Fine Tuning

Garrett Valdison, Ted Farrel, and other writers of the revolution have been delighted by the Libertarian Nationalist changes in the U.S. due to the policies of President, Roswell Benedict, and the influence he has exerted beyond the shores of America. The most important are:

Dissolution of the EU. November 12, 2026

Realignment of NATO. January 26, 2027

Reformation of UN. April 11, 2027

Libertarian writers have known for years that these changes would come, and much of their writing has been geared to the refinements that will be necessary in the aftermath. Libertarian policies will influence the future soon, but damage caused by the unnatural policies of the past will remain for a long time, unless they are addressed on an individual basis.

There are still the hordes of social parasites that Ted Farrel mentioned to York Edmunds earlier this year, those who have proliferated because of IMF manipulation of mainstream media and national governments since 1947. Although there is category overlap, they can be identified generally as self-disabling cripples, namely: wastrels, breeders, morbidly obese, nutcases, drug addicts, sex perverts.

Such people tend to be constitutional psychopaths, and are not usually organized politically so as to come together in large purposeful groups, enabling mass retaliation.

There are also huge numbers of low IQ racial outlanders everywhere living on welfare while they destroy indigenous race and culture.

Libertarian warrior / writers have worked successfully on the premise that patriots can be motivated to eliminate human parasites individually as acts of humanitarianism, not only towards society, but towards the poor miserable wrongdoers themselves.

Proactive people working for a better world, without confiding anything to friends and family, will be leaderless resistance on a universal scale, a new social ethic of good people conferring final integrity upon the irredeemable rotters of human societies.

The biggest challenge has been to eliminate the naïve idea that weaklings are in any way good people, possessed of some greater sensitivity that makes it especially difficult for them to function among “insensitive” normal people, who just don’t understand their “personal issues.”

These are interesting times, because normal people are finally waking up. Lately the number of human parasites gone missing or found at peace in dumpsters and landfills, has been skyrocketing.

Ne’er-do-well

Freddie is already a bum, with acting skills, even in childhood. He likes to play lead roles in school plays. The autumn he turns eight, his father asks him to help rake leaves in the front yard. Freddie throws a tantrum, and runs into the house crying bitterly.

After a few more examples of this, his parents take him to a child therapist in Boston, who claims the boy has developed a “phobia” against work. His parents are disappointed, but not unduly worried, because they are wealthy and will set up a trust fund to keep Freddie out of trouble after they are gone.

The template is cast. From this point on, and now at age twenty-five, Freddie’s standard narrative is only about what he can’t do, doesn’t want to do, refuses to do, or thinks he shouldn’t have to do.

April 20, 2027  8:47

Tonight Freddie is at home entertaining a young Libertarian warrior that he met at an auto show, and invited over to see his restored Aston Martin, with an idea of possibly selling the car to get extra money for drugs.

They have lunch and sit down in the living room. Freddie smokes some strong boo, and is ow very stoned. He speaks too candidly, and with the breathless enthusiasm of a little boy,

“Imagine what it will be like when my parents die, and I inherit all that money.”

The Liberation asks,

“Why not get an education and have a career?”

Freddie frowns,

“One of those guys, huh? Ya don’t work, ya don’t eat. Be alive, nine to five. My parents enjoy our money. I think they should share the wealth with me.

“If they don’t up my allowance soon, I’m going to apply for disability based on drug use, then get my own apartment. I can make enough money selling dope to school kids to keep me in a nice car, with travelling money to boot.”

The Libertarian replies,

“Maybe if you developed a creative interest in something, your parents would lend you some money to start a business.”

Freddie says,

“Fuck that, they’re just greedy.”

With a harmless smirk, the Libertarian asks,

“And you are not?”

Freddie scowls savagely, walks briskly over, and grabs the Libertarian firmly by the arm,

“Let me just show you to the door.”

The Libertarian gooses Freddy in the nuts so hard that he doubles over, then grabs Freddie’s ear and says,

“No, let me show you to the door.”

The young warrior marches Freddie outside into the driveway. Nobody’s around. He pulls out his well-oiled 1950s Beretta .22, and shoots Freddie in the head.

Next he opens the trunk of his car, removes a big plastic garbage bag that he keeps on hand for these occasions, puts Freddie into the bag, into the trunk, then shows Freddie to a dumpster five miles across town,

“At last, Freddie, you have a calling that suits you… soon to be rotting in the city dump, where you truly belong.”

Breeder

Anybody can see that Latisha is subhuman, just by looking at her. She has an IQ of 55, and her nine children are growing up to be just like her, slack-jawed morons with no work ethic. She is obese, loud, and quarrelsome, using more foul language than fair.

People of European ancestry who support government subsidy of Stone Age savages are enemies of evolutionary destiny, and commit treason every time they vote. They are, of course, right in fashion with the dumbed down self-destructive narrative that is currently popular among snowflake twits of this period.

May 4, 2927  8:42 A.M.

Today there is a young Libertarian woman of proper adult seriousness riding the bus to school. She is a very unusual person, in that she actually cares about what the world will be like two-hundred years from today.

She is looking at Latisha, has seen the subsidized sow on many previous occasions, and has come to understand the facts of Latisha’s parasitic relationship to society.

Recently, the young student’s Libertarian boyfriend gave her an eighteen shot Glock semi-automatic pistol with a noise suppressor for her twentieth birthday. She carries it in her backpack.

She is a microbiology major at USC, and has no class until 11:00 A.M. She decides to stay on the bus and get off at Latisha’s stop, to at very least, scout constructive options, then go back to the college.

Latisha has only four children with her today. At her stop, she herds them off the bus, and back towards her apartment house. The young girl follows, and enters the building just behind Latisha. Getting the pistol out of the backpack pack and under her coat, gives the sow a thirty foot head start down the hallway.

The girl follows until Latisha and the kids are entering the apartment. Just before the door closes, she walks up fast, pushes her way in, closes the door, shoots Latisha between the eyes, then the kids. After the initial four, she briskly strides through the apartment, kills the other five, with a bonus of three visiting friends.

Last, but not least, the piece de resistance, the beer guzzling current boyfriend, the boar who studs the sow, and possibly the father of one or two of the younger kids, has been asleep, and now begins to rise from the sofa. The girl looks right into his eyes, and blows his brains out. 

She puts the gun back under her coat, but as she enters the apartment hallway, two nosy neighbors try to block her passage. They have questions. She answers each with a bullet between the eyes, leaves the building, rides back to school, grabs a healthful snack, and gets in an hour of study at the library before her first class. 

Obese

At al the Happiness Ice Cream Shops, there is an extraordinary twelve dollar item on the desert menu called the Porker’s Delight. It’s a frosted layer cake one-foot long, six inches wide, and four inches tall, surrounded by eighteen scoops of ice cream in eighteen different flavors.

As a visual extravaganza, it’s very impressive, and looks like a department store flanked by colorful beach cabanas. As a culinary atrocity it’s intended for only one person in-house, with no order splitting or take home plates allowed. Strange…

… one might even be led to believe that this is a Happiness ploy to attract human monstrosities, so they can be clandestinely photographed for a freak-show website. This, however, is not the case.

July 22, 2027. Near Boston, Massachusetts

Happiness also serves normal food for ordinary people. Today for lunch, a young Libertarian warrior is enjoying a Swiss Cheese Beef Patty Melt on light Caraway with Dijon mustard. He looks up as the restaurant door opens, and can scarcely believe his eyes.

A woman who must weigh eight hundred pounds comes waddling slowly into the restaurant. If not for modern wheelchair access, most doors would simply not be wide enough to accommodate this elephantine enigma. Those who see her for the first time are taken completely aghast by the foulness of her appearance. As she passes, this poor soul exudes a smell resembling rotting whale blubber. Many are sickened by this, but most just hold their breath and wait for her to pass.

Bertha waddles to her special seat, a cross-cut tree section, six feet in diameter, two feet thick. There is a steel hand rail to facilitate sitting and rising. She sits.

The young man is astounded when he sees the waitress bring not one, but three, gigantic Porker’s Delight platters to the table on a cart. Why three at one time? This is because Bertha likes to feast her eyes as she eats. There are glass domed lids to keep the ice-cream cold.

She also loves to phone her sister in Wisconsin  and expound about all her personal business. Today she brags about the recent increase in her federal disability allotment,

“With my new amount, I can eat downtown seven days a week, and get more custom dresses through Big and Tall. And, I have a Jewish guy who brings me young trafficked girls for a first romp, before they’re taken to the main holding pen… I know, Judy, I’m sooo bad, but all I do is help break them in. I’m always gentle, unless they sass me, then I use a short riding whip to teach them proper respect and obedience.”

With a tiny directional microphone the young warrior hears everything, and as he studies this porcine piece of sub humanity, a vision of her falling into the Charles River begins to take shape, but then he remembers when he was a kid how fascinated two ladies were at the buoyancy of a fat kid floating on his back like a serene hippopotamus in a swimming pool near where he lived.

Next, he pictures a precipice, then a long staircase, but there aren’t any in the vicinity, and even if there were, Bertha would have no business being in proximity to either.

Then he thinks of a speeding vehicle, but finally decides that there is simply no way he can make this look like an accident. He can see that Bertha is in no hurry, so he finishes his sandwich in leisurely fashion, then orders a maple-walnut frappe, and finally lingers long over two big mugs of hazelnut coffee.

As Bertha reaches the end of her last platter, the young chap goes outside to the parking lot, gets his little crossbow out of the trunk, starts the car, and waits. Bertha finally comes out and waddles up the street that borders the city park. The young fellow drives past and parks just before the entrance gate. There is nobody near at hand.

As Bertha approaches, he rolls down the window on the passenger side, and says,

“Hey, Wide Load. How art sow? Ain’t seen you around much lately. Where you been, pigging out down to Fat City?”

She gives him an angry glare, as she slowly turns and starts towards the car like a giant steam roller. She replies,

“Fuck you, Buckley! I’m gonna bust your puny ass bigtime.”

With that, the young man raises the crossbow and shoots a poison dart into her heart. She looks shocked, bellows like a water buffalo, collapses to her knees, then falls forward. Her skull cracks loudly as she hits the sidewalk.

The young man beams with delight, and as he drives away, looks in the rearview mirror. The birds are already beginning to take an interest. They smell the fat-rich blood.

Within twenty minutes, in response to a phone call from the sister in Wisconsin, the police break down Bertha’s door and search her apartment, unaware that she is on the way to the city morgue.

Nutcase

Jane is insane.

At junior high school in Hartford, she learned that becoming emotionally overwrought could get her out of doing things she really hated, like field hockey.

She became so viscerally involved in her negativity, stemming from the “fear of injury,” that her doctor put her on an anti-depressant, and forever after, pocketed the usual drug company sales commission every time he updated the prescription.

As time passed, the girl’s emotional role playing, seemed to her parents, to be increasingly contrived, so Jane developed migraine headaches to avoid things she didn’t want to do, like piano practice.

All this neurosis led her school principal to have Jane repeat the ninth grade twice again, because of “personal immaturity” even though her grades were adequate.

Eventually, seeing friends graduate without her, drove her nuts. She felt claustrophobic, like school was a life sentence to prison. Finally, she had a nervous breakdown, had to leave school, started “climbing the walls” when she got home, and opted to finish high school with a matchbook cover home-study program.

At age eighteen she left home to be “independent,” got disability welfare status, and a nice government apartment from which to continue her career of parasitic adventure.

Today, at age twenty-two, Jane needs pills to: sleep, wake up, stimulate activity, and calm down afterwards. And there are all those side effects that need to be modified with other drugs, so that “Insane Jane” has now become a walking Apothecary Shoppe with a purse sporting seventeen different prescription bottles. She has a special app on her phone to list the medications and time of day for each.

Jane has periodic angry, violent episodes, masked as blundersome “accidental” behavior resulting always in the destruction of the most cherished personal property of her closest “friends.” At these times she always has a frozen pig-faced look, like she is being controlled by an outside entity... Who knows?

Throughout these years of disgraceful behavior, she has entrapped nine young girls into lesbian assignation without consummating activity, and then coldly dismissing each as a mere “Slut of Sappho.” 

A certain young Libertarian chap who attends classes with Jane has seen the brutal, tragic consequences of her aberration one too many times in the suicide of a friend. He decides it’s time to stop Jane once and for all. He has a prior commitment for Halloween Night, so decides to do what is needed on Hell Night.

October 30, 2027  8:36 P.M.

The young warrior is wearing a long green velvet robe and face mask with a huge nose, a classic theatrical looking outfit. He comes to Jane’s door, rings the bell, and as the door opens, begins to sing operatically,

“Insane Jane, won’t you come out tonight,

And spend a little time with me.”

She wants to laugh, but is also afraid. She wants to cry, but also to run. She slides headlong into eleven different emotional reactions one after another. The young warrior stands agape at her changing facial expressions, and finally says,

“Jane, I am your master. It is time to obey.

Take off your clothes, immediately!

The alternative is death.”

Jane stands mute, numb with shame and excitement, fear and arousal, this emotion, and that emotion. The young warrior grows impatient, and with a reluctant sigh, draws out a long kris bladed dagger and says,

“So let it be written. So let be done.”

With this, he thrusts the dagger into Jane’s, heart. She squeals like an aardvark caught in a bear trap, falls down gasping, and dies. Suddenly, the world is a slightly better place.

The young man looks at her body, and says,

“Fare thee well, Insane Jane.

 We hardly knew ye.” 

Hophead

October 31, 2027  2:11 P.M.  New Mexico

A literate fellow is finally writing up a detailed third person account of Halloween 2024 events to augment his journal. It starts off in 2023,

John has legs that don’t work, and no capacity for moral conceptualization. He was born this way, and would, by thoughtful parents, have been terminated at birth. He has lived as a parasite all his life, and is fifty-two years old.

Despite all this, John is very handsome, and manages to get it off the nut regularly with two good hearted women, also in wheelchairs, who live nearby. They however, are viable people, drug free, each with a history of productivity prior to their legitimate incurred disability.

John, however, has based his entire life on euphoria, mainly through drugs. Politically he is a commie-liberal twit who thinks that the sole purpose of government is to sustain him in endless depraved pleasure seeking.

A certain chap of acquaintance thinks of John as Dr. Jekyll and the Brothers Hyde, because he uses nine different drugs, and has a different narrative for each.

When it’s grass, John gets cool and jazzy, loudly treating everybody to an ongoing savage serenade, singing along with his IPOD, 

 Motherfucker, Motherfucker,

 Know what I’m say’n?

 Bamboolah, Bamboolah,

 I ain’t no workin’ fool ah.

When it’s cocaine, John calls his transgender boyfriend, and they do all kinds of anal stuff, involving cucumbers. John likes to brag about these episodes in mixed company. Upon one occasion, the chap of acquaintance gets quite a laugh when he asks,

“Do you eat the cucumbers afterwards?”

John says,

“Of course, but we rinse them off.”

When the drug of choice is amphetamine, here comes the slander. Everybody who doesn’t want to lie down and spread their legs for invading Islamic or African rape gangs, is labelled a hater or a Nazi.

This is the most problematical narrative. John rolls around telling monstrous lies about good people. This leads to a great deal of pain and trouble, and a plan arises, involving a chainsaw, to eliminate this slander once and for all.

John gets wind of this, and since he has always wanted to live in Australia, decides late in September 2023, that this is as good a time as any. On Halloween Night, the women and the transgender man, hold a small bon voyage party in his behalf. The chap of acquaintance is invited by the women, but does not attend.

John moves to Wagga Wagga, on the east coast, but does not change his ways Down Under. He is terminated on March 8, 2024. His body is shipped back to the United States. Somehow the chap of acquaintance receives this delivery, and removes the body to a large deep freeze unit in a storage room at the house of a friend. Nobody in the USA has been notified about John’s death.

The chap of acquaintance waits until Halloween Night 2024 and holds a special ceremony for John. Then, with a hangman’s noose, he suspends the body from the metal supports for the canvas roof over the outdoor sitting area just outside the rec room door.

When the two women look out and see John hanging, both of them lose control and soil themselves. To avoid embarrassment, they call the police anonymously and get quickly back to their rooms. The chap of acquaintance likes both women very much as friends, but feels they need a good dose of reality.

On November 1, each of the women receive a detailed account of John’s degenerate life. Up to now they felt that John could do no wrong, but now more or less realize that his death is a benefit to humanity. 

Pedophile

Bonvelo is a thirty-two-year-old Austin, Texas queer who prefers sex only with little boys between three and eight years of age. He has been convicted of pedophilia twice, but has spent only two years in jail with no effort made at rehabilitation.

Like most of these degenerates, he believes that only “haters” would object to having public schools teach children that his adjustment is really just a viable alternative lifestyle, equal to heterosexual union with women.

Lately Bonvelo has been involved in a program called Queer Fear Family Encounter. This involves having public libraries provide the venue for having children taken onto the laps of depraved pedophiles to “instill proper values” at an early age.

The children are taught to touch the genitals of insane men wearing pink dresses, sporting long black beards, as though this were the most normal thing in the world. What drugs could the parents be using that would make them go along with this?

November 26, 2027

A certain young patriot has decided that it’s time to take action. He waits in the public library parking lot until this Saturday’s Encounter is over, and the queers begin to leave. He takes a lesson from the Islamic murderers of young English school girls in London, and there is nobody around to see.

In his older brother’s large powerful pick-up truck, he begins to drive normally toward the exit to the street. Just as the queers cross in front of him, he speeds up and runs five of the six over. It’s a mighty rough ride inside the cab, but the sound of their breaking bones is like music to his ears.

As the young warrior backs up over them, and then forward again to make sure they’re dead, Bonvelo, the remaining queer stands aghast watching from between two trees, unreachable by the truck.

The young patriot grabs his brothers tire knocker and gets out of the truck, walks over to the trembling sissy, and says,

“Good day, Faggot, you like to queer little kids? Guess what? God is about to guide my hand in busting your nuts.”

Bonvelo is frightened, and to buy time, pleads,

“Not here. Please sir, not here.”

Now the young patriot really goes to town on the queer. The pain is so great that the pervert has a heart attack and dies on the spot. The young man gets into the truck, drives to his girlfriend at a nearby diner, has a splendid meal of short ribs, and when she gets off, they go back to her place and fuck like rabbits. 

Professor

February 8. 2028  Arizona

Professor Luverne DuBore-Pussant-McKay-Smythe-Turkington-Volk is fashionably late, as she walks to her job as a shaper of young minds. Her step is brisk. She is feeling perky and energetic today. Must be the drugs.

The course today is called Chicks in Flicks. She is highly qualified in this area of instruction, but, like so many specialized professionals today, knows little or nothing about anything else, and like all self-hating twits, is a product of a lifetime of subverted media brainwashing.

There is a mature man of Scandinavian ancestry named Rob in the class. He fits in well as a classmate with the kids, just so long as the fake Globalist narrative about white racism is not being parroted. Rod is patriotic and awake. Within the confines of good judgment, he likes to shame subverted professors by simply asking questions they cannot answer without revealing what they have become.

Many professors avoid politics as much as they can, but Luverne is not one of these. As punctuation to her endless diatribe about her personal frustration, neurosis, and drug use, she loves to complain about imaginary racism, and goes out of her way to bad-mouth America with every popular lie she can conjure up. This is such a pity. Luverne is a very intelligent, capable woman, but simply has no character or moral judgement at all.

There is a depraved girl of African ancestry, named Ariana, also in the class. She is a drug addict, and has a negative, sullen look that proclaims her lesbian hatred of men, and of human wellness in general. Every class day, she makes a big show of stopping to embrace Luverne as she wheels her kick scooter into an out-of-the-way corner of the classroom.

From the moment Ariana laid eyes on Rob, this young ethnically displaced parasite has found it necessary to talk simultaneously whenever he is called upon to speak by Luverne.

Today Luverne starts up with the standard racism nonsense. Rod replies,

“Most of what you call racism is fake.”

Luverne cannot speak, and finally says,

“That opinion belongs in a little narrow box.”

She makes a gesture of closing the box.

Whenever Rob replies to Luverne’s nonsense, Ariana usually chants the popular Socialist slave mantra,

“What’s Going On? What’s going on?”

Luverne never corrects the girl for this. Rob is a patient man. The presence of savages in America is a terrible injustice, but to have them heckle evolved European people in college classrooms will simply not be tolerated. It is every good American’s duty to stop these enemies of truth, life, and liberty

Just for now, Rob ignores the sullen savage and continues his response to Luverne,

“Your reality comes from subverted media. Boris Pilos goes to a university theater department and hires a hundred gay men to dress up like Nazis and march in support of the president. That night, the fake news raves it up. You watch this, and believe everything they program you to believe. The drugs you take exaggerate your emotions about it.”

Luverne is speechless. Finally she says,

“Rampant racism is real, and we need the drugs to keep from being depressed by it.”

“Watching subverted media has robbed you of the ability to think critically. What you call racism is simply normal human preference.”

Luverne is completely shut down by the ring of truth in Rob’s words, and cannot speak. He feels sympathy for her, and his natural sense of chivalry prompts him,

“Listen, I’m just here for Chicks in Flicks. I will not retract anything I have said, but I will withdraw the words. Consider it all un-said.”

Luverne understands what he means, smiles wanly, then recovers, but finishes the lecture by interjecting nasty remarks about the white race, especially men, and eventually even about the good work of Roswell Benedict. Rob knows that educating a ruined person like this is impossible. Facts roll off these people like water off a duck. There is only one solution.

The next class day, Luverne pulls into her usual spot in the distant free parking lot. As she gathers her notes and papers for class, she gasps as she feels the terrible bite in her right ankle, of the Gila monster who has been hiding under the driver seat.

She manages to open the car door, but as a poisoner of young minds, dies quickly and appropriately from the bite. The Gila monster is a very handsome fellow, gets away, and heads back to his natural desert habitat adjacent to the parking lot. At this season, there are female Gilas who need his immediate attention.

Ariana is riding her kick scooter to the class as usual. She slows almost to a stop before entering the main campus promenade. As she passes under the large tree, there is a radio controlled hunting snare just above. A circle of strong braided wire drops around her, slides up, contracts, and tightens around her neck.

Suddenly she is jerked into the air as the bent tree branch springs back up into place. Her neck snaps like a pretzel. She dies instantly. Her bowels and bladder release as she gently bobs up and down at the end of the wire. A ghastly stain slowly begins to spread across her new designer jeans.

Students stop in their tracks, shocked and sickened as the experience of this event reaches their senses. Someone chants,

“What’s going on?” 

Rapist

Somalis in Maine have been trying to keep a low profile since the apartment complex massacre last October, but this is like pigs trying to hide from wolves.

March 3, 2028

Two young patriots are sitting on a park bench enjoying their lunch hour, when along comes a Somali pimp in the pink suit he wears daily. One of the young warriors exclaims,

“Why look! You’re all dressed up just like a little organ grinder’s monkey today, ain’t-cha, Boy?

The other young man chuckles, but the pimp scowls savagely,

“You not man like me. I have more women than you dream. I rape your white bitches whenever I want. My manhood be Anaconda next to your tiny hotdog.”

The young patriots laugh, but the pimp goes nuts, and pulls out a hunting knife, bellows, and starts slashing the air to frighten the two young men. The patriot who started the conversation looks amazed, pulls out his featherweight Smith and Wesson Chief’s Special .38 and shoots the angry pimp in the area of the proclaimed Anaconda.

The poor pink suited Negro is whistling a different tune now.

“Oh, pah-leeez, fine sir, I meant nothing. I just talkin’ bullshit like men do. Pah-leeez call an ambulance for me.”

The young warrior looks very sly and says.

“Eeeeeee-yah!”

then shoots the pimp in the head. The two patriots look around. No one has seen, They walk briskly back to work. 

Hipster

“They call me Hip Hop Cool

I don’t haf-ta go to school

I don’t live by no rule

I’m known as Hip Hop Cool

I just lay around all day

I really love to play and play

Shit, I aint no workin’ fool

They call me Hip Hop Cool

Mutha Fucka, Mutha Fucka

Know what I’m sayin?

Mutha Fucka, Mutha Fucka

Know what I’m sayin?”

Jamal is a hip gangsta, especially when he’s flying on crack, which he also sells to young Chicago kids. He gives them enough for a good high to help get them started, just for their lunch money. He doesn’t discriminate either, but strives equally to ruin children of all races.

In the past three years, four of the kids Jamal has sold to, suffered brain damage, and two died. One of his friends suggests he not sell to such little kids, but Jamal is a very tough man and sneers,

“What, you some kind o boy scout? Mo like punk-ass ho-bitch jive-talker. I do what I want. Know what I’m sayin, Mutha Fuck?”

March 20, 2028

Jamal is walking towards the school yard, when a van stops and two large men jump out, grab Jamal, chloroform him and pull him into the van. Once inside they inject him with a long term sedative, and take him to a place of preparation. Jamal is stripped and his clothes are laundered.

Next he is bathed and shaved. The shaft of penis is surgically shortened to one inch. Then his vocal cords are severed. When Jamal awakens he is allowed to dress, and is fed nutritious food prior to a long train ride which sees him manacled and straight jacked. After eleven hours, he arrives at his new home, a work camp somewhere.

After he is allowed to urinate, a trainer steps up with a baton,  and pokes Jamal hard in the nuts. The new slave curtsies in response. The trainer chuckles and says,

“You’re not so tough now, are you? Yes, you have been trafficked, and will obey every hour of every day for the rest of your life. We start right now.”

He pokes Jamal again,

“Kneel! Kiss my shoes!”

Bandana

April 6, 2028 Sunday

A Caucasian patriot in his early seventies is walking down the North Quadrangle of a state university in the western USA. Approaching in the opposite direction is a loud exhibitionistic young Negro man wearing a head bandana, like a music star. He is with an entourage of parents, wife, and a small boy, age four.

The young Negro is putting on quite a show, bragging himself up, acting like he considers himself the Captain of All Legitimacy. He tries many ways of baiting to get the approaching man’s attention, but fails. As the older man passes the arrogant young Negro loudly remarks, as if to suggest that the old fellow is somehow being politically incorrect,

“Ooo-kay, O.G.”

The old guy replies casually,

“Beat it raw, N.B.”

Suddenly the swagger is gone. The young Negro breaks ranks, walks over and says,

“What you call me?”

All this chimpanzee bravado is so tedious. With lightning speed and precision, the old guy pulls out the three foot rapier in his cane, and with a quick thrust to the abdomen, skewers the Negro smart-mouth like a cocktail wiener.

The young Blackamoor goes up on his tiptoes, bellows like a buffalo, then collapses. As he lies clutching his mid-section, groaning, the old fellow strides briskly back to the gaping entourage, who are paralyzed with fear. The old man smirks, slices the air twice, and says,

“Witness now how good white Americans deal with the insolence of Negros in America,”

With this, he dispatches each outlander, including the child, one at a time with a quick thrust to the throat. They just stand there, too horrified to resist. The old man looks down at the bodies and becomes philosophical,

“A fine Sunday banquet for ravens.”

Descendants

April 19, 2028  Los Angeles

A middle aged Caucasian man is sitting near the back of the city bus. Two Negro men in their late twenties enter the bus and sit just behind him. They speak audibly. One says,

“They don’t want to pay us reparations no matter what the government says. It’s just a different kind of racism behind our backs.”

This is a perfect example of identity politics. It’s as though Negros believe that most white people in long ago America had Negro slaves, not just the actual number of two percent.

The number of whites descended from slave owners was further reduced to less than one percent by the influx of white people from Europe in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Generically whites owe black people absolutely nothing.

The Caucasian man is tempted to educate the two fellows, but knows from past experience that it won’t do any good. Parasites believe whatever will seem to justify their avarice. At very least they will probably insult and threaten him for hijacking their conversation.

The Caucasian man is a patriot and carries a spike in his case. He gets it out, and into his pocket. When the bus stops, he gets up and moves to the seat behind the two Negros. Just before he faces front and sits down, he puts on a gauze respiratory mask to hide his face from the overhead cameras.

As the bus begins to slow at the next stop he spikes each parasite at the base of the skull. They die instantly. One slumps forward. The patriot grabs a handful of the man’s coat and pulls him back into upright position, rises and gets off the bus. Down the street around the corner, he takes off the mask and jumps on an another bus, taking a different route home. A bit of extra commuting time, but well worth the inner satisfaction from doing the right thing. 

Counsel

There is always quite a network among people of low moral character. With drug users, for instance, social life comes to center around procurement. Here in Detroit is no exception.

For some time a group of Negro welfare parasites have been meeting once a month to discuss how they can stay ahead of changing laws and requirements so they can continue their depraved lifestyles at the public expense.

A libertarian warrior has been watching the group for some time. At first, he thought of hunting them one at a time with bow and arrow after the meetings, but he knows that they would probably figure this out, and start meeting at a different location, possibly a new place every month. Besides, getting them all at once is less time consuming, and less risk

May 4, 2028  8:16 P.M.

The meeting room is in a basement with small ground level barred windows high above the floor. There is only one door, very heavy and strong. All of the meeting attendees have arrived and are seated.

The leader calls the meeting to order, 

“I see one new face. Welcome, Bro. As you know, the motherfuckers in government don’t care shit about us. They just racist rich boys. They owe us for slavery, but ain’t gonna pay, so we gotta meet here to figure out how we can get what we entitled to.”

The warrior can just barely hear these words outside, and shakes his head as he puts a strong police lock quietly on the door. Now he walks quickly upstairs to his car parked next to the ground level windows. Nobody is around. He opens his car trunk, takes out a small pinch bar, walks over, and jimmies one of the windows open.

Those in the meeting see and hear this. The speaker asks,

“Hey, what you doin’, motherfucker?”

The patriot snakes a fat rubber hose across the side walk, sticks the long open nozzle well inside the window, then walks briskly back, and opens the valve on the big tank of poison gas to which the hose is attached. As the gas flows down and greets their nostrils, the parasites are already trying to open the door.

The warrior looks up and sees and old couple way down the street approaching slowly, but is heartened because he can already hear the gasps of strangulation from the room. He walks back, and sees the last of the parasites collapsing to the floor. Now he waits another eleven seconds until the old couple are just one hundred feet away.

He shuts the tank valve, holds his breath, takes the nozzle out of the window, and presses the window snug. Nothing in the room is stirring, not even a mouse. He quickly snakes the hose back into the trunk, and drives away. The old couple don’t notice anything as they walk past.

The warrior goes home, happily prepares a Cheeseburger del Magnifico, and watches the late news. No report. Next morning, same thing, still no report. At work he checks out the midday news and hears that the building janitor got a grim surprise when he opened the door at mid-morning. The gas had dissipated via the building ventilation system just enough so as to have no noticeable effect on anyone else.

The old couple do not watch television news and never find out about the eighty four parasites who collected their first legitimate benefit by being gassed like rats.