, Papal officials. Hier has confirmed that Huberfeld solicited and received investments for his schemes.  Hier, in fact, has admitted to the media that at least “several” people were drawn into Huberfeld’s scams through contacts with him made through Wiesenthal Center activities. With Hier’s assistance, Huberfeld became known as a patron of Talmudic scholarship, and until his arrest in June sat on the board of several New York area yeshivas, and Jewish colleges.

Most Jews know that the Talmud teaches that Jews may use thievery, bribery, fraud and usury to appropriate the wealth of the non-Jews among whom they live.  Babylonian Talmud tractates Babe Mezia 24a, 111b, Baba Komma 37b, 113b, and, Baba Bathra 54b are particularly on point. 
But what many Jews don’t know is that both the Talmud and the true secret Jewish tradition which underlies it allows the Jewish élites, called nefeshim, to steal from common Jews, whom the Talmud refers to as am-ha’aretz, or “mud people” and kelipots, or “shells,” in BT Pesahim 49a-b, SSotah 22a and similar texts.  In the secret Jewish tradition of the Kabbalah, it is eventually revealed that that the Talmud and Torah are just frauds designed to deceive and make miserable, these little Jews, and, that the real focus of Jewish worship are a bevy of infernal Egyptian gods, including the Zohar or “shining”, the “purple flame” of Egyptian Re,  Shekina “the Goddess” who manifests as a cloud of burning darkness and the Egyptian god Thoth, whose name is an alternate spelling of Judah, and, who is regarded in the Christian religion as the Devil. 

In his thefts, Huberfeld teamed up with another future federal inmate, Martin Shkreli, the pharmaceutical investor who bought up the patents to generic drugs and jacked the prices up as much as fifty times to also exploit the terminally ill.  In imitation of Joseph in Egypt, those who wanted to survive had to give all that they had to the Jew, while those who had nothing to give were left to die. 

The kind of anti-social profiteering typified by Huberfeld and Shkreli is deeply ingrained into the Jewish culture.  Rabbi Saadya Grama, a Jewish religious leader, put it most succinctly when he said that “Jewish success in the world is completely contingent upon the failure of other people.” Yet, the United States has allowed networks of Jewish con men to take control of its economic, political, social, cultural, and legal systems.  While some are occasionally purged the Jewish control mechanisms as a whole are never addressed, allowing America to sink progressively deeper into insanity, poverty, and deceit.


Friday, August 19, 2016

This One's Kind Of Important

Guys, I'm really sorry to rain on the parade, but we all need to see this and internalize it.

I stand by my favorable view of the effect Donald Trump is having and may yet have on world events. If he can destroy this vile two-party system and if he can keep the Hildebeest out of the Oval Office then history will be forever in his debt, and I will salute him.

That being said, sip the Trump Kool-aid. Don't guzzle or chug-a-lug it. He is a fling and a fun one, but he is not our One True Love, so to speak. Be ready for the fling to end, one way or the other.

Wednesday, August 17, 2016

Harold Covington's Northwest Independence Novels

Print-per-order internet publishing technology has broken the back of what was once a major Jewish monopoly in the arts and entertainment field, and allowed us access to quality book-length publishing services at a price that even our destitute Movement’s people and organizations can afford. The playing field still isn’t level, and it never will be, but at least we can get onto the field, which we couldn’t before.

The Northwest Migration movement will never be able to match the dictatorship in the money, time, and effort we can invest in promotion and advertisement, nor will we be able to get access to the retail and market sales outlets the establishment publishers have—but at least alternative literature and ideas can get published now. It used to be that publishing and distributing a single politically incorrect book was a major, lifelong project that sometimes literally killed the author, as witness Francis Parker Yockey. The story of all the things William Gayley Simpson had to go through to find a publisher for Which Way Western Man? would fill a book itself. Now, if we can ever address the character issue and create a bona fide resistance movement, we no longer have that technological and logistic hurdle.
Can anything be accomplished through fiction? Well, Uncle Tom’s Cabin has been credited with starting the Civil War, and The Turner Diaries has been given credit for inspiring the Order and the Oklahoma City bombing, so the power of the written word shouldn’t be underestimated. Granted, the number of White people who are willing to sit down and actually read a block of type for content is a very small proportion of the White population. But they do exist, and many of them are willing to at least make the attempt if they know ahead of time the book is something politically incorrect and forbidden.

We do so much that we shouldn’t be doing, that we never can seem to figure out what it is that we should be doing. It’s as if we’re trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle when we’ve lost the cover to the puzzle box, without knowing what the picture we’re trying to assemble looks like. We can see all the pieces, and we can even fit a few together, but we have no idea what we’re trying to create or how it should work. 

But what if we did have the cover of the puzzle box? Suppose we had a vision of what we were trying to accomplish? Suppose we could get a glimpse of the great prize itself? Suppose we could look at what we should be doing instead of being constantly told how not to do it? What the Northwest novels do is to give our people a good look at the cover of the box, so that they know what a White revolution should look like, and what a real one might possibly look like. They can get some idea of what they should be doing and how they should be doing it, instead of wandering down endless dead ends. Bear in mind that I am uniquely qualified to do this, because I have actually lived, as a local and not a tourist, in societies where revolution has been accomplished within living memory, where attempted revolution was ongoing, and where I could observe events up close and first hand. I know what the picture on the box should look like, because I’ve seen the real thing. Virtually no one else in the Movement has. No brag, guys, just fact.

In the year 2000, as a consequence of the atrocious Morris Dees legal assault on Pastor Richard Butler, I decided that I would write a novel depicting what a future sovereign, independent White nation in the Pacific Northwest would look like, and how such a new nation might come about. This was a challenge because rather than create some work of pure science fiction, I tried to predict and portray exactly how a White revolutionary movement of Northwest independence might succeed, based on the reality of what we have to work with today—all of this on the admittedly far-fetched premise that we ever do in fact get our act together.

The result was The Hill of the Ravens, which came out in September of 2003. The novel is set in the middle of the 21st century, around forty years after the successful Northwest War of Independence. In addition to describing a number of aspects of the contemporary Northwest American Republic, including technological advances and a realistic form of authoritarian but participatory government that might actually arise in such a situation, the book deals with events that took place during the guerrilla War of Independence. Unlike The Turner Diaries, it actually has a plot, a whodunnit dealing with the betrayal of a Northwest partisan column forty years before and the identity of the traitor.

I should mention that at the time of its publication, I had no idea that The Hill of the Ravens was going to be the first in a series of five novels and the beginning of a whole literary mythos, so there are some  minor contradictions, inconsistencies, and paradoxes in THOR that are not present in other novels in the series. 

 A Fanfare for the Common Man

I had no sooner finished The Hill of the Ravens when I read it over and realized that while it was a start, it was still inadequate. There just wasn’t enough space to cover every single thing I wanted to cover. I didn’t want the book to run to the length of War and Peace. There were points that should have been made that weren’t made, and there were questions about the Northwest idea that should have been answered that weren’t answered. In August of 2004 I published the second novel, A Distant Thunder, which is essentially the story of a single revolutionary soldier, a Northwest Volunteer, from his childhood as a poor working class White boy until almost the end of the conflict, and of how the revolution began and progressed in a single town in the Pacific Northwest. 

The Hill of the Ravens is set on a fairly elevated level in Northwest society under the Republic—my protagonist is a member of the State President’s family as well as a senior police investigator, and there is a good deal of fictional high politics and policy discussed. A Distant Thunder is a much more earthy and proletarian re-telling of the revolutionary mythos, and it is done in the first person. It is the memoir of a young White “trailer trash” kid named Shane Ryan, who recounts his youthful experiences growing up in the last days of the old America of diversity and political correctness, his initial contact with the Party and the Northwest independence movement, and his career as a Northwest Volunteer during the Northwest War of Independence.

Shane and his comrades of the Wingfield family are not political leaders or generals or Party intellectuals; they are the “grunts” and common foot soldiers of the Northwest revolution, the kind of working-class, normal White people that we must attract to our cause if there is to be any hope. Their experience in the novel is very largely localized, as the book recounts the beginning and the subsequent development and course of events taken by the White revolt in a single county in western Washington. It is the revolution in microcosm and anecdotal detail.

I deliberately chose to re-tell the story of this fictional future rebellion in the Northwest from the viewpoint of a bottom-rung Volunteer because I wanted to emphasize something that must—let me repeat that, must occur within the Northwest movement itself, which is that form must follow function and that the coming Party must be created from the bottom up, not the top down. No more self-appointment, no more letterhead organizations, no more of this “if you build it, they will come” crap. In everything else we have ever tried, we set up somebody as Grand Panjandrum with a post office box, a letterhead, and (later) a web site, and then sat back and waited for the bodies to appear and flesh out the empty framework. It’s never worked worth a damn. This time we have to get the real-world, physical bodies on the ground first. This is one of the things I try to show in A Distant Thunder. 

A Mighty Fortress, the third novel in the trilogy, turned into something of an amalgam of the first two books, including some of the characters. A Mighty Fortress is the story of the Longview peace conference wherein the Northwest Republic comes into being. (Or at least it was supposed to be; it kind of wandered off into a teenaged love story for a while there.) We have never gotten so far even in our wildest dreams, until now, that we have devoted any thought at all to exactly how we intend to bring the present order to an end and replace it with a new one. A Mighty Fortress begins with the NVA as an underground guerrilla movement and follows its transformation into the government of a new, sovereign White nation. I can’t believe that I am the first who ever even seems to have thought about this part of the process, but it looks like I am.

Then came The Brigade, which in my opinion is the book I will be remembered for, insofar as I am ever remembered. After AMF I had thought I was all NVA’ed out, and we had taken to referring to the first three books as the Northwest Trilogy, offering them as a set, etc. Then one day in the spring of 2006 I got the old familiar itch, sat down at my archaic computer and just started typing. The Brigade just sort of happened. I still don’t fully understand why, except that apparently I hadn’t said all I had to say on the subject. The Brigade turned into an epic of 335,000 words, the longest work I ever wrote, and it encompasses all of the elements of the first three novels jammed into one. It is for this reason that despite its length, I recommend that new people be given The Brigade first. If they can get through all that wordage it will set their souls on fire. If not, then they have no souls left.

Finally, after a three-year hiatus, there is now Freedom’s Sons. I completed Volume One in August of 2011 and the entire novel of 364,000 words on Thanksgiving Day of 2012; it is my longest work. Freedom’s Sons was written for largely the same reason that the whole NVA thing turned into a series and then a mythos—because of repeated new questions that arose along the line of what if? along with a whole new slew of nay-says along the line of “But we could never have our own country, Hurrold! They’d nuke us! They’d nuke us! Yaaaaaaahhh….” 

In other words, one more excuse to continue to do nothing. Finally I got tired of it. I figured that once more I’d better take these folks by the hand and walk them through it, so when they hang their heads, shuffle their feet, and slink away into the darkness, at least no one can say that it was anything I left unsaid or undone. 

Freedom’s Sons covers the first 50 years of the Northwest American Republic’s existence, as seen through the eyes of three families—one NVA, one more-or-less pro-Unionist, and one White refugee family forced to flee from the United States into the Republic in order to escape destruction at the hands of Amurrica. There are five sections to the novel, covering the first year after independence, the later attempt by the Americans to re-invade and enslave the Northwest Republic, then a quasi-mystical excursion into the Solutrean theory with a little spy and intrigue thrown in, then a tale of life on the NAR-American border complete with star-crossed lovers and a stupid negress for comic relief. Finally, an epilogue, 50 years after the Battle of Portland began.

In these five novels, the Northwest independence movement creates a vision of future White freedom in a country of our own, but more importantly we have now begun the process of changing the White man’s thinking, and hopefully transfiguring his character to the point where he can recover his ancient courage. These books for the moment are the primary items of propaganda the Northwest Migration possesses. They are our answer to what Bush the First called “the vision thing.” They show us what the cover of the puzzle box looks like. They need to get into the hands and the minds of as many White people as possible in our Movement. Because as I have said before—we don’t have a hell of a lot of time left.