Rhode Island

Providence is a city with very few attractive young women in residence. You can drive through the department store district of either Boston or New York a week before Christmas and see at least five beautiful girls out shopping, often with a friend or their mother, carrying big colorful holiday bags of clothes.

The reason for this paucity of beaver is not, by any means, the local climate. The number of quartz arrowheads in the soil attests to the fact that the weather here has been greatly preferred to nearby adjacent areas for many thousands of years.

The reason is simply one of location relative to Boston and New York. When girls finish high school and want to have fun with guys, they usually move to one or the other. This puts them just far enough away so that Mom and Dad will not drop in without calling first, but still close enough so that they can go home for the holidays, or if they run out of money.

A deluded young thug, Mondo Sanchez, who works at an auto parts store, imagines himself to be a real 1950s style ruggie, for whatever that’s worth these days. When he’s drunk, he combs his hair back into a radical DA and swaggers about wearing retarded-looking shirts and those pointed black shoes called Puerto Rican fence-climbers. In this mode he is so unstylishly retro, that people, especially young girls, dismiss him as pathetic with one glance. This only feeds his rage. Lately he has developed an nighttime route he patrols in search of women to victimize.

Oh yes, he’s a real ruggie, who can only get a boner if he’s taking an innocent young girl by force. He knows the risk, so rapes only one girl a month. It’s pork-in-hand the rest of the time. Like all psychopaths, he imagines that beneath society’s facade, most men share his absurd degenerate values, so he brags about his conquests in cheap bars around Providence.

One night late in a diner on the way home, he brags to the wrong fellow, a young Libertarian warrior with a normal love of women, who soon follows him home at a safe distance to see where he lives.

All Hallows Eve  6:40 P.M.

Mondo, thinking that this night will afford increased opportunities, after a frozen dinner, drunk on blended whiskey, goes hunting, He’s wearing his black suit, with a vampire mask that he bought at a drugstore nearby.

After twenty minutes, he turns as someone behind addresses him, 

“Hey, Faggot! Yes you, Dracula’s Bone-Suck.  I got your number, Fairy.”

The insulting fellow is dressed like a cowboy with a, toy like, but real, six gun at his side. He smirks, then turns and walks back into the alley he stepped out of, just after Mondo passed.

The 1950s ruggie will not be called these names by any man, and comes right back after him. As he turns the corner, the cowboy is twenty feet into the alley facing him. Now, emboldened by drink, Mondo removes his mask and walks briskly towards his demise.

When Mondo is eight feet away, the cowboy pulls the six-gun, points it at the ruggie’s face, and cocks the hammer back. The action makes an impressive clicking sound. Mondo freezes, now at five feet.

The cowboy fabricates an accusation for effect,

“You raped my kid sister, Limp Wrist. I’ll give you a choice. I shoot off your balls, or put one in your brain. Which?”

Mondo knows he’s not going to talk his way out of this one, and reaches for his trusty knife. The cowboy pulls the trigger. A hole appears between Mondo’s eyes, and with it, the stupid blank look of one de-brained. The ruggie falls face forward, dead before he hits the pavement.

The cowboy snickers, grabs the knife for his collection, and retreats to the adjoining street. He goes home, changes into a warlock costume, and heads back out for the annual Samhain festivities. 

Rhode Island is a small, but populous state, Two hundred forty-eight enemies of humanity die tonight. 

Vermont

Halloween is quite splendid in Vermont, where there are so many pumpkins. Sometimes the festivities start early in the day.

But there is also a negative element. For some reason, there are a great many Communists in Vermont. At the center is a morally retarded Congressman, Gurney Slanders.

Why choose Halloween Night for a political meeting, considering the carnage last year? There are one hundred and thirty-six of them, most wearing at least face masks to make this well catered meeting into a party as well.

A middle-aged Libertarian patriot and his wife heard about the meeting eight days ago, and have worked out a simple plan.

All Hallows Eve  6:48 P.M.

The last of the Commies have entered the small rented church venue, and are seated on the long wooden benches. The patriot wife quickly puts ouside locks on all the doors, then signals to her husband who has been waiting patiently on the roof for forty-two minutes, goes to the car, and starts the engine.

The husband has a cannister of poison gas, opens the valve wide, and drops it down the hot chimney, in use on this chilly night. The cannister lands just over the woodstove. Aided by rapid heating, the gas exits rapidly and perfectly defuses into every corner the building.

A young college fellow, is wearing a T-shirt with the words By Any Means Necessary written under a picture of a masked man with a baseball bat clubbing an old lady on the ground. Subverted police “standing down” watch in the background.

Poison gas? What’s going on? The young social hero has begun to pee his pants. He falls to his knees shouting,

“Chairman Mau. Please save us!”

Within two minutes, everybody is on the floor. Two more minutes, and they are all dead. 

Newspaper headlines the next day vary:

Work-Trippers Murder Our Nation’s Best

Gassing in the Pews

Josef Stalin, where are you?

Commie Rats Die as Such

Real Vermonters are doing the right thing. On this night, one hundred twenty-three Communist traitors join their leaders in the underworld. 

Kentucky

BP is a patriotic young horse trainer and champion rider. When he’s in the saddle, it’s as though he and the horse were one. They can do it all: dressage, cavalry drill, and more. He is also a master swordsman, especially with saber from horseback, and of course, a longtime fan of Iron Maiden.

In Louisville, there is a group of “diversity” phonies, Hell-bent on spoiling this holiday for normal people with a Pumpkins for Peace initiative. They plan to block sidewalks and heckle people with “in your face” cross examination about racial attitudes and values from A to Z. They plan to wear ghost sheets with pumpkin face masks in colors reflecting all the various races of mankind. There will be fifty-six of them.

October 31  9:43 A.M.

With tape measure, BP visits the area for his planned attack, located across from a city park, where he can wait relatively unnoticed on horseback among the trees. He will be dressed like a knight, with shirt of mail and raven crested helm.

After lunch, he sits down at his kitchen table with ruler, paper, and pencil to plan how he will maneuver himself and horse into the crowd and around the bodies without laming the horse. He must, at the same time, remain on the sidewalk without knocking against parked motor vehicles.

He should disguise the horse. Not so easy. He finally decides on a horse that his employer has already sold, and plans to ship north three days after Halloween. This is a long time window for safety, but the horse is average in appearance, with no unusual markings. Proper breastplate and blanket and his own costume, will distract from the horse herself.

7:03 P.M.

The Pumpkins for Peace people are fully assembled. There is practically no one else around. BP slowly walks his horse across the street and up onto the sidewalk just south of the crowd, who now gaze in fascination at the authentic look of this tall mounted knight. One of them says loudly,

“Wow, check out this guy. Maybe we can recruit him.”

With this, BP walks the horse slowly to them, draws his saber, and cuts of the recruiter’s head, then another, and another. The tepid young fools freeze in their tracks.

BP keeps on and on, impaling a heart or a throat, sometimes slashing off an arm. He pivots his horse perfectly to slay these damned Hell-rotters on all sides.

The bodies are piling up, but BP guides this intelligent animal deftly through the fallen in pursuit of the standing. One after another, it takes him a total of two minutes and eight seconds to reach the last one, walking backwards with hands raised,  andnow pleads,

“Why? Please! Why have you done this?”

BP answers by cleaving his head in two.

Kentucky is state with many fine people. Two hundred and seventy-four enemies of good living die tonight.

BP takes his horse back to the stable, grooms, and feeds her. He gives her a candied apple, then kisses her right ear, and whispers,

“Thanks, girl. You did very well tonight. Sure wish you were staying with us.”

Then he heads home.

BP has the first day of November off from work, and celebrates in grand Halloween fashion at home with his sexy young wife. 

Tennessee

A  group of young twits called Worldthink want to record their first song Welcome to All. With a false tone of moral superiority, the lyrics call for open borders with no scrutiny of background for anyone who wants to live in the USA.

This is the perfect chance for the studio owner to strike a blow for liberty. The group’s front man phoned last week. Before they visited, the owner put away all the brochures and business cards. After they played a tape of the song, he asked if October 31 would be okay to cut a record. They were thrilled and agreed. Then he implored them,

“I know you’re excited, but I’m going to ask you to keep the engagement completely under wraps for now. Don’t tell anybody. It’s always better to surprise friends and family with results after the fact. In this case, it has to do with contractual priorities. I’ll have our legal counsel explain it to you next week when he gets back from vacation.”

All Hallows  11:08 A.M.

The five members of Worldthink are in the recording booth, and have just finished tuning their guitars and adjusting volume. The owner asks over the microphone,

“Please excuse the plastic. We just waxed the floor. You can do a practice run if you want, but I’ve found that recording the first time through usually works out very well.”

The front man looks for confirmation at each of the others, and then says,

“Okay, we’re ready.”

They begin to play, but after thirty-five seconds the three plugged-in members go into violent spasms as the increased electric current, suddenly minus the usual grounding, electrocutes them.

The singer and drummer look stunned. The owner opens the door and enters with a crossbow. He shoots the singer in the heart. No time to reload. The burley drummer jumps up and rushes the owner, who produces a pistol just in time to brain-shoot the boy.

The owner has his wheelbarrow from home, and puts each of the band members into an oversize plastic trash bag and takes them, one at a time, to his van. Then he rolls up the plastic on the studio floor, and takes it along.

Almost time for lunch, so the owner locks the doors, as usual at this hour, and drives the boys to a remote landing of a nearby river, and sends them on their way,

“Sorry boys, but this is a sovereign nation and will remain so as long as there are any good Americans left.”

7:10

The owner, with his wife and two kids, go downtown to enjoy the Halloween festivities

On this night three hundred forty-one servants of devolution meet their demise. 

Ohio

Karen Randall is a well-endowed gentile young woman with fine blonde hair. She is also very sexy, but doesn’t strive for this. It’s simply what normal men feel when they interact with her.

She has a splendid job as assistant manager of a local athletic organization in Columbus, Ohio. She also fills in as receptionist at noon, then has her own lunch hour at 1:00 P.M.

A great many visitors stop by during this noon shift, and there is a bad policy mistake already afoot in this situation. Karen is compelled to wear a badge with her real name on it, instead of a pleasant business pseudonym. Her boss has more authority than brains. Actually, he’s an overbearing moron, who only got where he is because of unjust preference given to inferiors by IMF subverted government.

One day, a sex-creep comes into the office. When he sees Karen, he starts to bone up. Instead of relaxing and letting her see it, to then react as a healthy women will, he adjusts his coat so she won’t see. He prefers to jump out from behind trees at night in public parks, tackle the girl, and do whatever he can get away with. He privately thinks of this as his No Wine, No Dine Policy.

The only good thing about this fellow is that he never kills the girls. He tapes their mouth at the outset, then leaves them with hands cuffed behind their backs to wander where they will afterwards. One night after he left, one of his victims ended up murdered anyway, by a person or persons unknown.

There is a young Libertarian warrior named Peter who works with Karen. He doesn’t like the boss at all, or the creep who has now visited Karen a second time, and on a third occasion was lurking outside the office after work, then followed her home. Peter saw the creep in time, and followed the follower back to his house on a quiet back street, after Karen was safely in her building. 

All Hallows Eve  7:14 P.M.

Peter has two very separate goals in mind for tonight. He never dreamed of combing them, but synchronicity has been aiding Libertarian Warriors of Light a good deal lately.

A strange coincidence now presents itself. As Peter leaves a small restaurant downtown, who should he run into, but the boss, who is very drunk and feeling quite chummy,

“Peter, come with me to this party I’m going to. There’ll be lots of hot pussy.”

Peter plays along. An idea is taking shape. He remembers the heavy rocks used in landscaping near the kitchen door, when the creep entered his very private little house.

“Yah, okay, let’s go, Boss. I have to stop and see a guy on the way, but it won’t take five minutes. He knows everything about cars. I’ll introduce you. I’m parked over here…”

They drive eight minutes to the creep’s house, who is just about to leave for a long night of terrorizing women around town. Perfect timing. Peter parks.

As he and the boss walk up to the door, the creep is just coming outside one step above them, recognizes both men, and is about to exclaim about this, when Peter picks up a big rock in each hand.

With a forward thrust, he bashes in the creep’s low forehead, then wheels quickly and splits the boss’s head with an arcing swoop to the crown of his pate. He puts the first rock in the bosses hand, and the second in the creep’s hand, looks both ways, walks to his car, and leaves as though nothing happened.

On this night five-hundred-twelve enemies of Liberty die at the hands of patriots.

Louisiana

Halloween in New Orleans has gotten to be almost as big as Madi Gras. Festive goings-on are good for commerce, and are always supported by city government and private business. All Saints Day here is no exception.

Recently, real Americans nationwide have been eliminating a good many racial outlanders, usually in ways made to look accidental. The effect has been quite splendid in preventing all kinds of bad things that would otherwise have happened when savages are not eliminated.

Libertarian Nationalists everywhere have an intuitive sense about who is a warrior and who is not. For some time, a subtle narrative has been abroad in the city that just for Halloween it might be better to cool the extermination campaign, so as to not attract the interest of subverted government. Even if made to look accidental, the sheer number of fatalities would suggest planned intent.

October 1, 2037

In keeping with this line of reasoning, a plan for Halloween Night is under way involving a Libertarian Nationalist evening of good food followed by seasonal movies.

During the ensuing weeks, news of this gathering leaks to parasitic thugs. The word is passed among Socialist and Communist groups, especially PALPAP. Now, a counter plan is in the works to heckle and intimidate the Libertarians by catapulting stones over the wall at the house while they are dining.

In turn, these plans leak back to the Libertarians. Warriors begin working on a very dark and wonderful solution. The first step is the out-of-state purchase of two crates of new baseball bats.

All Hallows Eve  7:18 P.M.

A bus rented by PALPAP arrives at the Libertarian gathering. It stops on the street. One of the Libertarians comes out through the gates, and says,

“Welcome, please join us!”

He motions them to enter. The driver does this, without consulting anyone else in the bus. The greeter closes the gates. All the PALPAP members disembark, ready for action, but a little confused about what’s going on.

Including the driver, there are thirty eight PALPAP members. Suddenly, eleven Libertarian warriors licensed to carry, come out from hiding in various places around the yard. With suppressed pistols, they quickly kill all the PALPAP members. Six other warriors wearing gloves, place a baseball bat, first in the hands of, then next to, each PALPAP corpse. One bat short, they substitute a garden stake.

Someone inside calls the police. The noise suppressors are removed from the guns and the vicinity. As a last minute thought, one of the older Libertarians who hurt his knee badly earlier in the day, goes outside and lies down on the lawn. When the police come, he complains of the pain, and requests an ambulance.

The police are aghast by the carnage. The surgical precision befuddles them. They examine the bruised knee. They comment to one of the Libertarians, who says,

“Pistols work better than bats…”

This splendid Halloween orgy of death is supplemented by another four-hundred and sixteen executions on this night. It’s good to see patriotism alive and well in Louisiana.

The next day, two empty baseball bat crates are discovered by the police next to the trash cans behind PALPAP headquarters.

Detectives interrogate all of the Libertarians, find no discrepancy between the interviews, and reach the conclusion, especially in light of what they know about PALPAP, that the Libertarians are probably telling the truth.

Of course, in the broader sense, they are telling the truth. Killing subhumans under any circumstances is self-defense.

Indiana

Firecrackers are sold legally in Indiana. There is a big explosives store just over the state line along many of the larger highways.

Jo Junior is a rabid little Communist drug addict and sex pervert. He likes to stock up on M-80s, and whenever he visits any place of business owned by healthy people with a good work ethic, he visits the men’s room, lights an M-80, then flushes it down the toilet.

Because of the waterproof magnesium wire fuse, the M-80 goes off about four feet down the soil pipe and blows it apart, but is not noisy enough to get Junior a second look as he leaves the building. The appalling results of this hobby has cost many good people thousands of dollars in plumbing bills including lost revenue do to Board of Health closure while repairs are underway.

Just three weeks ago, there was a little boy with his father in a toilet stall one floor down. When the M-80 went off, the little boy was blinded for life, and the father killed by a piece of shrapnel that severed his jugular vein. He fell and bled to death on the bathroom floor.

When Junior saw the report on TV that night, he joked about the son and father,

“Ah, he was probably the milkman’s kid, and the father looks like a Republican with that crew cut. Real big loss for humanity.”

There is a bizarre transgender man who visits Junior every ten days or so. They practice many depravities, but Junior’s favorite is to have his partner stimulate his rectum with a preheated plastic dildo tipped with petroleum jelly. This takes about thirty minutes.

About six weeks ago, a thirty year old Libertarian warrior, and near neighbor, overheard Junior bragging about the routine M-80 attacks and later, the dildo sessions. Junior also mentioned his plan to have his boyfriend visit on Halloween night for an orgy of depravity. The warrior smirks sardonically as a darkly ironical plan begins to take shape.

October 29, 2037  8:40 A.M.

Junior leaves for a doctor’s appointment. The warrior enters his apartment through an outside window. He finds the dildo. It is made of rubbery plastic. With a fruit reamer, the warrior cuts a tunnel into the shaft and plants an M-80, minus most of the fuse, inside the shaft with small heat-activated timing device which will ignite the fuse four minutes after the preheating of the dildo. He packs the open end tightly with the shards of the plastic, then smooths it over with solvent. Good as new. It takes about six minutes to dry held in an upright position. The residual solvent smell is soon dissipated by the ventilation from the open window.

All Hallows Eve  7:22 P.M.

Junior is naked, lying bottom up on the bed. His partner, in full cap and gown, says,

“I’m gonna to ream you out real good tonight, you dirty little Motherfucker.”

Junior cries out in anticipation,

“Yes, Commissar! Oh yes, yes, Commissar!”

These creeps sure have their fun. The TG heats the dildo way up by dipping it in a saucepan of boiling water. Next the petroleum jelly, and now the treatment begins,

Junior moans in ecstasy, but the clock is ticking… two minutes, three… Time’s up. Bang! Juniors hams and bowels are blown high in the air and are now plastered on the ceiling. This forms a macabre overhead mural, very symmetrical, like an immense multicolored Rorschach Inkblot. The TG man’s fingers are gone and he is drenched in foulness from head to toe. He sca-reams like a banshee.

Someone next door hears all this, and calls the police. The warrior is across the street in a little restaurant with his girlfriend, enjoying a hot roast beef sandwich with gravy. He beams with delight as the attendants put Junior into an ambulance for a ride to the city morgue. Police are interviewing the neighbors, but to no avail.

Law enforcement people statewide have been very busy all evening. Throughout Indiana, one hundred and eighty-three enemies of Liberty die on this night.

The warrior and his girlfriend head downtown to enjoy the beautiful decorations. 

Mississippi

A few years ago, an area near Greenwood was targeted by United Nations globalists as a dumping ground for forty thousand Islamic African “refugees.”

Even in the midst of so many other people of African heritage, they have not adapted to their new country. The local crime rate, especially for rape, assault, and arson has gone up eight hundred percent since their arrival. A great many real Americans are deeply angry at their treasonous leaders and the savage invaders themselves.

Usually resistance to Globalist tyranny is conducted on the principal of leaderless resistance, but a group of young patriots connected with local militia are forming an organized plan for the upcoming holiday. They want to make the prospect of invading America, very dark and scary for subhuman populations everywhere.

For two weeks before Halloween, various local barns, chicken houses, and outbuildings have become repositories for one hundred Islamic men and women who have been abducted, treated fairly, and well fed. The patriots have procured large tanks of helium and a crate of votive candles as part of the plan.

All Hallows Eve  6:37 P.M.

The captives are brought to an airtight garage adjacent to the Mississippi River. They are asked at gunpoint to disrobe. Once the doors are closed and locked, the patriots vacuum out the air at one end of the garage, as they pump in helium at the other. The Islamists lie down to sleep, and never awaken.

Now comes the unpleasant part. Straws are drawn for this. Five of the patriots undertake the unpleasant duty of inserting spray nozzles into the rectums of the gassed, to charge each with enough helium to insure that each body will float belly-up in the river.

7:28 P.M.

There is a tourist barge filled with families who want to view the Halloween lights and splendor across the water on this quiet smooth stretch of river. Something strange is coming into view just ahead. A little girl exclaims,

“Look Daddy, isn’t it beautiful?”

An electric powered black swan is attached to a plastic chain which continues back to each of the bodies with about four feet between. It is pulling them in a long procession slowly down the river. There is a lighted votive candle cemented over the naval of each of the floating corpses. The arms and hands are folded across the chests as is often the case with mummies. With  a beautifully lighted bridge in the distance, the entire scene is very serene and beautiful, especially for real Americans.

Two hundred seventy other subhumans die all over Mississippi on this splendid night.

Illinois

Along Route 80 there is a twenty mile stretch of adjacent cornfields policed by an amazing legion of two-hundred-thirty-six scarecrows. Once the corn is harvested, these sentinels of agriculture are very visible to motorists and crows alike. Some look like real standing people, but most are mounted in a way that remind many who see them, of times long past when there were mass crucifixions.

The atmosphere created by this season gives a certain thirty-eight-year-old patriot an idea about combining social benefit with holiday splendor. Aided by seven friends, he initiates a massive undertaking in the rapid elimination of two-hundred-thirty-six irredeemable local criminals in time for the approaching holiday.

All Hallows Eve

For eight very determined men, this night is

a grim, long, and scary period of hard work cautiously performed. When the task is completed, sleep comes easily. There will be time enough to celebrate later.

On November second, both local people and those driving through, notice increasing numbers of vultures circling the area with many of the alpha birds attacking the scarecrows. Ravens and crows are also participating whenever the vultures permit. It almost seems like a Hitchcock rebellion of birds against farmers who raise corn.

When one young highway patrolman stops and hikes into a field to investigate, he first notices a light bouquet, and then after a few more steps, is greeted by the gaseous herald of decay and death

Farmers make similar discoveries. An intense period of police investigation and media coverage begins.

When the excitement dies down, there is only the cleanup, with many burials and funerals. People donate old clothes to be stuffed, and school kids are enlisted to make the new scarecrows, and are given special credit in their art and civic responsibility classes

A few weeks pass….

Thanksgiving Day

Hundreds of people in the area, give thanks at private dinner tables, honoring the courageous men who helped to purge their homeland of subhumanity. Additional thanks goes out also to those responsible for the deaths of another one-hundred-eleven enemies of civilization all over Illinois on All Hallows Eve.

“The wicked oppressing now cease from distressing. Sing praises to His Name; He forgets not His own.”  

Alabama

People of African ancestry in Alabama have been attacking those of European heritage since the end of the Civil War. The subverted media have done a good job of making it seem as though Negroes are the victims in America, when in fact, per capita, throughout this period, black on white violence has consistently been ten times greater.

A few years ago it reached twenty times greater, but the alternative media has been waking people up, and now the numbers are going in the opposite direction and will continue until all the outlanders, with their loud talk and foul language, are back home, or dead.

September 21, 2037

A resolution among various private Caucasian groups has been confirmed. The premise is that since the outlanders are from a moral standpoint intrinsically inferior, the only viable choice is their total extermination, no more or less than what would need to be done about rats spreading bubonic plague. Plans are being made for Halloween Night. The idea is not to kill them all in one evening, but to set a fine example for the ongoing Season of Death. 

All Hallows Eve  6:42 P.M.

All over Alabama, it begins. In Selma, inside a church, one-hundred-eighty-seven Negroes are roasted like marshmallows.

In Little Rock, three-hundred-twenty-two Negro party goers are machinegunned mercilessly to death in a rented public hall. The blood and carnage so infuses the walls and floorboards, that civil authorities decide that for sanitary purposes, it would be better to demolish rather than try to reclaim, the building.

In Mobile, an entire neighborhood of over twelve-hundred Negroes is reduced to cinders by mortar fire. This is accomplished by one ninety second volley launched from eight locations.

When the smoke clears on this magnificent

Kill Fest, the grand total is seven-thousand-fifty-two trips to Beulah Land. A fine example has been set. The Great Work is at hand and will continue.

Maine

Halloween in Maine has always featured extraordinary pumpkin display. This year is quite consistent in that regard.

Somalis all over Maine, however, have been keeping well out of sight since the apartment complex massacre in Lewiston ten years ago. The only truly safe move, of course, would be back across the sea.

Somalia is beginning to prosper under the new Libertarian Nationalist polices, so why would they not want to return? Why forfeit one’s life for the retarded Liberal / Socialist / Communist war against nature? Evolutionary Destiny will not be postponed while recalcitrant low IQ invaders slowly wake up.

People of European heritage in Maine have been gunning down outland invaders at the rate of three or four per week, but this is not enough. Halloween must here become a Kill Fest to make up for this poor statistic.

What goes around, comes around. Somalis, with their endless car bombings to drive out Caucasians and bring down rental costs, have concentrated themselves in areas which can now be easily targeted.

All Hallows Eve  6:48 P.M.

In Portland, a six block area inhabited exclusively by Somalis suddenly bursts into flame. Two-thousand-four-hundred-eighteen outlanders go up in smoke. Oh boy! That smell again. One will not want to be downwind of this area for the remainder of the week. 

6:53 P.M.

In Lewiston, a social center hosting a gathering of over fourteen hundred Somalis is hit by a Law’s Rocket. No survivors.

7:08 P.M.

In Belfast, a group of Caucasian young people roam the streets, shooting down what will amount to eighty seven bellowing savages by the end of the evening.

7:20 P.M.

In Augusta four-hundred-thirty-six Somalis are gassed in a theater as they begin to watch a play about  a “socially aware” young African couple facing “racism” in America.

7:38 P.M.

In Camden, one-hundred-fifty-three outlanders are incinerated by patriots with flame throwers at a hip-hop gathering. Happy Halloween! 

Missouri

Many years ago, two Libertarian buddies from Missouri visited the White Mountains in New Hampshire. They took the auto road shuttle to the top of Mt. Washington. In climbing down, they took a wrong trail that ended them up twenty-five miles away from their car.

Luckily, they ran into Garrett Valdison, who gladly gave them a ride over to the base lodge when he discovered they were Libertarians. They talked as they rode. Garrett soon realized that the two chaps were not yet warriors. Events had not gone as far in those days. He tried to encourage them. He spoke about the survival of human intelligence and of leaderless resistance. Since then, Garrett’s words have stayed in mind, and the two buddies have grown more and more activist.

They have especially noticed that the average drug addict’s idea of freedom is usually a free handout from government. When they vote, it’s always Democrat, Socialist, or Communist. Drug addicts should be seen as the chaff which the wind driveth away.

Even subhumans enjoy the witchy season, and local addicts are planning a big party for Halloween night. The two buddies have reached the conclusion that now it is finally time to hit back. 

All Hallows Eve  7:42 P.M.

The two activists arrive at the party dressed as grim reapers, with pistols hidden under their robes. For authenticity, they are carrying real scythes, but check these at the door. As they circulate and talk to the partygoers, the two soon realize that most of these people are so stoned on one thing or another, that they could leisurely kill them all one at a time, with little or no resistance. There are only forty-two. They will use the scythes instead. No noisy shots, no police. They also brought a cellphone jammer for good measure.

After a good snack with cider, they retrieve the scythes. Now comes the fun part. Each walks to one of the doors on opposite sides of the room, securing them with police locks.

Now they march slowly towards the center of the room, decapitating, chopping, cleaving, and slicing as they go. One after another of the pathetic cripples falls to the floor at their feet, often in pieces.

The work takes only three minutes and twenty seconds. The floor is an inch deep in blood and is very slippery. One of the activists nearly slips. They leave quickly.

Just down the road there is a huge Halloween bonfire surrounded by young people. The reapers shed the robes and toss the scythes with them into the blaze. Although it seems a bit early in the evening to be done with costumes, nobody questions this action.

The young people begin to sing a traditional Halloween song they learned in school:

The Witch, the Witch

The ugly old Witch

Oh what, a terrible sight

Through clouds, respect

And black, and speak

She comes on Halloween night

On Halloween, on Halloween

She rides a broom and wears a high hat

She sores away on the ride

She takes along a big black cat

And goblins close at her side

On Halloween, on Halloween

Take care, beware

Get out of the way

She makes this wonderful flight

Just once a year to people say

On scary Halloween night

On Halloween, on Halloween

Three-hundred-sixty-wo other enemies of good living die in Missouri on this splendid night.

The buddies go home separately to their girlfriends to watch for news bulletins.

November comes and goes, but the talk about this strange heroic even carries on for years.