Monday, September 29, 2014

Letter from Bill White, September 21st, 2014


Hello, Harold:

Typewritten letters are reaching me from most people, but all the mail here is erratic and its arrival is arbitrary. I am having to re-file my lawsuit on the mail abuses, which also slows down a resolution. Try a typewritten letter again and see if whatever guard is on the mail room that day understands the difference between typed and "internet-generated" and if he does, he is willing to give me my mail in violation of his orders from those men in suits that hide away behind the closed doors where we can only glimpse them occasionally.

The trial here was a travesty of justice, but that very travesty is what gives it value. White people overall are too law-abiding a people, and we easily suffer injustice, particularly when we are financially comfortable, while imagining that peaceful resolutions to our problems can be obtained from the authorities. The idea that our courts and our laws are corrupt is alien to us--even though those courts and laws are in the hands of aliens.

Thus, legal actions like the one that just occurred here in Orlando have to be used to make White people uncomfortable by showing that American courts will rule counter to the evidence when political dissidents are involved. The way to do this is to inform people of all the evidence, place transcripts online to prove what you are saying is true, and show people what the Talmudic legal system is--an injustice machine. 

In my case there was abundant evidence that I am completely innocent, including expert witness testimony that my dhyphen Yahoo e-mail and Facebook were hacked. The key government witness broke out in incoherent babbling and screaming during the trial. The government itself admitted in court that their evidence was bogus and their star witness is clinically insane, and yet still I was convicted.

[Subsequent comments redacted due to the "inherently violent and criminal nature" of this audience, i.e. you. Seriously, folks, because of that federal court ruling that everyone who reads this blog is some kind of mutant ninja turtle assassin awaiting Sublime William's Holy Command to wreak fire, eclipse, and blue ruin on the world, I'd better cut this next paragraph. These slithering rodents from the corridors of the Federal Building might indict him again for being uppity or for merely existing. They would most likely do it for the sheer fun of it, or because the Attorney General has promised a set of steak knives to the AUSA who can indict Bill White the most times. God knows, with these people. - HAC]

Historically, only when White people have been convinced that the legal system isn't working have they taken action. Let my situation spur our people to action.

Meanwhile, I have spent the past two weeks deep in both Old Saxon and Anglo-Saxon history. I have to say, the deeper I look into it, and the more I peel the onion, the more I see that there is something to this Saxon bloodline theory. In fact, I have re-written some chapters of Serpent's Blood so that I shouldn't have to apologize to Christian Identity. LOL. 

A lot of Christian Identity is just bad history and White Judaism, but--Saxons do,m archaeologically speaking, have ties to Scythia (the location the Israelites were expelled to) that go back to the fourth century. Those ties continued with the Khazars (the Ashkenazi Jews) into the 8th century. These ties are unique among the Germanic tribes. 

Also, as I mentioned in a previous letter, the Saxons had a unique bloodline-based racial kingship based on "Aryanness" which was defined as relationship to the Atheling, Arete-ing, or Aryan family of Wessex founder Cerdic. There are also some surface similarities between this ideal and the Merovingian-Frankish ideal of kingship.

So I'm not making bizarre statements about YHWH, sheking (sp?) or the various "ites," yet, but there is something to the idea of a Saxon bloodline. I first took it back to Henry II, then Malcolm III, then St. Edward, then Edgar, then Alfred and Eahlmund (sp?) before him, and now it looks almost as old as the Saxons themselves. I anticipate going back to do some basic work on neo-Platonism, Byzantium and the Khazars before I delve too much deeper into the Saxon bloodline, but I've seen enough to know that something differentiates the Saxons from the other Germanic tribes.

I just wish--and you can tell your CI readers this--that Christian Identity would move past discredited 19th-century pseudo-history and bunk Judeo-Masonic mysticism and develop a serious historical exegesis. Then they wouldn't have skeptics like me doing it for them.

In other news, I received a copy of Manticore Press's Aristokratia 2 on Friday. This journal, put out about yearly and available on Amazon.com, really is the cutting edge of so-called New Right philosophy, bringing in serious Nationalist thinkers from the U.S., Russia, Europe, South America, Australia and New Zealand. I'm in it, and they reviewed my book Tradition of the Mother--but so is a very wide cross-section of the brightest nationalist thinkers.

Otherwise, nothing is happening here. Time plods forward. I hope that this letter finds you well.

Sincerely,
Bill


William A. White #201400005514
John Polk Correctional Facility
211 Bush Boulevard
Sanford, FL 32773

Saturday, September 27, 2014

Jew Bosses Ukraine Militia




by Bill White

In mid-June, a battle raged for the port city of Mariopol. A new militia force launched an offensive against about 250 Russian militiamen loyal to the People’s Republic of Donetsk, who had seized the city from the Ukrainian government. The battle focused on a police station held by the separatists in which both armed militants and unarmed civilians had gathered to demand reunion with Russia. The conflict ended cruelly. The station was burned to the ground scores of women and children inside. Those fleeing the inferno were machine-gunned.

The massacre was the work of the Dnipro Battalion, a new force of mostly foreign mercenaries drawn from Zionist-backed forces around the world and financed by Igor Kolomaisky, a fat Jewish billionaire and banker who the Jewish-led government of Ukraine has appointed as “governor” of Dnipropetrovs’k, the same territory clamed by the Russian militias, According to statements made by Kolomaisky to the Rothschild-owned Wall Street Journal he is spending $10 million a month to equip 2000 men with heavy weapons. He claims his troops are coming from Romania and Georgia, and that he has a waiting list of 20,000 men ready to fill the places of casualties.

But critics note that Kolomaisky “Romanian and Georgian” advisors are really Mossad assets, Mossad-trained agents, or members of the UNA-UNSO cadre of mercenaries who launched the Zionist-0backed Maiden coup in May. Between 2004 and 2008, the Mossad sent advisors to Georgia train 25,000 Georgian troops on the use of military equipment provided by the United States. It also advised the government of Mikhail Saakashvili, a Zionist pawn installed by a joint operation by US neocon-linked non-government organization and the Zionist spy agency.

In June, Saakashvili and his Jewish advisors met with Kolomaisky to discuss operations against Russian forces.

Joining the Mossad forces from Romania is an extension of the UNA-UNSO group, a mercenary organization maintained by the CIA and NATO in Eastern Europe, primarily Lithuania and Poland, which fired on the Maidan demonstrators, killing 86 and fueling the violence which brought the current banker-Zionist to power.

Kolomaisky is a bloody Jewish butcher in the tradition of Ukraine’s Soviet commissars and has raised money from Jewish groups to finance the assassination of Ukrainian elected officials who support Russia. After Jewish advisors from the Palestinian occupation were killed in the battle for Mariopol, Kolomaisky told Oleg Tsarev, a pro-Russian member of the Ukrainian Parliament, that a million-dollar bounty was on his head for taking sacred Jewish lives.

54 members of the Dnipro Battalion have died so far while fighting to seize four small towns. These towns comprise the entirety of Kolmaisky’s authority.

The role of Kolomaisky and his Zionist advisors in the Eastern Ukraine parallels the role of Jews in the takeover of the country. While claiming to represent Ukrainian nationalism, international Jewry has seized the Ukraine both as a part of a larger geopolitical conflict with Russia and bring it into the slavery of the international banking system. The European Union and the United States have imposed a former World Bank official as Ukrainian Prime Minister and have moved quickly to offer “loans” which will be paid for through financial restructuring and the orientation of the Ukrainian economy toward payments on perpetual debt.

The chaos in Ukraine is part of a larger chaos erupting around the globe as US military power, broken by the failed U.S. economy, retreats and world Jewry launches independent operations to try to contain their self-proclaimed enemies. Often emanating from Georgia, Zionist “advisors” have trained, equipped and are now leading guerrilla forces from the Ukraine to Syria.

http://www.northwestfront.org 


Wednesday, September 24, 2014

Radio Free Northwest - September 25th, 2014



HAC on elderly Nationalists who lapse into mysticism, Gretchen does another book review, we hear from Edgar Steele on the subject of Martin Lucifer Koon, then HAC bitches about the pathetic White attention span.

Sunday, September 21, 2014

More From A Distant Thunder


[Part two of the second chapter of the Northwest independence novel A Distant Thunder, wherein a very old veteran of the NVA talks about his experiences before and during the Northwest War of Independence. - HAC]

Woodchuck Kid (Part Two)

Damn. How can I explain to you what life was like back then?

The little girl from the university tells me the purpose of me sitting here maundering into the videocam is to preserve all this clutter for posterity, and also so future historians can listen to me and from my babbled fragments reconstruct the reason for The Awakening, as they’re starting to call it. Yeah, I guess it’s a pretty interesting question, if you think about it. For almost three generations the white race ate every serving of shit that ZOG chose to dollop out to us, grinning like egg-suck dogs while we scarfed it all down and licked the plate. 

So what changed? Just why, exactly, during the early decades of the twenty-first century did the white man finally decide to fight, at the eleventh hour and the fifty-ninth minute and the fifty-ninth second? What made the white man finally get up off his ass and pick up a gun after a lifetime of allowing the Federal government of the United States to do pretty much any damned thing it wanted to do?

Hell if I know.

I keep getting asked that all the time. I think some of us even talked about it among ourselves back then, to while away the hours on the bounce. Can’t really remember what we ever decided, if anything. Young people look at me like I have the key to some great secret. If I knew it I’d share it with you, believe me. It’s sure something we need. Whatever the hell it was, our race didn’t stumble across it until it was almost too damned late. But really, I don’t know. When you live through something, it doesn’t necessarily mean that you understand every little thing about it.

I’ll tell you this much: I don’t remember the war as being this big long heroic adventure that our NBA films and books and documentaries portray, that’s for sure. You want to know the truth of the matter, it wasn’t a very pleasant experience. War isn’t. Long periods of paranoid and nervous boredom broken by brief outbursts of madness and horror. But as to why white people finally revolted? The best I can tell you is that there wasn’t any one reason, it was a whole combination of things that just happened to fall into place just right. Or wrong.

You can only push people so far. At some point, there was just some final straw that broke the camel’s back, and thanks to the Party and the Incomers, the white racial settlers from around the continent who came to the Northwest, we were able to reach critical mass and blow. But precisely what that ultimate straw was, I haven’t got a clue. Didn’t then, don’t now.

Life is so utterly and completely different now that it passes comprehension. I don’t think anyone who’s not of my generation can really imagine what it was like back then. Sometimes I sit here and I look at my grandchildren and I see the calm and safe, all-white world of peace and plenty they live in, this beautiful town of mine and this land of ours, and I swear I think I dreamed it all or imagined it, that my childhood and my young manhood was some kind of nightmare I had and then I finally woke up in the world as it should be.

The main difference is that life is good now for most people. A white child has a chance now, a chance to be a child without fear and worry. A child can ride a bike and play down at the creek and walk home from school without any risk of being kidnapped and buggered and chopped into pieces by a pervert. A child has a chance to grow into a young man or a woman instead of a—well, what we were then, a kind of half-insane consumer zombie. People in the Republic are happy, mostly. Or at least you have a proper chance to be happy in the Republic, which we never had when I was young. Hell, when you don’t have to look at niggers every day and you don’t have to hear Spanish and Tagalog and Muckety-Muck being gibbered everywhere, you’re halfway to bliss already. And for those who feel the ancient restlessness and who want the sight of strange new things and the feel of strange new places under their feet, as is natural with our Folk, there are the very planets above us, or the scientific laboratories where Aryans are unlocking the secrets of the universe even as we speak. Whatever a white man or woman wants to be, now they can be.

But how can I describe to you what it was like when nobody was happy at all? It’s like that bit I mentioned yesterday about every other person you saw on the street being fat? You can’t really believe that, can you? When was the last time you actually saw a grossly overweight person in your time here in the Republic? Our national diet doesn’t include all that garbage people used to eat under ZOG. Junk food, junk politics, and a junk life. 

The Northwest American Republic doesn’t poison its own people to make money. That fact alone should give you a shrewd idea of one big difference between now and then. We don’t do much of anything here solely for the purpose of making money, which is something completely unimaginable in the world into which I was born. That Jewess Ayn Rand got her books burned right alongside the Marxism and the pornography. 

In cases where people have bona fide thyroid conditions, we now have a simple enzyme therapy that soups up your metabolism and in a couple of months you’re running marathons. That’s just one example of a social problem that existed before the revolution, and which is now completely gone. There were about a hundred other little pissant things we had to put up with then that don’t exist any more, from traffic jams to air pollution to functional illiteracy to foul-mouthed children talking like niggers. 

Nowadays only dirty old coots like me do that. I apologize for my language, young lady, and I know such words aren’t used in polite society any more, and so they shouldn’t be. But if you want me to go back to that time then you’re going to get all of it, and one truth about those times was that the American dialect of the English language had become negrified or ebonicized or whatever the hell you want to call it. 

We all talked like whiggers back then. We didn’t know any better. Hey, we heard blacks talking like that all the time on TV, and whatever was on TV must be right, eh? Polite or not, I’m sure you’ve heard it before from your older relatives. I once heard someone say we have the only society in the world where it’s the grandmothers who shock and embarrass their granddaughters at the dinner table.

Even now, I bet you half-disbelieve me or think I’m exaggerating, right? There never really was any such thing as fat people, and this old fool is making all this up, right? That’s okay, ma’am. Disbelief is human nature and in this case it’s a sign of healthy racial instincts. Christ, honey, do you have any idea how lucky you are not to have known any of this? How lucky you are that you don’t know? How lucky you are that you can disbelieve?

We did it all for you, you know.

The main thing I suppose that stands out in my mind about life in them United States was that everybody was miserable. Wretchedly, bitterly, soul-destroyingly unhappy. I think every white person alive in the year 2000 understood instinctively that something was terribly wrong with the world, even if they didn’t know what. My own childhood was pretty crappy, but it was by no means atypical, and in fact it was actually better than some. My parents were drunks but they didn’t divorce, they neglected me but they never burned my fingers on the stove or beat me black and blue when I was a child, and I always had enough innate good sense not to pick up their bottle and to stay away from drugs. I wasn’t born with HIV or addicted to crack cocaine because my mother was a junkie, and I wasn’t abducted and murdered and left in a ditch. 

As horrifying as it sounds, in many respects my family was emotionally and socially quite typical. Everybody was dysfunctional. There was no “normal” left. From the richest kids on down to trailer trash like me, we lived our lives all doped up, dumbed down, zoned out, pregnant, half insane with rage all the time, confused, hostile, paranoid, dishonest, vicious and mean and looking out for nobody but Number One.

Everybody had problems, terrible problems that poisoned our very existence, and we were all being eaten alive inside like we’d swallowed acid. Life in the United States was a nightmare from which we were all desperately trying to awaken, but we never could. Nobody ever got a chance to stop and smell the roses. There weren’t any roses left any more to smell, anyway. 

There was a weird kind of reverse Midas touch in operation throughout the world: everything America touched turned to shit. We were all too busy scrambling and scrabbling and scrimping for small sums of money to pay a hundred little pissant bills. Drivers used to go insane and murder one another over minor traffic mishaps. It was called road rage. Happened all the time. You know what happens when you keep too many rats in too small a cage, ma’am? They start attacking and eating one another. That was America at the beginning of the 21st century.

The majority of white marriages ended in divorce. At least a third of all young white men and women of marriageable age lived alone, because they couldn’t stand one another. Feminism taught women to hate men, and the men returned the favor. How can you marry and love someone you’ve been taught all your life to view as an enemy and a competitor?

A whole generation of white children grew up as latch-key kids, dumped in a day care center or a school every morning before Mommy and Daddy or the single parent of the household went to work. The kids came home to an empty house and the boob tube, sometimes with a TV dinner sitting in the oven. More than any nigger gun or knife, more than any needle of heroin or line of coke, more than any perversion of thought practiced by the Jews upon our minds, this so-called liberation of women destroyed two generations of us. When a race of people loses its women, it loses everything.

Oh, it wasn’t all bad. Nothing ever is. Sure, there was laughter, but it was a mechanical laugh track from TV. It was the shrill, forced laughter of people who were on the edge of the abyss and just barely coping, who knew they had to laugh at least a little to stay sane.

There were good times in the old America I knew, but they all involved either deadening your brain with drink or drugs or television, or withdrawing into some fantasy world on the computer every night, or else doing stupid, dangerous, pointless things for an adrenalin rush, like bungee jumping or rock climbing or leaping out of airplanes and skateboarding down on a parachute. The good times had a kind of brittle, hysterical edge to them, a conscious effort to escape from a world that everyone knew in their hearts had turned to purest dog doo.

Right, getting back on track, how the hell do I explain to someone who never knew it what life was like under Zion?

The first thing you have to understand is that in those days the United States was a society driven by one thing and one thing only, money. Christians call it the worship of Mammon. I have my own thoughts about God, but I will tell you this much: the only god America worshipped in the days of my youth was Mammon, gold ringing in the till so to speak. It wasn’t real gold and silver like we use today, but numbers on a computer spread sheet. They called it the bottom line and the bottom line ruled every aspect of our existence.

Everything was completely and utterly material, and if you tried to suggest there might be something more in life than chasing the almighty dollar you were looked at like you were a lunatic. I remember seeing these little computer-printed signs on office walls about how “Life is a game, and the one who dies with the most toys wins.” There were people who actually believed that. I guess they thought that if they could only live long enough, science would find some way for them to take all their money and silly little toys with them.

Seriously, I think that’s what they were trying for. One of the big things you always heard about on the news in them days was various types of genetic and medical research into the possibility of immortality. By the time I hit my own teenaged years, the first wave of post-World War Two Baby Boomers were finally being carted off to the cemeteries and the fogey farms, and let me tell you, they did not go gentle into that good night.

Those Baby Boomers fought and scratched and kicked and screamed every inch of the way, absolutely refusing to admit that their generation was finally getting old. One of the biggest growth industries in them days was plastic surgery, botox injections, hormone treatments, every baldness cure you can think of, anything that might halt or reverse the Baby Boomers’ aging process.

When I reached my own codgerdom I came to understand how they felt. Hell, no one wants to grow old, but dammit, you should at least try and be a man about it. There was always something desperate and pathetic about it in those days, all those hippy-dippy flower children from the 1960s scrambling and clawing to fight off the fact that their time was over now, and they’d pretty much all done what they come here to do. It lacked dignity, and sometimes dignity is all an old coot or old crone has left in life. 

And if you work it right, that’s enough. Well, you wanted stream of consciousness. Remembering all those hippy-dippy assholes trying to stay young or at least middle-aged was one of the first things to float to the surface in my particular stream. 

Money, money, money, it was all about money. Some asshole was always screaming at you demanding it, and no one ever had enough of it. Everybody except the very top echelon of truly wealthy people was always broke and up to their chins in bills and damned near insoluble financial problems. Mortgage, rent, credit card debt, car payments and repairs, sky-high utility bills, the astronomical cost of food and clothing if you were trying to raise a family.

And God help you if you or a member of your family got sick. Today in the Northwest Republic, the very thought of the medical vocation charging money to save people’s lives and make sick little children well is held in revulsion. Free medical care is held to be a right in the Republic’s Constitution right on up there with freedom of speech and religion and the right to keep and bear arms. But in those days a sick child or a heart attack would wipe out a lifetime’s hard work in a few months and destroy the future of an entire family.

America had three rules back then: don’t be poor, don’t be sick, and for God’s sake, don’t get old. I don’t exactly cotton to being ninety-one years of age, but at least I’m ninety-one here in the Republic. The thought of being old in the United States chills my blood to this day.

I wouldn’t have made it this far, actually, if we’d stayed with ZOG. The state would have dragged me away to the fogey farm under the Senior Citizens’ Quality of Life act, which basically gave the government the power to throw old people away once their insurance ran out, and some Third World quack would have given me the hot shot long ago, like that kike Friedman murdered my Dad. 

The average life span of old folks locked up in those fogey farms was less than six months, especially the ones that were “privatized” as they called it back then, farmed out to entrepeneurs wearing turbans or yarmulkes. If I wasn’t legally euthanized I would have died of neglect or been poisoned or beaten to death by my Filipino and Nigerian “caregivers.” Elderly white people who had no money or whose insurance ran out, and that was most of ‘em, got the short end of the stick like you wouldn’t believe.

Social Security finally went down the tubes when I was—twelve? Thirteen? Can’t remember—but even before Social Security went, there were old white people in America who lived on dog food, at least at the end of the month before their checks arrived. Once Social Security was gone, life for old people was a horror beyond comprehension. If you had no children who were able or willing to take care of you, then the only alternative was one of those fogey farms run by the state if you were lucky and run by a turban or a yarmulke if you weren’t. Then came the hot shot.

Oh, there were a few of those hellholes run by “faith-based initiatives,” which was part of a complex system wherein tax money was funneled to the religious right in exchange for pro-Zionist bloc voting to keep the neo-cons in power and keep the endless war in the Middle East going.

I remember seeing busloads of old people being driven up to the polls in Dundee and marched in, with their preacher handing them their ballots at the door and a nice young deacon to escort each of them in and make sure they pulled the right levers. What were neo-cons? It means neo-conservatives. They were Jews who pretended to be conservatives. We eventually managed to track them all down and kill them. Anyway, at those “faith-based” fogey farms they made you jump for Jeeee-zus twice a week, as opposed to Jesus, in exchange for your bed in some crowded dormitory of sick and dying and half-insane old people. 

But I’ll say this, they at least kept you alive so you could vote, and indeed you’d most likely vote a few times after you croaked, too. No, not Jesus, Jeeee-zus. What’s the difference? Jesus is the son of God, Jeeee-zus was who the tub-thumping fools in some of the churches jumped for. Long story, don’t worry, I’ll ramble over in that direction eventually, when I talk about the Wingfields. They were into Jesus, not Jeeee-zus. But that’s really how you want to end your days, eh? In a warehouse for geezers. Several years before the revolution an epidemic of suicide among the elderly broke out. Tens of thousands of old people every year killed themselves with gas or pills or hanging or any guns they’d managed to save from Schumer Act confiscation.

A lot of times it would happen when the cops or the IRS came to drag some poor old man or woman or couple out of their foreclosed home and take them to the fogey farm. The police would break in and find ‘em dead. There’d be some horrible story like that on the evening news nearly every day, back when I was growing up. That’s one thing I remember from my childhood. You always heard about old white people killing themselves.

Of course, life wasn’t exactly a breeze for young people either, if you had a white skin. Leastways if you had a white skin and you liked girls. 

When I say that it was all about money, you understand I’m not referring to the consumer society of the late twentieth century. Three cars in the garage, split-level ranch home with a swimming pool in the back, two-hundred dollar tennis shoes named after some niggerball player, a closet full of clothes and a room full of computer toys, conspicuous consumption, the whole Brady Bunch scene—by the time I was coming along these things didn’t exist any more, except for a tiny minority of very rich people who lived in what were called gated communities, meaning fortified compounds with fences, armed guards and dog teams to keep the poor people of any race out.

The American kids I knew when I was growing up were all poor and wretched, because none of the rich kids went to public schools. They had their own private schools that cost more for a semester than my father made in a year. We all knew about the great American consumer lifestyle, of course, because we saw it every night on TV, but that was the only place it existed. On TV.

The fact was that during the first couple of decades of the twenty-first century, nobody had any money for all those fancy consumer goods and toys, except what you bought on your twenty-nine percent interest credit cards. In the latter part of the twentieth century you could actually do a Chapter Seven and get out of the cards, but then along came “bankruptcy reform” which was pushed by the banks and credit card companies, with a cute little sub-clause that allowed for “debt inheritance” so you couldn’t even really get out of that crushing debt by kicking the bucket. All of a sudden not only you but your children and your grandchildren were saddled with paying for that sport utility vehicle at twenty-nine per cent, for life.

The loansharks would load you up with credit cards by the time you were twenty-one, and then you spent the rest of your life in a kind of financial slavery paying the cards and their outrageous interest. If you were a guy, of course, there was the crushing alimony and child support from your first marriage. Everybody had a first or starter marriage in those days, and the way the courts were completely slanted against men, that was another form of financial slavery you could expect to last twenty or thirty years. 

Basically, a white male lived his entire life paying bills, and as the years went by and ZOG became more and more confused and incompetent and greedy, they became harder and harder to pay. The economic power structure thought maybe ten minutes ahead, if that. It stands to reason that you can’t expect people to pay credit card bills on the one hand, while you’re shipping their jobs out to India and Malaysia and Guatemala by the millions on the other hand. You would have thought they would have figured that out and worked out some arrangement whereby at least the peons would have jobs to earn the money to pay their debts, but the system never did quite catch on to those little basics. Or maybe they knew it all along and just didn’t care. Maybe they were just evil.

I’ve never been able to figure that out. How much of what we went through back then was because the Jews and the rich white men in business suits who ruled over us were just stupid and uncaring, thinking of us as their livestock to shear and slaughter as they liked, and how much of what they did was because they were truly evil and meant to hurt and destroy in furtherance of some weird conspiracy. It was both, I know, but I never understood in what proportion. I think there was a strong element of plain sadism; some of the stuff they did to us back then was so petty and cruel that they had to know it and just got some kind of kick out of it. Anyway, they all deserved nothing but a bullet in their heads and by God, some of them got it.

Unemployment was a ghoul that was always present in our lives, there in the background, cold skeleton hands around our necks. It was something we lived with, like people in the Middle Ages lived with the Black Death, this terrible invisible demon that could descend at any moment and destroy everything we had. A few missed paychecks and it was welcome to the Salvation Army hostel. 

It’s not that there was no work. There is always work to be done, anywhere, but for every unskilled and semi-skilled job there were hordes of Mexicans willing to work like cart horses for chicken feed. When the capitalists found it inconvenient to ship American jobs to the Third World, they brought the Third World here. When I was growing up you could still see a few white men doing manual labor, but by the time I was in high school every road crew, landscape crew, or roofing team was Mexican. 

Whole industries became closed to native-born white Americans, as all the local convenience stores and filling station franchises and motels were bought up by Sikhs, Koreans, or Arabs who hired no one but their own relatives just off the jumbo jet. White faces disappeared from behind the counters of stores and the kitchens of restaurants. One job after another, bottom rung employment was closed off to whites, and those of us who didn’t have the skills or usually the money and connections to jump a few rungs never got on the ladder at all. 

Not just bottom rung, either. Mexicans replaced whites at the lower end while Asians and Indians replaced whites at the high end. My dad had a masters degree in structural design and a solid resumé despite his drinking. When he was sober he was damned good at what he did. But as time went on he couldn’t even get temp work because some Hindu or Chinese with a degree from Ching Hoo U. would work for half his rate. To complain or protest about this sitch invited an arrest for hatecrime under the Dees Act, so whites ended up competing desperately and brutally with each other for the few jobs that were open to gringos.  

Since pretty much all the jobs that were available paid nothing but a crappy minimum wage that no white man could live on, never mind support a family on, it followed that no one could make it on just one job. Most people had two or three. It was by no means unusual to know a married couple who had five jobs between them, and that didn’t leave much for the young guys like me coming up on the bottom rung with a couple of strikes against them already.

Discrimination against whites, especially white males, was everywhere. It was just one of the things we all accepted and tried to work around. College admission was by quota unless the parents were rich enough to just plain buy a white boy in. I never even got onto the college track, because the guidance counselors knew my family had no money and I had no chance at a scholarship. It wasn’t even discussed. 

But I remember from the few kids at Dundee High who were being considered for college track that the first thing their higher education counselors asked was if they could claim membership in any minority group,some obscure Indian tribe no one ever heard of, a non-white great-grandparent, anything. Often they had to claim to be a faggot or a dyke to get into university, until the authorities caught on to that and started asking for affidavits from—no, ma’am, I am not making that up!

The discrimination against white Americans took a dozen forms. It started with the growing demand down through the years that in order to get a job you had to speak Spanish. If you spoke only English then you just didn’t get any job that required dealing with the increasingly foreign and non-white public, anything from a grocery checkout clerk to a telemarketer. 

Things got so bad that there were white parents who voluntarily gave up their own children to It Takes A Village in order to have them placed with wealthy liberals and faggots who could afford the adoption bond, because they knew it was the only way their kids would ever be able to go to college and have any kind of future. 

By the time I hit high school, the safety net was pretty much all gone and you either knew somebody who already had a job who could get you in, or else you ended up on Workfare, which was state-paid slave labor for less than minimum wage. When that wasn’t available, and it usually wasn’t, you didn’t work, period, and more often than not it was off to the homeless shelter or the hobo jungle under the old underpass outside of town. Not like our National Labor Service today where every citizen of the Republic is guaranteed some kind of gainful employment. 

The ZOG power structure had never really been comfortable with anything that involved white people taking money out of the kitty instead of putting it in. White males were like the peasants of the Middle Ages; our role in society was always to work so that all might eat. But capitalism decided we were too pricey, and so they brought in millions of Third World immigrants to replace us and more or less tried to breed us out of existence. 

Gradually, over a period of about fifty years, all the entitlements were chipped away and replaced with things like those big grants to the so-called “faith-based initiatives” I mentioned. In other words, it was still possible for white people of the right politically correct stripe to get their hooks into Federal tax money, all right, but not as something you were entitled to because you’d worked like a dog all your life and paid in. Instead there appeared all kinds of political quid pro quo. The money was doled out in the form of “community grants,” etc. In other words, as bribes for votes and political favors. Politically, America became Chicago writ large. Racially, America became Brazil.

Materialism was total. The only spiritual aspect to American life, if you want to call it that, was among a fairly significant number of quasi-fundamentalist Christians in what was known as the religious right, but that wasn’t really a religion, it was just a theological smokescreen for Zionism, which is a political and racial ideology. The ones like old Walter who were always jumping for Jeeee-zus on TV or running around in public handing out those silly little comic books or hollering through bullhorns about how Israel was the fulfillment of Biblical prophecy and God wanted us to slaughter every Muslim in the world who wouldn’t bow down and convert.  

When I was growing up, everything we used or bought or saw around us was shoddy and half-assed. The stuff we bought at Mighty Mart was all cheap plastic made in Taiwan or some South American shithole under NAFTA. Cars and computers and appliances were constantly breaking down because of substandard Third World workmanship and planned obsolescence. 

Nobody could spell correctly any more; even computer spell check programs had errors in them. The roads and highways were full of potholes. There were constant power outages and brownouts because the electrical grid was so archaic and overloaded. There were constant cases of ptomaine poisoning and botulism arising out of the fact that America wasn’t even producing much of our own food any more; we were either importing bacterial mad-cow beef for our hamburgers or sending our own food overseas to be processed and canned up with whatever exotic Asian or African plague the workers in the latest capitalist paradise suffered from. The public schools were falling apart, and so were a lot of the private schools since no one had any money to support them any more, and they had all succumbed to forced diversity and political correctness. 

Our textbooks were twenty years old and nothing but politically correct, dumbed-down drivel anyway. Our teachers were pig-ignorant and sometimes just barely spoke English. Health care, when you could get it, was substandard and mostly carried out by Third World immigrants whose medical degrees came from Roachistan U. There were regular scandals at the Veterans’ Administration hospitals involving death by neglect and murder of patients for sport by the staff, although once euthanasia for the elderly became law that was only a misdemeanor.

A hundred times a day we were reminded that white people were a minority in our own land, and a despised one at that. You turned on the TV and it was nothing but black and brown and yellow faces. You went to the post office and tried to buy stamps from some hadji who’d just walked off the jumbo jet and into a government job because back in Iraq or Saudi he’d been a traitor who collaborated with the invaders of his country and been rewarded with a green card, but who didn’t even speak English. In some cases our glorious Crusaders bribed whole Muslim armies to surrender without a fight that might produce embarrassing casualties by offering them all green cards, a practice that began with the First Gulf War in 1991. 

All around us, we heard a dozen languages, but above all the eternal gabble of that half-assed, almost illiterate bastard Spanish that Central American Latinos speak. Everywhere we went it seemed there were brown-skinned immigrants of some kind ahead of us in line, always holding us up with their inability to speak our language. Always you wanted to scream out “What the hell are you doing in my country?” But if you ever did, if you ever so much as whispered a word of complaint or criticism, you were finished. Hatecrime.

Anything non-white was officially cool and admirable and anything white or European was by definition lame and contemptible. For white people, especially white males, there was a constant atmosphere of insult. On TV and everywhere else, white men were portrayed as buffoons. We were all Homer Simpsons or Hank Hills. Those are old cartoon characters. I don’t know if they are teaching kids in our Republic’s schools today about Homer Simpson. If not, they should be, because that’s how white men were portrayed, as bumbling, drunken, stupid fools instead of the head of a family who deserved respect and trust. 

One of the ways I think ZOG might have avoided the revolution is if they’d just not insulted us all the time. If they’d let us retain some kind of sense of dignity, pride, and self-worth. But they just had to rub our noses in it.

We all lived with a constant sense of fear, especially fear of the informer. For years it was never official, it was just understood that there were certain things a white person, especially a white male, did not say and certain opinions one did not voice or else bad things would happen, anything from loss of employment to a malicious lawsuit to unpunished assault and murder by left-wing or non-white thugs. 

A couple of years before 10/22 ZOG got so nervous about the growing rumblings of discontent from the pale peasantry that they made it official. They passed the Dees Act, allegedly to “promote diversity and protect minority rights in the workplace, including transit to and from the workplace, and in public institutions of learning,” i.e. all public schools, universities and colleges, and any private school getting so much as a dime of Federal money. 

The Dees Act slapped a mandatory five-year prison sentence on anything and everything politically incorrect, from “causing mental anguish on the basis of race, religion, ethnicity or sexual orientation” to “creating a hostile workplace environment,” “inappropriately directed laughter,” and “deliberate exclusion from conversation and social interaction in the workplace.” 

In other words, white people gathering in corners and talking to one another was in itself an act of insurrection, and every lunch table and extracurricular activity had to have an affirmative action quota of blacks, browns, and bugger boys to monitor what the pale peasants were saying. We were constantly bombarded with all this blather about how great Amurrica was and how we supposedly had all this liberty and freedom and that was why we had to “fight for our country” by going to the Middle East and slaughtering the natives. (Needless to say, any mention of Israel got airbrushed out of the picture real quick.) 

Liberty, my ass! Ordinary white people were always afraid. Any time a white person was about to make any kind of racial or other remark that might have seemed even faintly politically incorrect, they looked over their shoulder first to see who was listening. That is the mark of a true police state. Any time you have to look over your shoulder for fear of who might be listening, you’re not free.

Then there was the almost obligatory race-mixing and perversion. In school and on the tube we were always having our noses rubbed in interracial couples, gay couples, man-sheep couples, you name it. We all somehow understood that of all the taboos, speaking out against seeing some white girl with a nigger or a mud was the strongest and that it would bring the most severe retaliation. We were all made aware in a hundred sub rosa ways that it was the intention of our lords and masters that all babies should eventually be brown, and that this was supposed to be a good thing. 

Yet to me, and I know to most of my contemporaries, it never felt right. In Dundee itself, I am sorry to say race-mixing was, if not common, at least there. We only had a couple of blacks in town, but there were always illegal Mexicans looking for their La Gordas, white women who were so hugely fat that having a spic marry her to get his green card was the only way she would ever get a man. 

The foulest thing of all was the sex education courses. Fortunately by the time it got really bad I was in high school and the system assumed I already knew the whole kama sutra, so all I had to do was collect my weekly condom ration in homeroom, which I then traded to convenience stores for a chili dog or a microwave burrito. 

But young children in elementary school were being given illustrated courses in various unnatural acts and told to pair off in class with someone of the same sex and kiss them. One outraged father in Dundee went to jail for hatecrime under the Dees Act when he pulled his son out of such a class and then lost it with the teacher and called him a faggot. Got the full nickel, too, but he was murdered by Mexicans in prison so he never completed his sentence.

     

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 A Distant Thunder may be purchased from Amazon.com at 

From The Bill White Archives




Glenn Beck Asks White Men To Embrace Black Communism

by Bill White

Zionist talk show host Glenn Beck has begun to intervene in the conflict around the Bundy Ranch, in Clark County, Nevada, by urging White workers to embrace negro Communist Martin Luther King and abandoning a rhetoric threatening revolution against the neo-Marxist régime itself.

In his continuing response to the armed standoff in which citizen militias forced the Bureau of Land Management to back down and return several hundred cattle stolen from rancher Cliven Bundy, Beck told his listeners that “the U.S. military has been prepared for the Bubba Revolution for a long time. They’re prepared for you. I know. I’m friends with the men trained to do this. You say you want a revolution. Do you have a plan? Because they have a plan and you’re not going to like it.”

Beck then went on to make a veiled attack on the American Free Press, saying “These guys have wanted a revolution for a long time.” Beck compared AFP and White militants at Bundy Ranch to Malcolm X and then claimed he was Martin Luther King Jr., as common thread on Beck’s show.

Martin Lither King Jr. was a fringe black Communist who was deified after his 1968 assassination, King’s Communist politics, which called for internationalism, open borders, and the forced and false “equality” of the races largely mirror Beck’s own.

Beck is an establishment shill who never hesitates to abandon his own pretended principle when they conflict with the financial interests that control him. Beck has never hesitated to embrace militant homosexualism and other extremist causes when they serve his purposes. For instance, when the global élite decided to demonize Vladimir Putin during the Sochi Olympics, Beck stepped in with nonsense concept called “hetero-fascism” and joined the bandwagon against Putin’s Christian and conservative views.

As such, it is no surprise that Beck will be standing with the forces of American tyranny when they decide to massacre White workers. Beck often brags of the Mossad bodyguards the Zionists in Palestine have thoughtfully provided him, and is part of the fetishization of U.S. Special Forces, who are ordinary people who have been tortured and abused by the military until the basic human circuitry that keeps them from doing wrong has been overridden, in the same way that dogs become vicious after being fed gunpowder. U.S. Special forces, being lightly armed, are placed in the most high-risk situations and tend to suffer the most casualties, even when fighting goat herders in Somalia and Afghanistan. But in return for being cannon fodder and being willing to commit any crime they’re asked, the wealthy interests they protect celebrate them in the media.

 As the segment drew to an end: Beck made his viewpoint clear: “Is there any question that if [Constitutional militias] took power, they’d put me and [co-hosts] Pat and Stu on trial for betraying the revolution? There’s no question in my mind."

Friday, September 19, 2014

New Northwest Front Video



Thanks to Comrade J.S.

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

Radio Free Northwest - September 18th, 2014





HAC gives a brief Edgar Steele update and concludes his July interview with radio host Mike Harris. We hear from a British comrade, Gretchen reviews a book on rightist politics, and Andy talks about the NF and moral standards.

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

The Shape Of Things To Come


[Northwest novel promotion time again. This is beginning of the second chapter of A Distant Thunder. - HAC]



Woodchuck Kid (Part One)

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,

The pangs of despis’d love, the law’s delay,

The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of the unworthy takes….?

-Hamlet, Act III, Scene One

Good morning, ma’am. You all set up? If you’re ready to record I’m ready to ramble.

I suppose it’s best to start at the beginning. I’ll go ahead and get the family and childhood stuff out of the way, so I can get on with the real story. My full name is Shane Alan Ryan. I was born in Providence Hospital in Dundee, Washington, ninety-one years ago last month. 

I’ve lived in Dundee most of my life except for my tour of military duty during the War of Independence with the Northwest Volunteer Army, and again when I was called up by the Northwest Defense Force during Operation Strikeout, when I got as far north as Chilliwack in B.C. and as far south as Chico in California. We had to pull back from Chico after the armistice. Never particularly wanted to live anywhere else than Dundee. Grow where you’re planted, I always figured. Oh, yeah, I been to Spokane and Coeur d’Alene and Jackson Hole, Wyoming since then, but that was on vacation.

Married twice, widowed twice, no children from the first marriage to my lifelong regret, eight from the second and something on the order of twenty-four grandchildren, number twenty-five coming along next week sometime, and six great-grandkids, including that little three-year-old imp of Satan who is about to pull the tripod out from under your camera, and whom you have my permission to smack. 

I been retired for more years than I care to remember. I’ve worked at the methane power plant out on Clark Highway, and I also ran a vacuum sealer at the cannery down on the harbor. Worked for the Party as well. For some years I was chief immigrant housing officer for the Bureau of Race and Resettlement. I always had a partiality for German Homecomers, and my efforts are one reason why we have one of the biggest Oktoberfests in the Republic and why you can buy the Lëwischer Zeitung from a rack right beside the Dundee Advertiser. 

After I retired from the Bureau, just for something to do, my last job was as a night watchman at a Ministry of Agriculture cranberry processing plant. I have three pensions, one from the Veteran’s Fund and one from the cannery, plus my usual government Codger Credit. When I croak, which should be sometime fairly soon, the Sons and Daughters of the NVA will bury me for free beside both of my late wives and give me a nice marble headstone with the Volunteer seal and the little statue of the guy in the fedora hat holding the Kalashnikov on top, which in my case is accurate because I did tote an AK on a few occasions, like the Rothstein hit I told you about yesterday. Once a year on October twenty-second, the local school children will come and pull up the weeds and replace the little vinyl Tricolor on my grave before their class goes off and eat themselves sick at their Independence Day party, so I’m pretty much taken care of. Not a bad way to end up at my age, I’ll give the revolution that. Damned sight better shape than I would have been in if we’d stayed with ZOG.

My birth in Providence Hospital was notable in being the last major medical expense my family ever had that was covered by health insurance. Lucky for us, I was the youngest of three children. Two months after I was born, my father was downsized from the last living-wage job with full benefits he would ever hold. From then on he worked at a series of temporary jobs with no bennies until each job in turn was lost to India or China or Guatemala when they found some mud who could do it for fifty cents a day. 

My father was an architect and a drunk, then he became an architectural draftsman and a drunk, then he was a consultant and a drunk, then a warehouse freight checker and a drunk, and finally he was just a drunk. We went from a split-level ranch on Country Club Drive when I was a baby, to a roomy but rundown two-story 1920s fixer-upper we lived in until I was ten, then a four-room renter house, then a series of smaller and smaller apartments, By the time that, to everyone’s surprise, I made it to high school graduation, we were in a twenty-year-old mobile home out on Dead Dog Road.

My mom was a secretary, then a bookkeeper, and finally she ended up working behind the counter in a laundromat run by a Pakistani. She was a bad drunk too, but she always held her liquor a lot better than Dad and usually you couldn’t tell when she was sloshed except by how mean and hateful she talked, about everyone and everything. Dad alternately raged at the world and wallowed in self-pity, but he never did anything about it. Didn’t even get in fights. I always had the impression that at some point in time he’d just given up on it all in sheer bafflement. He once told me when he was really plastered that life is an endless ordeal of meaningless suffering, and the only advice he could offer me was to save string, which might have been pretty profound if I hadn’t learned later on that he’d gotten that line from a Woody Allen movie. 

Mom. on the other hand, would do things, evil nasty things, like spiking her office rivals’ coffee with a little plastic pack of shampoo, sending people anonymous letters and e-mails telling them their spouse was cheating, that kind of petty malicious crap. In later years she took to calling government snitch lines anonymously to accuse people she didn’t like of being drug dealers, child abusers, and later on of being with the NVA, whether it was true or not. During the war I was always scared Mom would really ID one of our people by accident and rat them out, and then I’d be the one sent to whack her. I didn’t particularly like her, but it would have been very disrespectful.

One day the FBI rocked up at the trailer and enlightened her that I wasn’t traveling the Northwest as a Secret Shopper for Mighty Mart, and that I was really a Volunteer. I like to think that she never turned me in because I was family, but I have to admit I always suspected it was because she knew what would happen if she did. Death would have seriously interfered with her drinking. 

But after that, on my brief and infrequent covert visits home Mom kept nagging me to shoot the neighbors, or her co-workers, or whoever was on her hate list at the time. So I had to stop coming around, because I’d say no and she’d start whimpering about how I didn’t love her, trying to make me feel guilty because I wouldn’t be her private angel of death avenging all her petty hatreds and disappointments in life. Eventually another NVA crew from Centralia caught up with the Paki owner of the laundromat where she worked. The boys thumped him gentle and artistic with baseball bats, an axe handle, and a piece of steel rebar. After the wog got out of the hospital he decided the grass was greener in Los Angeles, so Mom lost her job and she quit speaking to me, which I was frankly glad of.

After the revolution I had a word with a comrade I knew on the Lewis County enemy property expropriations committee, and he gave the laundromat to Mom. She hired some new migrants from Switzerland to run it for her, it made her the boss and kept her in booze until she died of cancer, and so from that point on I was just the best and most loving son in the world, a heroic fighter for our people’s freedom, blah blah blah ishkabibble. That kind of relationship. You’ll know what I mean if you’ve ever had to deal with an alcoholic in the family. 
     
Dad was euthanized a few months after I went on the bounce. I don’t think it had anything to do with me being NVA. I hope not, anyway. He had been admitted to the hospital for liver failure due to severe cirrhosis. He had no medical insurance, and needless to say he couldn’t afford a liver transplant. Medicare was long gone, Obamacare sank out of sight years before, and Medicaid had finally folded up completely a year before, so Dad was certified as terminal by a Jew doctor named Friedman. 

One morning my Mom got a call at work saying Dad had been given a lethal injection of sodium pentathol the night before under Article So and So, Section Ishkabibble of the Senior Citizens’ Quality of Life Act, which I always thought was a strange name for a law that gave doctors the right to kill old people who annoyed them or who had no money. Basically, the United States government realized that unless something was done there would be millions of elderly white people from the Baby Boom who had no money and no insurance and who constituted a potential drain on the economy that might wreck the whole apple cart. So rather than stop pouring money down the Middle East rathole in a futile attempt to make the Arabs love Israel at gunpoint while we stole their oil, the government of the United States solved the problem from the other end by cutting expenses, i.e. by simply killing off the sick and the old people.

It wasn’t hard to do, since the precedent had already been set with massive legal abortion. There was a certain hideous logic to it. If you can kill a baby, then why not an octogenarian? What’s the difference if the human life being snuffed out for reasons of general inconvenience is minus three months or plus eighty-four years? By Amurrica’s warped logic, there was none. The precedent was set with Roe v. Wade that certain individuals in society had the right to decide to take certain other human lives, and from then on it was only a matter of deciding who pitched and who caught, as the faggots used to say. 

The new law gave the medical profession a hunting license, with an implicit understanding that they were to eliminate the problem caused by millions of non-productive codgers and crones who were waving their canes and screeching their demands that they be taken care of as promised in exchange for a lifetime of submission and conformity. There are no statistics available as to how many Baby Boomers were shunted into the nursing homes and shortly afterward given the hot shot by mostly Jewish and Third World “medical professionals,” which towards the end could mean any Filipino who had gotten through a sixteen-week nurse’s aid course and who could write English well enough to fill out the zillion necessary forms after he’d whacked the old folks. 

By the time I was growing up, us white kids all had a pretty good idea of what was waiting for us at the end of the trail if we left ZOG in power. I always kind of suspected that was a large part of what made my generation finally decide to pick up a rifle. Some of us figured we might as well die from a bullet now as on the end of some kike’s hypodermic needle fifty years on.

As a joyful kicker, Dad’s one remaining life insurance policy was invalidated. The company refused to pay, because they said my father’s death was an Act of God. No, my father’s death was an Act of Jew, which isn’t quite the same thing. Mom screamed and hollered for a while and ran to this jackleg lawyer we had in town named Stevens, who took the last $27,000 she managed to scrape up from somewhere in retainer and billable hours before informing Mom that the statute specifically forbade civil relief for acts of euthanasia committed in “good faith” and that since it appeared that Dad had been an alcoholic (well, he was) and was therefore really responsible for all of it himself, she had no case. The son of a bitch had known that all along before he took my mother’s money, of course. It was well known that Stevens made a habit of scamming people on those Quality of Life Act wrongful death cases, but Mom chose not to believe anyone who warned her. There was at least that much desperate, ruined love for Dad left in her, I think.

I filed a murder complaint on Doctor Friedman with the War Prevention Bureau after the revolution, and I got him put on the Hit Parade. Me and a couple of hundred others whose old folks that kike bastard murdered. A few years later my father’s killer was found dead in his Lexus in a parking garage in Philadelphia with a skull full of .22 hollow points and a Tarot card, the Prince of Wands, tossed on his dashboard. Always hoped I’d find out who the Prince of Wands was so I could thank him, but the WPB keeps such matters pretty close to the vest. 

Lawyer Stevens got his as well, even before that. During the Cleanup, the NVA (no, I tell a lie, I think we were actually NDF by then) kicked in this legal beagle’s office door as he was stuffing a big suitcase full of documents, either to destroy them or to flee the country. An hour later Stevens was turning slowly in the wind on an elm tree in the downtown park. The boys hung him with piano wire, so he twirled and danced like fish on the end of a hook and line for a long time, bobbing and gasping and pissing, while the crowd of onlookers cheered and applauded and laughed and cursed his soul on its journey down to hell. Like I said, this particular jurisconsult had a reputation in our little community. Alles wird abgerechnet. What goes around, comes around.

My mom told me something odd once. She said, “Your father was secretly very proud of you, Shane, although he would never have dared to say it out loud, to you or to anyone else. You were doing what no man of his generation had the courage to do, least of all him.” What struck me as odd was that Mom was sober when she told me this. 

I had two older brothers, neither of whom figure in my story. One of them became a drug addict. The year after I graduated high school he OD’ed in Seattle on a speedball, a mixture of cocaine and heroin that his equally trashed-out girlfriend injected him with. It wasn’t the drugs that killed him. She’d just been so stoned there was an air bubble in the hypodermic and his heart seized up. 

I never had to track her down and kill her. She wasn’t a bad or uncaring young woman, she was just screwed up like a Chinese fire drill. When she realized what she had done, she got on the computer and typed out a seven-thousand-word suicide note full of gibberish, e-mailed it to everyone in her address book, and then she turned up the boom box full volume with some nigger rap song and committed suicide by shooting herself up with pure air. Her address book was mostly spammers and Usenet groups for lunatics, and so no one noticed the suicide e-mail, but my brother’s Bengali landlord found the bodies after he broke into the apartment to shut up the boom box. After paying out the last of her savings to that goddamned attorney my mom couldn’t afford a funeral, and so she sold my brother’s body to an organ chop shop at the hospital for spare parts. God knows what they could harvest out of his drug-sodden carcass. The girl’s too, after no one claimed her. Mom stayed drunk for three months on the proceeds.

My other brother fought on the other side. Well, joined it, anyway. He was too chickenshit to get his hands wet. He became a lawyer, to the eternal disgrace of our family. He married a chink and fled the country after Longview rather than end up swinging on a length of piano wire like Mr. Stevens and his other fellow officers of the court. 

Not to mention the crime of racial treason through miscegenation. I’ve no idea where he ended up, nor do I care. Somewhere I probably have half-breed Asian nephews and nieces. If I’d ever met any of them in my gun-toting days I would have wasted them without a moment’s hesitation. Garbage is garbage, no matter whose blood happens to be intermingled with the yellow piss. 

So that’s pretty much my biological family taken care of. They were all a pretty revolting bunch, truth to tell, and I’ll try to keep them as much out of this from now on as I can. The Wingfields were my real family.

* * *
A Distant Thunder may be purchased from Amazon.com at: