#god i feel like this is the insane ramblings of a madman

[stuck-in-the-ghost-zone]

actually yeah speaking of no bitches megamind scion. i would fucking love your thoughts on. All of that. actually. like, okay, all of gold morning (<- this is not a term actually used in the book but it comes up in ward & is what All Of This This is known as), but i'll send u another blank check ask 2 talk about that. here specifically hey i know you've had so many thoughts on Where the Endbringers Come From & that's been smth you've been rlly interested in & also eidolon. so. like. hey. what are your thoughts on interlude 27.y?

fuck dude. my mind is. radio static rn. hey also gold morning is an insane thing to call thta holy shit okay!!!!! funked up!!!!!!

YEAH ITS BEEN SOMWTHING IVE BEEN FUCKING SUPER INTERESTED IN. BTW. DO U KNOW JOW MUCH IVE THOUGJT ABT THE DAMN ENDBRINGERS DUDE. fuck. okay! at risk of sounding like a dummy here I'm only *just now* starting to understand what the fuck that meant. I don't think i fully processed it yesterday. but i think I get it now. there are 2 options in my mind here ans it's either. scion created them to test the shards/create memories in an attempt to continue the cycle. I feel like this is not entirely the case since we didn't see that happen in his timeline and also I think he knows somewhere in his mind that continuing the cycle is a lost cause because he lost his counterpart (which. still holding out hope that we're gonna find out what exactly happened to It . that feels like a big chekovs gun rn. running theory is that some cape rn has its main shard or whatever and it can be revived? (hey btw did glaistig uaine absorb eidolons shard or do we think he was just completely obliterated. wouldnt that be fucked if she had access to his power and could absorb both dead capes AND living capes apparently. what the fuck..girl power i fucking guess.) OR its corpse is somewhere like a big cosmic whalefall or whatever. this is rlly just wishful thinking for me tho) ANYWAY. OTHER OPTION. which im thinking now is the more likely one. is that fuckign. the goddamn. reason eidolon let himself be killed there the reason he gave up is that. he created them. either knowingly or unknowingly I haven't figured out. but like. fuck. his power gives him "whatever he needs in the moment" << paraphrasing. he needed worthy opponents. this is so fucked up. dying to know whether this was a conscious action on his part or not. fuck. okay! I feel like I'm still. processing. or something. this whole time. this whole fjcking time. it's been eidolon.

I dont know why I had beef wirh him he just always seemed like the most secretive of the protectorate and he was always like..cold and distant and mysterious and I thought that meant he was hiding some other huge thing about cauldron. arguably I disliked alexandria WAY more but eidolon was just. sus. WHICH . I MEAN. IN MY DEFENSE. APPARENTLY HE FUCKING WAS HIDING SOMETHING EVEN IF IT WAS SUBCONSCIOUS. ENDBRINGER MOTHER. HE GAVE BIRTH TO THEM . APPARENTLY. CONGRATU FUCKING LATIONS

[noxtivagus]

wfjdkxkjsalkdlfdsjsalk

[venturethighs]

Don't care if anyone's awake I'm writing down my thoughts like the insane ramblings of a madman

A tiny bit of a precursor to something that's going to show up in Kinktober actually hehehehe

Nonfatal injury, lotsa blood, fun times. AFAB reader because I don't know what it's like to have a dick, okay!?! 😭 Otherwise I'd be more inclusive...

𓆩♡𓆪 You felt the bullet rip through your soft flesh and tense muscle, penetrating your torso and exiting through the other side.

𓆩♡𓆪 You are incredibly lucky that it didn't hit anything important. At the time, however, you didn't know that. All you felt was searing pain as you cradle yourself on the floor.

𓆩♡𓆪 Everything is blurry– sounds fade in and out as you desperately hang on to consciousness. A rough hand starts to drag you around your shared apartment as an argument ensues.

𓆩♡𓆪 Blood runs from the wound and stains your expensive clothing– nothing that couldn't be washed, and perhaps enchanted, clean. It's the least of your worries right now.

𓆩♡𓆪 Your head hits the marble floor again. You're being helplessly dragged around like a rag doll as your ex fruitlessly tries to leave with your body in tact.

𓆩♡𓆪 "Stop dragging me around!" You cry out.

𓆩♡𓆪 Except it comes out as more of a dull groan than anything.

𓆩♡𓆪 Your ex barks at you to be quiet. Your bonded yells back, and their scent grows heavier with their boiling rage.

𓆩♡𓆪 You stare at the ceiling as the comforting scent of sandalwood and vanilla linger in your senses. Everything else is slowly blocked out– the ensuing fight, the thrown furniture and decorations...

𓆩♡𓆪 The mauling that leaves your ex so close to deaths doorstep...

𓆩♡𓆪 If only. He had dragged himself away at the last minute, disappearing into the shadows of the night.

𓆩♡𓆪 All is quiet now– it's just you and your beloved bonded, holding you close as they examine your injury.

𓆩♡𓆪 "It's not fatal– thank goodness–" You feel their tongue lapping your still bleeding wound.

𓆩♡𓆪 A soft hum of approval reverberates in the back of their throat. Clearly they enjoy your taste today– some days it's sweeter, some days it's more savory. It really depends on what you eat the day before.

𓆩♡𓆪 "Sweet. Like strawberries." They murmur to themself.

𓆩♡𓆪 "Mmh– hurts." Your words choke you as the pain continues.

𓆩♡𓆪 "I know, I know, mi muñeco/a. I'm working on it. Try and relax for me, okay?" Their voice is gentle as they try their best to verbally soothe you.

𓆩♡𓆪 Then, their mouth wraps back around your open wound and drinks every last drop you have to give. The healing properties kick in near instantly– feeling the fibers of your muscle begin to rebind as they work adamantly to clean you up.

𓆩♡𓆪 The numbing agent in their saliva helps immensely.

𓆩♡𓆪 Your surroundings become more and more recognizable as the wound fades. It's a mess in here– and it only serves to stress you out even further.

𓆩♡𓆪 "Oh God, how are we going to fix all of this?" Your voice croaks.

𓆩♡𓆪 "Don't worry about that right now. Just focus on me." They tell you.

𓆩♡𓆪 They hover above your hips as they continue working diligently to heal you up. You find yourself mindlessly gathering spattered blood on your fingers and holding it up to their mouth, and they wholy welcome them in.

𓆩♡𓆪 Their eyes make brief contact with yours and flash a deep garnet color. Their irises become a kaleidoscope of reds as their emotions settle.

𓆩♡𓆪 "Ah– don't look at me like that." You pout.

𓆩♡𓆪 "I can't help it." They lightly chuckle in response.

𓆩♡𓆪 Your wound has all but disappeared and your skin is nice and healed for the time being. When you thought about it, though... you never really get to appreciate their tongue work as you rightfully should.

𓆩♡𓆪 There's a sudden wetness between your thighs. It doesn't go unnoticed.

𓆩♡𓆪 "Oooh~! someone enjoyed that a little more than they should have, hm?" They playfully tease you, gathering up more spilt blood on their tongue and placing a kiss down afterwards.

𓆩♡𓆪 You look away out of shame.

𓆩♡𓆪 "Don't be embarrassed. I'll take good care of you." Their hand snakes between your legs and presses against your excited core.

𓆩♡𓆪 You let out needy whimpers as their bloodied fingers encircle the pulse between your thighs.

𓆩♡𓆪 "Shaking? Already?" They continue their quick pace. "Poor thing. I won't make you wait."

𓆩♡𓆪 You gently grind against their hand as that wonderful feeling builds inside your hips.

𓆩♡𓆪 "That's it. Nice and easy." They sneak in a quick taste of you– causing you to squeak in surprise.

𓆩♡𓆪 "Heh– sorry! I can't help myself sometimes..." They place kisses to the outside of your quaking thighs.

𓆩♡𓆪 The orgasmic sensation blooms within as every stroke of their fingers hit exactly where you need them to.

𓆩♡𓆪 They add in more kitten licks to the outside of your folds in order to keep their saliva from seeping in and numbing you. Every taste they can get is savored for as long as it lasts.

𓆩♡𓆪 Your excited noises grow louder as the sensation inside you grows stronger and stronger.

𓆩♡𓆪 "Mm– my sweet [Y/N]." A soft sigh leaves their lips as they place more kisses to your lower half. "So good for me."

𓆩♡𓆪 You feel yourself involuntarily arch into their touch as you chase that saccharine high closer and closer, your eager moans like music to their ears.

𓆩♡𓆪 "Go ahead and let go for me. Just relax. Can you do that for me, mi alma?" They softly coax you over the edge.

𓆩♡𓆪 You feel a light dizziness overtake you as you ride their fingers into your orgasm. Fireworks shine behind your closed eyes, spiraling into geometric shapes and patterns until you sense yourself regain stability and pathetically collapse against the soft surface you lay on.

𓆩♡𓆪 "Good. Good–" They praise you. "– Let's get you to bed now. You need your rest."

𓆩♡𓆪 They lift you up bridal style before whisking you off into your pristine bedroom, a stark difference between your trashed living room.

𓆩♡𓆪 "What about the mess? Shouldn't I help clean up?" You ask with all sincerity.

𓆩♡𓆪 They lean down to nuzzle you as they tuck you in. "You'll be a big help just by resting. I'll take care of it. I said I would–" They place a kiss to your forehead.

𓆩♡𓆪 "When you wake up, I'll clean you up and take you out for dinner. Okay?" They smile.

𓆩♡𓆪 You sigh in defeat. As per usual.

𓆩♡𓆪 "Okay." You answer.

[jaundicehinch]

Until the Last Drop

Part 3

Severus' lessons have ended and gone, surprisingly smoothly through the first week. That is, aside from the one time Neville Longbottom's shrinking solution went terribly wrong. Though Hermione Granger saved him and his toad before he could kill it.. The Potions Master was quite disappointed he couldn't finish off Neville's toad for brewing such a horrendous, god-awful potion. To say it even 𝘪𝘴 a potion was an utter insult to potioneers. Snape didn't feel marvelous about having to teach the son of his former bully, but he had to do it nonetheless.

He was just as insufferable, arrogant, ignorant and selfish as his father. He spent most of his days grading terrible excuses of assignments. Though it would always make his bottom lip curl when he came across assignments with the name 𝘠/𝘕 𝘓/𝘕 in the right upper corner. Her assignments were always tip-top quality, with an eloquent handwriting and the most intricate, trivial of details being put to use, always using elegant and advanced words that over half of the students in her year wouldn't have a clue what they mean.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ♫ ⋅.} ───── ⊰

Y/N was strolling around the castle, her black, long robes and cloak swooping behind her like flowing clouds of smoke. Her eyes were unforgiving, sharp and observing. It wouldn't be rare for Neville Longbottom's knees to buckle, and teeth to clatter at the mere sight of her. Could you blame the boy? Her aura of authority, intelligence and power were quite intimidating. And deceiving.

Y/N stopped walking abruptly and tilted her chin to normal height, closing her eyes and smiling creepily as she spotted Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley talking. "She's mental, I'm telling you!", Ron exclaimed with wide eyes, and Harry nodded in agreement, or that's what it was supposed to be. Ron clumsily tripped over Harry's foot and fell over, groaning.

Harry laughed and bent over to help Ron, when Y/N approached them. "Would any help do you good, boys?", she inquired silkily.

Ronald stood up with a grunt and fixed his red hair, he bared his teeth. " What're you playing at?", he asked in disbelief, unsure of Y/Ns actions. The girl towered over Ronald and just laughed lightly. Creepy, really. "I beg your pardon? I am merely trying to be polite, yes." "Then what's with the fancy words?", Harry stepped in and raised a brow.

Y/N sighed while rolling her eyes and spun around on her heel, muttering under her breath and shaking her head as she strode opposite their direction. "Dunces.."

Ron was about to lunge at her when Harry restrained him by the arms.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

From that day on, Ron had developed a great distaste for the Slytherin first-year. The trio was in the courtyard, on a bench and talking. Ron and Harry were rambling about Slytherins, and Hermione decided to join in. As silly as she knew it was, it was quite exciting to join in in the latter. "She's mad! Like all Slytherins, of course. You seen how she talks? And how she smiles, like a madman? Bloody girl's a menace!", Ron complained and huffed. "You know, 𝘪 heard she never gets along with anyone, not even Draco. Many people say that because her mother is an auror, she's gone insane or something." Hermione chirped, accentuating the i.

A stranger in a leather coat and a pointy hat, who had a 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘋𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘩𝘦𝘵 paper in their hands and glued to their face, shuffled and spoke up. "And i heard she's absolutely crazy, and that her mum once went to Azkaban." the anonymous person chimed. Hermione leaned over to see their face but failed, and raised a bushy eyebrow. "How do you know?"

"Because I'm her.", the stranger pulled the newspaper away from their face and revealed an iconic scowl, and knit eyebrows. Y/N.She stood up and strode away in a swift motion, while Hermione and Ron's jaws were on the floor. "How.. She, what?!" Ron screeched and Harry shrugged with his shoulders.

❀•°•═════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ═════•°•❀

After another such.. Strange incident, Ron decided to never initate a conversation about Y/N, anywhere aside from the Gryffindor common room and dorms. He'd learned the hard way, yes...

Though Y/N didn't seem too phased. She kept calm, and didn't hesitate from talking to the trio whenever she pleased, offering them help or advice, mostly. She wouldn't have much to talk about with a pair of dunces and a know-it-all, did she? Although she wasn't immature, gossip wasn't a reason to stop initiating conversation with someone. She found it childish, whoever found such a reason to be valid.

Professor Binns was giving yet another god-forsaken, discombobulatingly boring lesson on the History of Magic, not even Y/N seemed to want to pay attention much. But, she bothered taking notes of what Professor Binns said in his monotone, depressingly slow, coma-inducing voice.

Y/N sighed desperately as she rolled her wrists and bent her fingers, putting them through unnecessary torture by copying down a long text of nothing useful Professor Binns had said about the history of Hogwarts. She would chew and bite on her cheeks solely out of boredom. Neville was the only eager one to hear to the professor, smiling and writing down every single word the ghost said. Honestly, even Peeves the poltergeist seemed like a better teacher. Ron had fallen fast asleep, and Harry's eyelids were drooping.

Hermione was trying to wake them up with desperacy, nudging their ribcage with their elbows. "Come on you two, wake up!", She whispered with knit eyebrows and sighed. Y/N couldn't help but smirk at this. Deciding to take matters into her own hands, she flicked the two boys' foreheads sharply, and they woke up with a groan. "Wakey wakey, you two. We're in class if you didn't forget." Y/N whispered with sassiness and Ronald rubbed his forehead and his eyes.

"Not our fault Binns is so awfully boring.. Makes me drowsy.", he protested and Y/N hummed. " Can't disagree with you on that one, Weasley. You have good reason.."

Hermione smiled weakly and Y/N gave her a wink of reassurance, which was unusual for her. 'She's not so awful', the two of them thought.

[justicerikai]

Charisma House - Superhuman Sharehouse Story “Charisma” - #29 Terra Conference

Please read alongside listening to the drama track on Youtube.

(Sarukawa walking by Terra)

Sarukawa: Huh

Terra: Hm? Ah

Sarukawa: What’cha doing in a place like this

Sarukawa: Thinking ‘bout stuff?

Terra: Mhm

Terra: Terra-kun’s awfully attractive, right?

Terra: So I wonder where this attractiveness exactly comes from

Terra: Which is why I’m double checking all his good points by myself

Sarukawa: Oh ok

Sarukawa: Seeya

Terra: EEEH!?

Terra: Hold on! Why are you leaving!

Sarukawa: Aahn?

Terra: Think about it with me

Sarukawa: Hell no! Do that madman shit on your own! Don’t drag others into it

Terra: Whatever, just sit down!

Sarukawa: Wait- stop- let go-

Terra: Let’s think about Terra-kun’s attractiveness together

Terra: There’s too much ground to cover for one person alone

(Sarukawa groans)

Terra: Alright, now say what you like about Terra-kun

Sarukawa: Haaah? As if I even care for that

Terra: First, he’s beautiful isn’t he

Sarukawa: Eeeh…

Sarukawa: Saying that yourself or what

Terra: He possesses such overwhelming beauty, and it’s not only about his appearance

Terra: After all beauty is something admirable

Terra: Yes, no doubt

Terra: What else?

Sarukawa: Eh? Hmm…

Terra: He has flair

Sarukawa: Eeeh…

Terra: You can feel the talent in all he does. And he has an outstanding fashion sense.

Terra: What else?

Sarukawa: Uum…..

Terra: He’s cute

Sarukawa: Eeeeh….

Terra: It’s obvious when you look at him but, surprisingly, there’s a playful side to him. That difference just gets to you.

Terra: What else?

Terra: He’s funny. Not only is he pretty and cool but he has a sense of humor. Being with him is fun.

Terra: What else?

Terra: He’s strong. This beauty is truly sturdy.

Terra: Facing so many hardships but overcoming all of it on his own

Terra: How noble

Terra: What else?

Terra: He’s nice, being strong leads to kindness, others might pass it off for being dry but that’s the flip side of strength.

Terra: What else?

Sarukawa: Do I even have to be here!?

Terra: Eh?

Sarukawa: Aren’tcha just rambling off on your own the entire time!

Sarukawa: You’re self-sufficient yet you kept me here!

Terra: That’s also attractiveness

Sarukawa: Hah?

Terra: He’s self-sufficient to the point of not caring about appraisal of others around him, living completely at his own pace.

Sarukawa: More in his own world than at his own pace.

Sarukawa: It’s annoying to those who’re at the mercy of your whims

Terra: That’s also attractiveness

Sarukawa: How!

Terra: By being a nuisance he’s showing others that such people exist thus being an example to encourage them to learn about the ways of society. Which makes Terra-kun a teacher on that part.

Sarukawa: Aren’t you just stupid!?

Terra: Cool

Sarukawa: You’re insane!

Terra: One and only

Sarukawa: Listen to me!

Terra: Cute

Sarukawa: Oi!

Terra: Embodiment of talent

Sarukawa: I said OI!

Terra: God has given to him with both, hundred, and thousand hands.

Sarukawa: ENOUGH! The hell you keep insisting on every single thing for while I’m against all of it!

Terra: Open your eyes

Terra: This is Terra-kun’s self-laundering!

Sarukawa: What is that…

Terra: You can deny as much as you want since all of it will be laundered and turned into affirmations.

Terra: With this skill I reached the ultimate stage and continue to live the most immaculate life!

Sarukawa: OI where you headin’ off to!

Terra: Eh? I had enough so I’m going home. Thanks

Sarukawa: ……EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEH!?

[cenviswasteland]

Who are Freyvay? You've tagged them in a bunch of your posts and from what I've seen I love their dynamic lol

jesus okay. alright. howdy. hi. my name is juno orion and im a writer. there's like a 90% chance that you, anon, are not real (as in youre one of my friends masquerading as an anon) or you have forgotten that you asked this entirely. i do not care. i am answering this now because im feeling insane.

in the interest of mobile users, im gonna cut this post here. under the cut you will find the ramblings of a fucking madman. cowabunga.

--the cut is here--

howdy again. thanks for clicking a button, let's get into it.

So there's two people involved in FreyVay, as any good ship should be. I'll just yap about them as individuals in name order.

Frey Lovelace

(yes this is my art. no i am not a good artist.)

male, 6'1

black hair blue eyes tanned skin etc

age range: 19 to 27-ish (im not good at math) (also it really depends on the story dont question it too hard)

current job: defense attorney

previous job: college student (this is how he met vay)

going to college for: polisci / history / law (this will make sense in a minute)

fun facts: smokes weed, easy going, has massive bazongas

main color: blue

his dad (alexander lovelace) is a lawyer, frey is basically a born ace attorney [in one universe, he cupped the balls of a statue of the god of law and said god of law was like "hell yeah brother" and blessed him with super-law powers], and also he is the womanizer ever. note the hickeys and bitemarks.

Valence Haiz

(please ignore the part that says "turnabout lawyer". i will explain later)

male, 5'11

blonde hair, gray eyes, pale skin, etc

age range: 18 to 26-ish (again i am not a math guy)

current job: CEO of a medical research monopoly, also politician

previous jobs: prosecutor, and before that, college student

going to college for: polisci / psychology / business / law

fun facts: very academic, stick up his ass, a special flavor of emotionally constipated (grew up rich and pressured)

main color: red

valence was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, and he was expected [read: pressured] to do "great things" by his father (David Haiz), make his family proud, etc etc. he was interested in law, decided to go to school for it, all that. he would later inherit his grandfather's (Aldier Kamp) medical research company and pursue a career in politics to be like his father.

--this line is intentionally left blank--

okay, we're gonna do the rest of this like im doing an interview because it's the only way i know how to structure things. let's go!

So, how do these bozos meet?

easy: college. they both attend (fictional) school Pennick University, which offers an accelerated course of study that can make a person a lawyer with just a bachelor's degree.

[note: in case you can't tell, your author is a complete and total Ace Attorney nerd. this is AA logic. just go with it.]

frey and valence end up being random roommates in their first year. by some miracle, they actually go from just "roommates" to "person i tolerate and talk to outside sometimes".

Why ship them?

my sibling in starclan they ship themselves.

after the two of them become friends, talk regularly, etc etc, frey finds himself falling hard. like, head-over-heels ass-over-teakettle hard. while registering for spring classes in his second year, frey quite literally changes his major because valence has helped him realize this talent he has for law and polisci.

i think if anything, this excerpt from my aSiP series bible says it best, at least from frey's POV:

It’s not theory or subtext or conjecture anymore. Frey Lovelace is just… in love with Valence Haiz. Hopelessly. Helplessly. He probably didn't realize it until he was switching his major, too.

He’s in love with Valence. The real Valence.

The Valence that turns his head away when Frey cracks a bad joke. The Valence that stays up late to get work done, only to end up watching reruns of House and Criminal Minds with Frey. The Valence that lets his eyes sparkle when Frey asks about how his psychology research is going.  The Valence that’s a natural at public speaking. The Valence that could pull speeches out of thin air. The Valence that makes elaborate PowerPoints before every presentation.

The Valence that will entertain Frey’s contrarian need to be the opposing side in every debate. The Valence that lights up when he gets Frey backed into a metaphorical corner. The Valence that makes sassy and snarky comments between pages of a novel. The Valence that complains in the margins of his textbooks. The Valence that sends Frey letters over break. The Valence that encloses pictures of the places he visits or the art he’s seen in museums.

The Valence that went to Waffle House at 11 PM with Frey after their last final of the semester. The Valence that takes his coffee with a mountain of creamer and his waffles with chocolate chips and strawberries. The Valence that threw an orange in Frey’s face after Frey came home soaked from the rain. The Valence that made him stand in the hallway until he ate the orange. The Valence that said “I don’t want you getting me sick.” The Valence that cares. The Valence that allows himself to be vulnerable. The Valence that isn’t trying to put up a front.

The Valence that’s real.

-- just... just let that soak in for a sec. i don't have anything to add, just let it marinate. --

God, that's sickeningly sweet, but I'm not into all that sappy stuff.

don't worry, it's not all sunshine and rainbows! in fact, it's a special kind of hell from valence's POV.

because to him, frey is infuriating. while valence had to claw a path to any kind of respect, dignity, or even to have anyone look his way, frey just gets it naturally. from an outsider's perspective, he's damn near perfect at the law practice, he never studies anything, he can go and screw around (literally and figuratively) all day and come back with perfect marks on tests and quizzes, and he's having the time of his life in college.

meanwhile, valence is struggling with multiple flavors of his own sexuality, insane mental health problems, self-image / worth issues, and, again, the strange pressure of having everything at your fingertips but never feeling like you've done enough to deserve it.

please accept another excerpt, this time from my aSiP draft:

[note: contains references to sexual content, alcohol and weed. skip to next bracket to avoid.]

April 10th – 1:43 A.M.

Lovelace operates like an animal. It wouldn’t be an issue if it were simply in his habits, but habits will force themselves into the way one conducts himself in conversation. Lovelace has no manners, poise, or elegance. He says every thought that forms in his brain without pausing to think about the implications or the consequences. I make a point to avoid empty, dull-witted debates, and yet he just keeps pulling me in over and over again. He makes a fine acquaintance, but I would never consider taking it further. He takes far too many partners as it is.

Even so, last night I found myself in a wine-drunk stupor, kissing him like I needed his air more than my own. Lovelace kisses with tongue and teeth, in the same blunt fashion with which he does everything. He tasted like burnt herbs. Neither of us seemed to have the good sense to stop, and so we kept pushing the boundaries. He seemed so intent to stake his claim, to force me into the mattress, to take what he believed was his.

I felt as though I couldn’t take in my own air. There was something horrible in the way his weight felt on top of me. I distinctly remember enjoying myself. I can’t imagine how. I have no interest in being his. I have no interest in his lips. I never did, even when they were against my skin. I know I was drunk. He was drunk, too. He was drunk and high. He was worse than I was. He still had the common sense to ask me if I wanted it. We could have stopped. Even impaired, he would have stopped. We hadn’t lost all our wits.

He asked me if I wanted it. I told him yes. Was I lying? I can’t remember my own tone. Should I be angry? Did he lie to me? There’s no point in anger, is there? I feel ill. Am I fooling myself? Should we have stopped? I didn’t stop him. He didn’t stop me.

I don’t even know if I wanted to stop.

[end warning section. welcome back.]

again, i'm not gonna say anything here. just sit and process.

Okay, so what's aSiP? And Turnabout Lawyer?

they're two sides of the same coin! both are longform FreyVay-centric projects that i'm actively writing.

a study in purple (or aSiP) is a valence POV work that goes through his side of the Pennick University experience. it was originally a piece i wrote for my creative writing class last semester (spring 2024).

Turnabout Lawyer (or TL, or Burden of Proof) is a frey POV work that goes through his side of the PennU experience. it was originally an idea for a visual novel, which i then converted to a screenplay pilot episode for my screenwriting class last semester (spring 2024).

yes, there's intense and serious cognitive dissonance between their experiences. that is on purpose. i will absolutely be providing project updates if this post even gets one (1) note.

Surely it doesn't end after they graduate...?

you bet your shiny boots it doesn't! but i'll be damned if i keep this post going for longer, so for everyone's sanity i have to call it here. i'll make a follow-up post about freyvay after graduation. they go through a lot of changes... but that will have to be for another day.

Wait! I want FreyVay content and I want it now!!

Well, lucky for you, I am the soul owner and participator in FreyVay week, which is happening right the fuck now! No one knew about it other than my bestie westie pesties, and that's perfectly fine to me! I will be posting my silly little FreyVay fics here anyway!!! In fact, I'll be posting the Day One fic immediately after this post, so read away to your heart's content!

The full schedule is here for your perusing pleasure:

---

thank you ever so much for reading all this yappery! i love blah blah blahing about my goofy little guys. please stand by for more freyvay content directly on your timeline as if you are a baby bird.

peace, love, little donuts, etc etc.

[dahvangogh]

and empty words are evil | Jason Todd

[masterlist]

[ prologue | one | two ] 

CHAPTER ONE

“Life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. This is a kind of death.”

– Anais Nin

“How to be single and satisfied at the same time?” Daniel reads the headline out loud, his eyes skimming through the cover of It Girl with curiosity.

Grace hums out loud, thinking the question over while chewing her bottom lip.

“Masturbating, for sure,” Lisa says without missing a beat, Grace only seeing the top of her blonde head because of how burrowed on the laminated menu she was.

The raven-haired laughs loudly –she can’t help it–, but poor Daniel, red tinting his face, starts looking around in case anyone at the dinner has heard them and was giving them any dirty looks.

“Relax, Dan. No one cares.” Grace pats him on the shoulder.

Lisa seems to have forgotten her menu and is now staring fully at Dan, a wicked smile appears on her purple-painted lips, completely ready to bug him.

“Don’t… Leave him alone, Lisa.” Grace quickly chastises her, even kicking her under the table for emphasis, for Lisa can be the most annoying person ever when she wants to. “And Dan, no one is paying any attention to us. Relax.”

Dan is still looking around, his face finally back to its natural color.

“It seems… everyone is paying attention to the tv?”

Pauli’s Diner is crowded, every booth full and a long queue that reaches from the counter to the door. The usual. Yet everyone’s attention, even the four waitresses, seems to be on the tv. Grace also focuses on the big tv, which is placed high at the back of the diner wall, three booths away from theirs. It is on and showcasing a newswoman reporting about something, but without the sound and no headlines or subtitles below to indicate what she was talking about, Grace is left with more questions than answers.

“I think something happened.” Dan sounds between scared and resigned.

The three of them look at each other, then almost comically pull out their phones at the same time. Something always happens in Gotham –the city that never rested–, and it was a common occurrence to check the Gotham Gazette App every day. After all, any good Gothamite knows that to be well informed is the key to survival in such an insane and restless city.

“Fuck. I swear if that madman of Zsasz has escaped again, I will hunt him down and drag his ass to the Asylum myself,” Lisa grunts; her pale brows furrowed tightly. “Fucking load already, stupid App!”

Grace focuses on her screen, the app taking more time than usual to load.

“Mine too…” Dan’s answers in his usual hushed voice. Then, he starts chewing on his lip, worry all over his face.

A big headline pops on Grace’s screen –the App finally deciding on working–,  and she sighs happily after reading it.

“Seems an aircraft has fallen to the Sprang River; 20 people are currently missing and the rescue team is doing everything in their power to get to them.” She literally reads out loud the last words, happy that no madman is out and about on the city. “Nothing about Zsasz, sorry Lisa.”

Her two friends exhale the air they had been holding.

“Seems your impromptu date with Zsasz will have to wait.” Grace kicks her friend’s leg again, but this time just to annoy her.

Lisa shows her the middle finger.

“No, but for real. After last time, I don’t think he is going anywhere.” The raven-haired reminds them. “He killed 5 people until Batman and young Robin stopped him.”

Grace sees Dan gulp.

“Yeah, after escaping. Again.” Lisa sounds mad, which is understandable after living in Gotham for five years, and seeing all the hurt Zsasz has caused many Gothamites. “And one of them was my neighbor!”

Dan sighs, remembering her.  “Oh, that poor woman…”

“She was a mean bitch, though,” Lisa adds as if it is vital information.

Grace can’t help but to huff.

“Lisa!”

Suddenly, one of the waitresses appears at their booth. With a sheepish smile painted on her serene face, –probably because of how much they had had to wait– she asks them what they would like to order.

Lisa happily asks for a sandwich and a banana smoothie, –as if the last conversation has never happened– but quickly rectifies and changes for a big portion of the chocolate cake instead of the sandwich. The waitress, Marge by what the badge on her blouse, agrees with the blonde and sings praises about how good it is. Then, her attention goes to Dan, asking him sweetly what he would like to order.

The boy, who has never liked being the center of attention, turns bright red again. Shyly, he orders a cappuccino and one of their famous big chocolate cookies, all the while his eyes are zooming on the table instead of her.

When she turns to her, Grace feels as if she has been punched on the stomach.

The waitress aura, white and bright as any other, is twinkling and shaking from pure anxiety.

“What about you, sweetheart?” The old lady asks kindly, her face completely composed despite what her aura said of her.

The contrast between her aura and her facial expression is starting to freak Grace out. Nevertheless, she tries to focus on the present, on what she is feeling, on where she is and, more importantly, on what she wants to fucking eat. Which is really obvious if you know her, by the pointed looks of Lisa and Dan.

“I want a yogurt and banana smoothie, please.”

Marge hums.

“Be right back, then.”

Then, Lisa quickly starts rambling about what they should do on the weekend, something about the opening of a new club in town, but the raven-haired girl can’t pay enough attention to the get on the conversation. Marge’s soul is making it hard for her to concentrate; she even starts rubbing her hands together instinctively as if to distract herself.

She says fuck it and turns around.

The old waitress looks as composed as before, preparing their orders with the help of another girl while looking at the tv. But if Grace focuses hard enough, she can clearly depict Marge’s aura still shaking and twinkling, perhaps even more so than before. Despite training hard to control it, Grace still sometimes is unintentionally receptive to other people’s feelings –almost like an antenna would, she can perceive them and even go as far as toying with them.

This woman is anxious and worried, and Grace doesn’t even know how she isn’t shaking physically.

And Grace, being the sympathetic girl that she is, can’t help but take pity on the poor woman and break her own rules.

She extends her hand, scanning before that no one is paying her any attention, and then lowers it slowly.

Marge’s aura calms at the same time that her hand motion stops, and it no longer twinkles.

Though the lights in the room go crazy for a few seconds.

Grace has to thank whatever God exists, or even the Cosmos, that small tasks such as this one  don’t make her hands or her whole self glow with the usual green-bluish energy.

She still remembers the hilarious comment that once a crewmember of the Serbian Mafia made when he saw her appear out of nowhere, floating in the sky, just minutes before she brought hell upon them. Her, attired in her tight black suit and black domino mask, surrounded by bright green-bluish energy floating in the black sky while defying gravity.

And instead of running away, hide or even shot at her, he placed his hands on his hips and said out loud impressed:

“What the fuck? She looks like Goku Super Saiyajin!”

Grace can’t hold now the giggle that escapes her lips.

“What the hell?” Lisa’s voice brings her back to the present, and to the diner.

The raven-haired girl turns around and looks at her friends, smiling as if nothing had just happened, while blinking innocently.

“Sorry, you were saying?”

[ –    –    – ]

The pencil runs all over her sketchpad, quietly humming along to Stevie Wonder’s Superstition while drawing the sun setting between the skyscrapers. It looks spectacular from her high-ceiling windows. Grace’s weird obsession –despite her psychologist telling time and time again to her that it isn’t exactly a bad thing– of drawing beautiful things, or anything she believes is beautiful to her own standards, has made her sit down and try to make it justice.

Despite having to get ready for a night out with Lisa.

“Just fifteen minutes more and you will get ready.” She sets an alarm, just as Dr. Carson had advised her to do, and keeps drawing happily.

The oranges, in light and deep tones, together with the goldens of the sun setting almost make her forget about any advice, psychologist and nightclub.

And so she keeps going, her sketch pencil running through the page.

She has always felt privileged for owning an apartment in Gotham Village, where only the rich dwelled and played, with amazing views and almost non-existent criminality –which is surprising to say the least in this damned city–. It is the place where she could find herself being happy or at least, try to be normal.

But she misses going out and doing her thing as she did back in Europe.

Grace sighs, chewing on her already-chewed sketch pencil and stops drawing, hugging her legs to her chest.

When she had moved to Gotham almost a year ago, she had wanted to set aside her “dangerous hobby” and live a normal life. Like Lisa or Dan did.

After what had happened to her six years ago, she had used her family’s connections and pulled some strings so she could go and study in a European country. Away from Central Park and New York. There in Berlin, Grace had trained with an Israeli private trainer, Isaac, in Krav Maga until achieving a black belt and her expert five patch. Initially, she had started with just wanting to know the basics, a bit for self-defense and that’s it. Until one day, on a Friday night while she was watching The News, she saw another rapist just get five to ten years in jail and a pat on his shoulder. It had made her so furious that all the windows on her apartment exploded. Moreover, it was in that exact moment, while floating in the middle of her room with her whole being surrounded by the weird bright green-bluish energy and feeling full of rage, that she knew she could try and make a difference, for those who had power were clearly not doing anything.

The next day, after paying the window installer for she had no windows after last night’s debacle, she had asked Isaac about what he would wear, hypothetically of course, if he went to a fucking battle. At first, her trainer had answered that his military uniform but then he had rambled on and on about how a suit of Kevlar thread paired with a good armor would be the best choice if he could afford it.

So Grace, after debating all day whether to do it or not, had called her father that same night and had asked him to find someone who could build it for her.

Matthew Henderson had asked many questions, but she had just told him that in due time she would tell him. Just not now.

He had refused and straight-up hang up.

Later that same night, wide awake and after seriously considering to just wing it and buy a superhero costume from a cosplay online shop, her father had miraculously called again and accepted.

She really was his spoiled little girl.

Grace had flown to New York, the city that she now loathed with a passion, and had her measures taken. The guy who created it made the suit so it fit her like a glove – the downside to that? she had to be careful with what she ate.– It was tight, full-body and with high heeled boots to make her seem taller –after all, she couldn’t go around looking like a gremlin while also fitting crime. A pair of matching black gloves and a domino mask were also made.

After that, before putting the suit, she had not only trained to be the best at Krav Maga but also had learned a few other things –fighting with knives and how to use a gun properly, yet she still preferred to this day using her powers and Krav Maga–. A year and a half later, she had made her debut on Berlin’s streets.

In those years, she had killed many rapists, abusers and pedophiles. Delivered a few petty thieves and robbers to the nearest police station like Santa Claus would do on Christmas Eve, even going as far as tying them up and sticking a note on their foreheads explaining what they had done wrong. She really had been a good samaritan. A few encounters here and there with the Serbian Mafia and the Triad too.

Moreover, she might have done some petty thievery here and there, just to add a bit of spice to her life, but mainly she had been a good girl.

And fuck, she misses doing those things.

It was fun.

A bit dangerous, yes, but fun.

When you have powers beyond your imagination and are able to do some good, why would you step back and live a normal boring life?, she tries to reason with herself every night.

Yet back then in one of her many Skype sessions with Lisa, her childhood best friend, she had realized how empty and alone she had been feeling.

She had superpowers, at 23 she had her damn degree and had been studying to further her education even more, had also a lovely apartment, and yet she felt more lonely than ever.

And loneliness is a dangerous thing.

So, when she had told her good old friend, while omitting a certain hobby she had, of how she was feeling, the blonde had just replied with:

“Come to Gotham! We could live together and the city is fun. Trust me, you will never get bored here.”

Grace chuckles when remembering that. In the next twenty-four hours, she had packed her things, had said goodbye to her colleagues from University, and then hopped on a plane.

She has to give it to Lisa, Gotham city is everything but boring.

Gotham honors its name with its gloomy atmosphere, high buildings and horrible weather. The city is probably Tim Burton’s wet dream. You can find gargoyles in many of the buildings façades, many nights the city is covered in a thick fog, it has an Asylum for the worst of the worst with a high rate of escapees, an absurdly high rate in criminality and many bat-related vigilantes coming out at night to play.

Oh, and the many deranged individuals that play around Gotham like it is a child's’ dream playground.

Lisa had filled her in during those six years on her weekly Skype sessions about those individuals and so she knew most of them before she had placed a foot on the city. Gotham City has the Joker, currently-for-who-knows-how-long-because-he-always-escapes locked in Arkham Asylum, a psychopathic clown who had a weird obsession and ongoing feud with Batman; Two-Face, a half-burned crime lord obsessed with duality and the number two; the Penguin, another crime lord who looked like his namesakes and wore a monocle and umbrella; Poison Ivy, a stunning woman (Lisa said so, her gayness clearly showing here) who was an eco-terrorist and could control nature; and the list could go on and on for ages to no end.

So, her current life in Gotham is never dull or boring. She is working on a renowned and bohemian art gallery in the city, has an amazing apartment –she had tried living with Lisa but they had almost ended fistfighting with each other over a jar of marmalade–, can meet her best friends every day if she wanted, and is continuing her studies at the local University.

But she would be lying if she said she doesn’t miss going out and doing her thing.

Even drawing and painting, the thing that had always distracted her from suiting up and going out, was starting to not divert her attention as it normally would.

Her alarm starts going off.

“I really don’t want to go out.” she sighs loudly, as if someone would pat her on the shoulder and tell her not to go. “I hate partying and crowded places.”

Grace chews her already-very-chewed sketch pencil while walking all the way to her wardrobe.

She has to get ready or Lisa will probably scream her ear off for making her wait.

Though she is always late.

[ –    –    – ]

Grace, setting aside her ex-extracurricular activities, has always hated going out and now she remembers clearly why she does.

The night would always begin as good as it could possibly be. Lisa and her looking bomb would march to a nightclub, then the club would be buzzing with activity and music, they would have a few drinks and perhaps even dance a bit if the music was any good.

Then Lisa would start flirting with any of the cute waitresses and end up, don’t ask her how, with their tongue almost reaching her throat.

Lisa visibly looked like a terrible kisser, she always reminded Grace of a lifeguard doing mouth-to-mouth, and so she never understood why would the women always end up going God-knows-where to probably fuck.

And so then she would end up all alone, surrounded by sweaty bodies while going deaf by the loud music, and nursing a drink.

Tonight is no different from the usual, but she is tired. Her head hurts from overthinking too much all day long and the high heels are killing her.

Grace decides it is time to call it a day and head back home.

She quickly sends a message to Lisa, who is probably very busy with the cute blonde-haired waitress, and stands up from her barstool.

Hey girl, hope you are having fun with the redhead girl wherever you are.

As you left me alone, as usual (don’t fret, i’m used to it lmao) I have decided to stop being a pathetic human being and go home.

Call me tomorrow, but don’t even think of giving me any details. I don’t care about your sexual life.

Bye, bitch. xx

PD: text me when you GO home and when you GET home, it isn’t safe out there.

The raven-haired sighs.

She has to hit the bathroom before calling her uber though.

Too many drinks.

[ –    –    – ]

♡ Here, in this fancy shithole, Lucy Ross lost her virginity ♡

Grace sniggers, the situation completely reminding her of some of the type of things she had seen written back then on her high school’s cubicles’ walls.

She sighs happily while finally peeing.

Suddenly, the screams of a high pitched voice and the sound of glass shattering continually almost makes her fall off the toilet.

“Fuck! Fuck!”

She grabs some toilet paper and when she is finished cleaning herself, she pulls her panties up as quickly as possible. Grace holds her breath. It is one person, a female by the sound of the colorful series of profanities she is screaming, and Grace doesn’t need to check her aura to know how angry she is.

Though just in case, she takes a peek.

She focuses on her own aura, then changes her focus towards the other one in the bathroom, even going as far as closing her eyes to discern it much better –without stepping out and risking getting hurt.

It is shining as bright as the sun, but trembling and roaring with despair and sadness. The fact that the poor female isn’t angry surprises her.

Grace takes a deep breath, preparing herself for whatever she is going to face after stepping out of the enclosed and safe space where she is.

When she opens the door, almost scared of what she might see after reading the aura, the sight of a blonde woman headbutting the bathroom’s big mirror isn’t at all what she had expected.

The girl doesn’t even pay her any attention, clearly busy trying to crack her skull open, and so she keeps doing it, even adding some punches to the mix.

Grace can’t let her hurt herself this way.

“Hey, hey, hey!” She has to stop her before she kills herself, or gives herself a concussion if she is lucky enough. “Stop! Stop!”

Grace grabs the blonde by the waist, as if trying to separate her from the mirror, and pulls her against herself.

Next thing she knows, the blonde answers her with a chokehold and then sends her flying over her shoulder without breaking a sweat.

Her body collapses against the same toilet she had been peeing seconds ago, tearing the door from its fringes in the process. However, because her pain tolerance is higher than normal, Grace just grunts and answers right back.

The raven-haired extends her hand, a bright green-bluish glowing around it, and makes a motion towards the sinks. Now the blonde girl is the one being sent flying but this time towards the mirror she had been shattering just before and the sinks.

Grace stands up, her back killing her even more than usual, and approaches the blonde sitting with her back against the shattered mirror.

Weirdly enough, the girl instead of being knocked out is looking at her as if she is Jesus Incarnated. There is wonder all over her face.

“You are so paying for the damages.” the raven-haired quickly points out but then stops herself.

She can’t help but examine her for serious injuries. After all, she had been head-butting the mirror three seconds ago and then sent flying to it –on self-defense though–. But despite all the blood that is running down her forehead, she seems more than fine. Happy even, just gazing at her.

“What the hell?” she can’t help but voice her thoughts out loud.

The raven-haired almost falls backwards when the girl —who is clearly not right in the head— jumps to hug her tightly, mumbling “yes” nonstop while jumping up and down like an excited child.

The blonde girl pulls back, black eyeshadow and glitter smeared around her big blue eyes, and her black-painted lips start smiling almost manically.

“You! You!”

Grace blinks several times, completely lost for words. Then she sighs, trying to get back to the present time.

“Are you out of your mind?” she asks her, completely serious.

“No, I’m Harley Quinn and you...” the blonde points at her, smiling cheekily. “You are my new best friend.”

The raven-haired girl can still hear Lisa, in one of their many Skype sessions, telling her snippets of information here and there about Harley Quinn.

“She is definitely insane. For a long time, she was the partner in crime of Joker and dated that nutter. Girl… the things she has done are something else. Anyways, then she left him and joined a girl band… No, kidding. But Catwoman, Poison Ivy and her did start hanging out and creating some mayhem.”

Again, Grace doesn’t know what to say.

“Let’s go have a drink!”Harley links one of her pale arms with hers, then starts dragging her out of the bathroom.

[ –    –    –  ]

They both sit on a VIP booth with an exceptional view of the dance floor and enough privacy to plot the murder of the current President. The loud music is now faint and low. At the glass low table, there is a big metal ice bucket with two expensive-looking champagne bottles and two glass flutes nearby.

Harley is sitting on the other side of the table, her maniacal smile still on and with her legs crossed, while Grace sits on the other side in the U velvety couch.

She scans her, now fully seeing her for who she is.

Her hair is up in a messy bun, which is dyed in blue and pink, lipstick smeared from probably drinking too much and her clothes are as eccentric-looking as the wearer is. She is wearing what seems like a dog collar, a very sparkling sequin red crop top matching with a penguin sequin dark jacket, striped high-waisted dark pants, and red neon high-heeled boots.

“Interesting choice of clothes.” she can’t help but say, then nods to her neck. “Nice collar, too.”

Harley smiles, almost childlike.

“Bud and Lou hate wearing it, so I decided to put their dog tags on one and wear it to honor them. Cool, right?”

Grace raises an eyebrow.

“Bud and Lou are…?

The blonde laughs loudly, a hand going to her flat stomach.

“My hyenas, silly!”

Then gets serious, so suddenly that Grace almost jumps from such a radical change of demeanor, and picks up one of the champagne bottle on the ice bucket.

“Sounds cool.”

It is all she can say.

But Harley doesn’t pay her any attention, furiously shaking the bottle up and down until it pops. She laughs fascinated by it, then pours some on both flutes and gives her one.

“Anyways!” she cries out loudly, then sips a bit of the champagne while staring at her, doe-eyed. “I kinda need your help.”

Grace takes a sip too.

“My help?” The raven-haired gets comfortable on the couch, a bit curious about the whole thing. After all, it isn’t every day you have a conversation with the infamous Harley Quinn. “You have just met me, Quinn.”

Harley opens her mouth – almost fish-like–, but Grace points a finger, interrupting her.

“Also, you are paying for the damn damages of the bathroom!”

The blonde enthusiastically nods, even going as far as to salute her military-style, all while smiling cutely.

Grace can’t help but smile back.

Harley Quinn is a very cute girl.

“So, will ya help me?”

She blinks a few times.

“With what?”

“Well, you see… it’s a long story.” Harley says, dragging the long while saying it. Then, she takes another loud sip of her flute. “When Mista J an’ I broke up for the hundred’ time, I decided it was time to emancipate myself! I started hanging out more with my besties, adopted many cute pets, hooked up with hot-billionaire Bruce Wayne once  an’ even changed ma’ hair.”

Grace raises a thick brow, surprise all over her face.

“You hooked up with Bruce Wayne? The Bruce Wayne?”

Harley shakes her hands nonchalantly.

“Just kissed an’ groped his ass. Very tight and firm!”

Grace laughs at that and Harley joins her.

“Anyways, anyways. My friend Selina had just recently gotten a heart surgery an’ Red an’ I were helping her out on some things, then decided to live together. We had so much fun together! So, so, so much! We ran Gotham, the boys couldn’t keep up! And… Pammy an’ I… we fell in love.”

The blonde sighed happily, blowing raspberries into her glass flute.

“Pammy is Poison Ivy, right?”

Harley nods with a happy smile, but her face quickly contorts in one full of hatred and disgust.

“But Batnight ruined everything!”

The dark-haired girl scratches her temple, trying to remember the names of all the vigilantes of Gotham City, but she can’t remember anyone called Batnight.

“I don’t… I don’t recall any Batnight?” Grace chews her bottom lip, completely lost. “Is he new in town or…?

Harley shakes her head effusively, a clear no, while moving closer so her butt is now placed on the verge of the couch.

“He has sticks!” the blonde points out as if to help her distinguish who the vigilante is.

Grace takes that into consideration.

“Batnight… Batnight… Bat… Night… Night?.” Grace mumbles out loud while Harley nods along to what she is saying. “Nightwing!”

“That’s what I said!”

Grace opens her mouth to correct her, then closes it. She thought Nightwing now patrolled on Blüdhaven instead of Gotham City. Then, she opens her mouth again to ask about it but decides on not doing, Harley’s tale is already making her head hurt a bit. There is no need to enlarge the story even more.

“Red was helping her plants, ya’ know. Doing some good for nature, an’ the Batnight took her down!” Harley places her flute on the table with ferocity, making it shatter. Nevertheless, she is still looking at her with shiny eyes. “Now, Red is at GCPD Lockup, an’ in a week will be taken to the Asylum! Unjustly!”

The blonde starts to sob desperately, putting her hands to her face so it is hidden from her, and Grace sighs silently. While she stands up and approaches her, she checks her aura.

It is shinning and twinkling furiously, Grace can feel the sadness and sorrow the woman is feeling.

She is not lying.

Grace sits beside her and pats her back slowly.

With a kind smile, she asks her: “And because of what I did in the bathroom, you want me to help you?”

Grace is really an empathic girl, she can’t help it.

Harley drops her hands to her lap and looks at her, her eyeshadow and glittery mascara even more messed up than before. Then, almost shyly, nods.

“I… I have…. “ the woman hiccups while her pale fist starts rubbing her left eye. “I have a plan. It is good! But I need me some explosives to cause a distraction, so I can bail out my Pammy. Normally I would do it myself, I was going to… ‘til I saw ya’ earlier in the bathroom!”

The raven-haired girl laughs softly, then cheekily pinches Harley’s right cheek.

“Alright. Girl, I do have superpowers.” Harley nods along to that. “And I can make things go Boom, but where the heck do I get explosives, huh?”

The blonde grabs Grace’s hands with her bleached ones, turns on the coach to sit cross-legged on it and squeezes her hands tightly. She is smiling a bit more now which makes Grace a bit happy.

She likes seeing people smile.

“Blubberpot probably has some, but we ain’t good friends, ya’ know? So he won’t give it to me.”

“Blubber… pot?”

Harley nods.

“Penguin! Small with a pointy nose? Like a toucan?” she makes a gesture of a nose going large until touching her lap with her hand.

Grace realizes she means Cobblepot, Oswald Cobblepot; and nods.

“But I earlier heard some birds talking about Black Mask, it seems he had a new shipment of LX-14, CL-20 an’ TNT to one of his warehouses here in Gotham. ” Harley whispers conspiratorially, puckering her mouth like a duck,  though they are alone in the VIP area.

The dark-haired hums, running Harley’s plan through her mind.

“And you want me to smuggle them up, right?”

Harley nods, then subsequently adds: “Selina is busy with don’t-fucking-know-what and I would ask Zatanna but I heard she was busy! So, please?”

Grace sighs.

“You could go there, make the explosives disappear an’ make them appear in my house!”

“Girl, that’s not how my powers work. To open a portal and then move them to your house, I would need to first have set a foot on the place. I can’t just teleport myself to somewhere I haven’t been to before.” Grace takes her hands off Harley’s hold and crosses her arms while explaining this to the blonde girl. “Also, do you even know which warehouse it is? Last I heard from Black Mask, he has many.”

Harley jumps from her seat and starts searching through her pants pockets, nodding to what Grace said while taking out whatever she finds inside and placing it on the small table. A lipstick, some keys with a key-chain of a circus hammer, a small pocket-knife, another pocket-knife but with a blue handle,  some sort of ring –which curiously looks like the pin of a hand grenade, but Grace will turn a blind eye on that –, and finally a crumpled piece of paper.

The blonde gives it to her, smiling happily.

“I wrote it down, ‘cause I’m a smart girl. I got a Ph.D., ya’ know?”

Grace reads the direction written in messy handwriting and chuckles at the smiley face doodled underneath it.

“I will help you out on one condition.” She points a finger to the blonde’s face. “No killing any policemen. Got it?”

Harley nods enthusiastically.

“Then I will help you.”

The blonde lets a loud scream and throws herself to Grace’s arms, ecstatically jumping up and down as she did an hour ago on the nightclub’s bathroom. She is thanking her again and again, tears running down her face and falling to Grace’s naked arms. The dark-haired girl pats her in the back, chuckling lightly, and then hugs her back.

A few seconds later, but still as happy and ecstatic as before, Harley pulls back and places each of her hands on Grace’s cheeks.

“Let’s go have a sleepover at mines!”

[lucarioisinthevoid]

hi, me again– i decided to be a sneak and make something for your birthday anyway >:) i wanted to finish it much sooner, but me and my mom are currently working on the isolation of our house (styrofoam etc), as the builders we hired ditched us. that said, i have very little free time this week. but luckily i managed to make this on breaks! sorry for rambling, oops. once again, i hope you enjoy this and have a great day! (added in a new ask) oops i wanted to say this in my submission's description, but i got stressed and goofed up-- i decided to draw some davesport for you bc i LOVE the way you write them. their dynamic, their interactions, their individual feelings and how you describe them, it's PERFECT. you are such a talented writer (i don't say it often enough!). that's it, haha. sorry for sending it seperately ^^ - (Submission by @coffee-bat , hope you don't mind I connected your messages into one!) HOLY SHIT YOU DID IT YOU MADMAN DID IT HOW ARE YOU INSANE?! WITHIN THE SAME DAMN DAY- GOD, I'M JUST- HOW DO I- TALENTED WRITER MY ASS I CAN'T EVEN PROPERLY USE WORDS TO EMOTE HOW DAMN HAPPY I AM. I WANT TO SCREAM, I REALLY DIDN'T EXPECT THAT. I'm going to get an ego from this, I swear. Getting gifted such amazing art, something that had taken years to come to this point and a good chunk of time to create- People are spoiling me and I'm just- WHAT CAN I SAY ASIDE FROM THANK YOU? THAT I'D SACRIFICE MY LIFE TO YOU? DOES THAT COME OFF AS TOO STRONG? Also, that sounds incredibly annoying with being ditched like that. I'm glad you managed doing the rest by hand, but there should be some rules against just being ditched! I hope you'll get some justice, karma shall come and get their asses. If you wanna rant, I'm here and not going anywhere! I can only imagine the frustration that builds up because of stuff like this. Next time you’ll spot the warning signs sooner and avoid that awful type of company. Also, while there you can give me the DATE. MAKES IT EVEN MORE AMAZING THAT YOU DREW THIS. YOU HAD SO LITTLE TIME AND THEN YOU SACRIFICED MOST OF IT TO CREATE SOMETHING FOR ME- I'M SPEECHLESS, I'M ON AN ENDLESS LOOP OF THINKING "HOLY SHIT!" AND "AMAZING" AND "CHRIST, I DID NOT DESERVE SUCH A BLESSING BUT I TAKE IT" DON'T SAY SORRY FOR RAMBLING! I LOVE THEM! I LOVE PEOPLE INTERACTING WITH ME! IT'S AN HONOR AND A PLEASURE, ESPECIALLY WITH YOU! ALSO, I RAMBLE ALWAYS 3 TIMES AS MUCH. IT'S OKAY ON THIS BLOG. That it stressed you out is alien to me- something IRL I presume? Otherwise you should never be stressed about sending me anything >:0 I saw god himself, I am immune against everything- EXCEPT FLATTERY, WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME. The dsaf community has attracted many talented writers! Lots of them with wonderful Dave's and Jacks- To be quite sincere, I genuinely struggle with them and feel like I'm writing them clumsily. Mainly because my Old Sport is not taking from the canon and more from the player options, making him a VERY wild card- it comes to a point in which I wonder if people are sometimes bothered and if I write him weirdly- Hearing that you think I'm doing so well and that I nail how they feel on their own and as a team, their odd and slightly unpredictable chemistry- My hands are shaking and I had to correct so many spelling errors that I probably didn’t even all catch because I'm trying to type so fast- I NEED TO CALM DOWN BUT IT'S PRETTY MUCH IMPOSSIBLE. I LOVE WRITING THE GOOFS, THE EVIL, FUN, TORN BASTARDS. THOSE CHILDISH, CRAZY BOMB-PEOPLE. And god fucking dammit do I love the picture. I love how you draw bodies, hair, poses, expressions- YOU PERFECTLY NAILED THEM. Dave just a happy, laughing mess, while Old Sport, the lovestruck fool, between fully out of it in his affection and "goddammit Dave"- EVERYTHING is in this picture. I CAN FEEL HIS LOVE THROUGH THE WAY THEY ARE WITH EACH OTHER AND THAT IS SOMETHING TRULY SPECIAL! I do not regret having been greedy now, even if it's a big character flaw- I APPRECIATE IT! I LOVE IT! I WILL ALWAYS CARRY IT AROUND WITH ME! EVERYTHING I WILL SAY FROM NOW ON WILL ONLY BE REPEATING ITSELF, BECAUSE I FEEL THE NEED TO SAY IT AGAIN AND AGAIN- SO I SHALL STOP BEFORE THIS GETS ENDLESS. But you better give me the date, otherwise I will write you something at random throughout the year and you will never ever be prepared for when it comes- This is not an empty threat, friend. I have Wordpad and access to your blog and I will use it. You better submit your birthdate willingly. This is your last warning.

[chiseler]

Obituary Mambo

I don't know much about José Mojica Marins, but from the little of his work I've seen I gather he was insane. Most of his films celebrate, then condemn, then celebrate-while-condemning an itinerant diabolist, Zé do Caixã AKA Coffin Joe, played by the director himself. The IMDb synopsis for Joe's first outing, At Midnight I'll Take Your Soul (1964), reads "A gravedigger prowls the city in search of a female to bear him a son."

This Brazilian auteur (writer/director/star) specialised in such yarns, though they rapidly became more demented and incapable of summary altogether, with the filmmaker appearing as himself alongside his creation. Standard morality was denounced and subverted, then re-established, but with incoherence prevailing, was the overall effect not subversive? Marins' more respected countrymen, like Caetano Veloso, actually thought his films did express something valuable, if I recall this correctly. It's all a bit of a blur.

I have seen a whole TV documentary about Marins and a couple of his films, but it all kind of merges together. I recall an extravagant Technicolor vision of hell with body parts including an arse embedded in papier mache cave walls. I recall Marin's crazy long fingernails. And I recollect, as if through a thick fog filter, Marins setting up a drama school for scream queens, surely some kind of disreputable scam, possibly sexual in nature. And of course I remember that when Marins' brand of crazy went out of style, he turned to dog porn. With what one might call indecent haste. He shot one film, and when the dog's owner found out what it had been used for, he shot it.

(recent conversation with a friend whose famous father had died and The Telegraph wrote a snide obituary. "I can't even imagine the impulse that would make someone write a snide obituary," I said.)

This isn't the kind of thing Marins should be remembered for, but the trouble is, one can't forget it. But the filmmaker did have a unique and troubling sensibility, and his ultra-cheap Halloween pageants of depravity served up startling imagery in abundance. I shall carry that arse in the wall with me to my own mausoleum. Now I will plunge into his oeuvre and transmit my experiences to you from its grainy darkness....

Time-lapse clouds, unbelievably dupey and damaged. Double-exposed image of Coffin Joe, glowering from under his monobrow. "Never trust a man whose eyebrows meet." Strange churchy music, and Marins intoning weird nonsense. Repetitive, thinks-he's-clever philosophising interspersed with abuse: Marins is a truly Sadeian filmmaker, perhaps the only one worthy of the name. He's certainly sadistic, will that do?

The fact that the yellow subtitles on my DVD aren't very well translated adds another, welcome layer of incoherence to the whole affair. The irritating way Joe is rambling on makes me itch. Then a song comes in. Ah, that's better. But not much. The feeling is even more religious now, a depressing Sunday School feeling (Imagine the horror, school on a Sunday!). Contrasty still photographs flash by under the main titles, too quick to make sense of, if sense is a thing that can ever be made hereabouts. Are these glimpses of scenes to come? "Man without God, doesn't fear anybody," sing the chorus. Marins' co-producing credit appears over, in quick succession, a scab, a bra, an alarmed face, and the man himself carrying a woman in a nightie in what looks like a dungeon.

Alright, I'm already prepared to call him a genius and the film hasn't begun yet. If I call him a genius, do I still have to watch it?

Muffled nightlub scene with live band. Closeup of girl's ass squeezed by hands. More under-the-table groping. The set looks to be about ten foot across and zero foot deep. Then this scene ends, having established nothing. This is an anthology film, and its first story deals with a maker of dolls. The soundtrack appears to have been lost, then rediscovered in such a parlous state you wish it had stayed lost.

At home with the dollmaker. A raging antarctic wind resounds in his living room as his four daughters fondle the dolls they're supposed to be making. Solo flute. The dollmaker speaks, and his voice is shockingly clear. I had thought the whole film had been recorded on a dictaphone at the bottom of a well. By ghosts.

"A certain cheap poetry," is what Orson Welles ascribed to the best stage magic. You find it in Z-movies too, where the budget didn't run to anything but the filmmakers had some imagination but insufficient experience, technical knowledge or good sense. Well, if they had good sense they'd never have started. The Z-movies of Zé  amplify the poetry, yelling it in your face through mismatched angles and clamorous, hysterical sound mixes.

A gang rape begins. I'm not convinced that Marins' drama school has imparted the essentials. As the blizzard gramophone is amped up to eleven, Marins' camera ducks under the bedsheets, the better to see the action. Closeups of eyeless dolls. The victims get all sexy, to the delight of their open-minded assailants. Then the dollmaker shows up with a shotgun, thanks his daughters, and blasts the rapists. ECUs of their surprised faces.

Now all the dolls have bright shining eyes, lovingly prepared by the dollmaker in a vat of dry ice. The daughters look on with expressions of, reading from left to right, frenzy, glee, rictus and revulsions. The dead men, reduced to severed heads lying amid telltale hay, sport vacant, empty sockets. Loom in handheld until all goes blurry.

That's the first episode of the compendium The Strange World of Coffin Joe (O Estranho Mundo de Zé do Caixão), made a million years ago in 1968. Its images feel like they've been embossed in clammy clay and fired in the furnace of a madman's soul, then dropped by an idiot and glued together from smashed fragments by a blind man who was upset about something. Such a film cannot be imagined today, nor could it be then. It could only be brought about by the unpredictable collision of frenzied ambition, low-grade but fervid imagination, and miserable resources.

Coffin Joe is dead. Long live Coffin Joe!

by David Cairns

[retphienix]

Hi there! Long time reader of your liveblogs, great stuff! (Apologies if the Submit box isn’t a good way to message you, I’m not a tumblr veteran.) I just re-read your Fallout: New Vegas liveblog, though, and had some thoughts about your intense hatred of Ulysses. Now, I 100% get your frustrations with the character, especially compared to the more colorful, less lecture-y characters elsewhere in the game and DLCs. But there was one element where I thought an alternate viewpoint might help you, if not *like* the character, at least make peace with his existence in the game. You mentioned hating the way he was a sort of embodiment of taking player choice away. The comments on how the Divide was the Courier’s “home”, the insistence that this is all the Courier’s fault, etc. Taken at face value, I agree, that’d be an annoying thing for the writers of The Lonesome Road to do. But I never interpreted it that way. Instead, I always saw Ulysses as a madman. An articulate, high-functioning madman, one who can even make a convincing point here and there, but a madman nonetheless, utterly broken by years of trauma (much of it self-inficted) and a desire to find purpose and meaning in *everything*, meaning that was usually completely and utterly absent. It began when his tribe was wiped out by the Legion. It was an act of utterly pointless brutality, but that was something that Mr. Symbols Are Important couldn’t wrap his mind around. So instead, he convinced himself that his tribe was destroyed because they deserved it, convinced himself to serve the self-absorbed history-fanboy dictator responsible, because otherwise he would have to accept the meaninglessness of it all. His madness went into overdrive when a simple delivery resulted in the nuclear destruction of his *latest* home. His mind had to find a culprit (you) for the destruction, as well as a Greater Purpose for it all. If I recall correctly, there’s even a choice in the dialogue to say “What? I’ve never been here. You’ve got the wrong guy.” or something to that effect, which Ulysses dismisses. Not because he *actually* knows better than the player, but because in his mind, you simply *must* be here for a reason, you *must* be the one who caused all this, if you’re the wrong person then what was all this for? And yes, he keeps lecturing you for the destruction the Courier causes as you pursue him, but again, I saw that not as the narrative saying “LOOK WHAT YOU DID, PLAYER”, but as yet another sign that this man is obsessed with proving to himself that you’re every bit the avatar of destruction that he’s come to view you as. He’s blind to the fact that *he’s* the one who chose to call out to you and taunt you into following him, because it doesn’t fit the grand tale he tells himself to assure himself that everything still makes sense. My memory’s fuzzy here, but I vaguely recall that the only ways to beat Ulysses without fighting or using a Speech check involve shattering Ulysses’s own narrative. (The Speech check is more about playing into his narrative/philosophy, which I suppose is fitting.) Either you point out the fact that ED-E’s recordings, point of origin, and destination suggest that there’s more “America” out there than than Ulysses realized (rendering his “WAAAAH YOU KILLED A NATION SO NOW I’M GONNA DO THAT TOO” rhetoric utterly hollow), or you use his logs to point out that for all his pontification and self-righteousness, his philosophy is just as fruitless and self-destructive as the many broken philosophies he encountered and dismissed in his many journeys (the Think Tank, the Brotherhood, the White Legs, etc.). You even echo his own “Who are you, that do not know your history?” back at him - the same line he used against a batch of insane brain-robots who were *literally* stuck in a feedback loop, unable to to see beyond their own petty obsessions. Sound like anyone you know, Ulysses? I’ve rambled on enough, so I’m going to end on the observation that most amused me while I was re-reading your liveblog. As Ulysses came up again and again, even in segments that barely featured him, it occurred to me that he had more or less become the focal point of your problems with the game. His buggy faction-recognition was emblematic of your complaints on the faction system, his DLC’s lack of glitz and glamour echoed your problems with the setting’s aesthetic, and his dialogue seemed to embody all your least favorite aspects of the game’s writing. In other words, you came to perceive him as a perfect Symbol of what’s wrong with Fallout: New Vegas. You came to hate him, and the Flag he bore.   How… Ulysses-ish of you. :)

I enjoy a good read on fallout so why not :P

My response might sound strange as I’ll respond as I’m reading so keep that in mind: To start I MIGHT CHANGE MY MIND SHORTLY BUT I WISH YOU WERE WRITING ULYSSES INSTEAD OF THE POMPOUS REAR END WHO FORCED HIM IN THE GAME BECAUSE YOUR INTERPRETATION COULD HAVE LEAD TO SUCH A FUN CHARACTER.

Seriously! Like, I’ll tell you right now I don’t expect your argument for Ulysses to change much of my mind- but you’ve already instilled a sense of potential that I never saw. IF YOU WROTE HIM, HE MIGHT HAVE BEEN SO MUCH BETTER IN MY EYES, I love the interpretation of him being an articulate madman. I really appreciate you sharing that.

I’M GONNA SCREAM BECAUSE YOU’RE RIGHT LOL.

Ulysses IS my symbol for what’s wrong with New Vegas, and that goes beyond how I articulated in my liveblog. For years before this replay of NV I would complain about the game and call it a terrible pile of trash (an opinion I’ve grown to understand was because I only recalled the worst parts of NV- My opinion is more gray and more based on “It’s good but has problems” now)- I digress. I complained about the game for years and EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. In my head the only thing I could think of was Ulysses. The self insert from one of the worst writers in this game, whom shows up in the narrative constantly as a pointless background character just to steal agency from the player- whom got a dlc all to himself just to preach and talk down to you in a “Writer vs player” sort of way, whom based his morals on a corrupt and crappy faction system that didn’t even align with his morals because the factions are written kinda poorly.

I honest to god, have used him as my symbol for what’s wrong with NV for years BEFORE writing the liveblog. I mean I stand by that- but I’m screaming that you’re 100% right lol.

Darn, I feel so much better having read this. Thank you for sharing, seriously! Because your interpretation is miles better than what I see in the game, and I honestly can’t really credit your interpretation as my new interpretation BUT I can credit it as how I wish he was written. Basically you were able to pull out such an interesting narrative that I think is only really there if you try to pull it out. And I don’t say that negatively, that’s the rule of interpretation- you see what you see.

What I mean is, I desperately wish the writers were more at the speed you seem to be, because my god I feel like you’ve just revealed miles of potential that I don’t think they really tackled effectively. Also I feel like if you’ve got that head on your shoulders, maybe some other flaws would have been a touch better as well. But darn man. Thank you for sharing this- it gave plenty to think about and it really did make me feel like more potential existed than I assumed.

Now, to be honest and mean, that’s kind of a bad thing because it means I now think Ulysses ‘could have been’ better but they screwed it up, and wasted potential is arguably worse than no potential- BUT, in this case I’ll say it’s good thing. Because I really have done like a decade or something like that feeling like he had no potential and existed purely as a negative void of good content- but now I can see a glimmer of light. I like that.

Thank you for sharing, and thank you for that god like semi-roast of calling me out I REALLY dig knowing that. I’ve done it for years and never realized! Thank you :D

[dontshootmespence]

Out of Nowhere

A/N: A request from @sweetg for a slightly smutty, slightly fluffy fic where the reader already works for the BAU, and Spencer is going on a job interview. After he gets the job, a relationship develops. 

Warnings: Smut

                                                               ----

All of you were already smart. Why did you need to hire a technical genius that couldn’t run and whose marksmanship sucked? “How many people are interviewing for this position?” You asked Hotch. Unfortunately, you were the lowest man on the totem pole, the one who got hired most recently, but you had earned the team’s respect.

“Just two. Dr. Spencer Reid and Dr. Ned Coulson.”

Should you overstep your boundaries? Ok, sidestep. How could you say this? “Okay, Hotch, I don’t want to sound out of line, but why are we hiring someone who’s insanely smart but can run or shoot?”

His tight-lipped smile curled up a little more; he did understand where you were coming from. “I can understand your skepticism, but having someone with an extremely high intellect will allow us to tackle cases from another angle. It’ll give us a perspective that we don’t already have.”

You guessed that made sense. “Alright, I guess I get that. Just...can you make sure whoever it is isn’t completely inept with a gun?” You laughed.

“I’ll do my best.”

                                                             ----

“So, who’s our new guy?” You asked. The week after the interviews, the team could see in his eyes that he had made a decision. “We know you’ve chosen someone. Who is it?”

“Dr. Spencer Reid. He’s 22 years old, has three Ph.D.’s and an IQ of 187, and Y/N , don’t worry, he passed his marksmanship test, if only just.”

That you could handle. “Cool, when does he start?”

“Tomorrow.”

                                                            ----

Oh, this was going to be difficult. Yes, he was a genius, and yes, he also was very physically inept, but he was very sweet, and though you wouldn’t admit it to Hotch or anyone else on the team, but you were developing a little bit of a crush on the team’s new genius. If you had to put money on it, you’d say he had a bit of a crush on you too. Whenever he spoke to you, he blushed like a madman, stammered like he was in high school and just generally couldn’t meet your gaze. “Spencer.” He was sitting at his desk and looked like he was deep in thought. “Hey Spencer!”

His head snapped up from the desktop. “Oh, oh, s-s-sorry, Y/N. W-what is it?”

“Can I get the paperwork from your first case?” As the two young ones, Hotch thought it best to pair you up, so you needed to sign off on some paperwork that he started. “I need to hand it to Hotch by the end of the day today.”

Spencer got up from his desk and nearly tripped over his own feet as he grabbed the pile of paperwork and handed it to you. “Oh, s-s-sorry.” As he handed it over, he averted your gaze and started to ramble.

“You don’t have to be sorry, Spencer. We want you to be comfortable here. Okay?” You took the paperwork from his hands and your fingers brushed up against his. He had soft hands. When he stammered, about to apologize again, you met his gaze and smiled. Hopefully, he’d become more comfortable.

                                                           ----

Spencer had been with the BAU for less than a month, but during that time, he’d become much more at ease with himself. Once or twice, he’d come out with the team, but more often than not, the two of you would find yourselves as the last ones in the bullpen at night, talking for hours about anything from Star Wars to comic books to Einstein’s theory of relativity. “Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan is obviously the best of those movies”

“I’m sorry, Spence. I have a soft spot for Star Trek: Generations. I used to watch it with my dad all the time.” This was a recurring theme over the last month - arguing over the best and worst films in fandom. As you entered the elevator, you bumped his body with your hip.

“But that doesn’t mean it’s the best one, it just means your nostalgic for it,” he said. “You wanna grab a slice? I’m hungry.”

Gods, yes. Food was necessary. “Totally, but you didn’t ask for what was the technical best film, yes Wrath of Khan is arguable the best. You asked for favorite. Generations is the favorite because it’s amazing and I used to watch it with my dad.”

“Okay, we need to have a quick question and answer type deal because I need to figure out whether we can actually be friends,” he laughed, pressing the button for the garage floor.

“Oh really?” This was the most out of his shell he’d been since he started.

After deciding to grab a slice at the place down the block, he started the game. “Okay, no thinking, just answering. Ready?”

“Yea, go.”

“Star Trek or Star Wars?”

“Wars.”

“Coffee or tea?”

“Coffee, duh.”

“Legolas or Aragorn?”

“AHHHHH!!! Aragorn! I hate you for making me choose.”

It went on like that, question after question for nearly the entire time they ate. They both preferred autumn over any other season. Y/N was a dog person, while Spencer was a cat person. Both preferred a walk through the woods rather than one on the beach, and would also prefer a quiet night at home as opposed to going out. 

While the questions started out more random, it seemed that as the night wore on, the questions got deeper, until what was the final question. “Love or trust?”

“Trust,” you said without hesitation, “Love can come from trust, but just because you love someone doesn’t mean you trust them.” 

While you were talking, you’d somehow ended up by your car. “Spence, that was fun. We should do that again some time.”

“I’d like that.” The way he blushed made you think he thought of this as a date, and before this moment you hadn’t, but seeing him like this, his face soft and blushing in the shine of the moon, something about it made you admit to yourself that you were crushing on the Doctor.

Leaning up, you quickly pressed your lips to his, pulling away as quickly as you’d approached. “Sorry,” you said. “I just...”

“Don’t apologize,” he said softly. Without another word, he brought his hand to the side of your face and kissed you again, more needy and hungry than before.  While the moon peeked in through the openings in the parking structure, Spencer gently backed you into your car, his hands hesitantly roaming your midsection. 

You whimpered into the kiss when he pulled you closer. “Spence...I...”

“I’m sorry,” he stammered, swallowing back his need as he backed away.

Reaching your hands out, you grabbed his shirt and pulled him back in. “I didn’t mean it like that...I meant...maybe...would you want to come back to my place?” The heat rose in your cheeks. You never blushed? Why the fuck were you blushing? Why were you falling for this lanky nerd boy? 

Spencer quickly gave you a peck on the lips before getting in the passenger seat and driving to your apartment in utter silence with the little but the moonlight to guide you. “Are you s-sure?” He asked as you pulled up.

“Yes. You?”

He nodded, biting his lower lip as his gaze unglued from yours and allowed him to get out of the car.

Once upstairs, his seeming nervousness subsided. His hands effortlessly glided underneath your jacket, peeling it off and throwing it toward the floor. Again, you whimpered into the comfort of his kiss, reveling in the feel of his lips against your skin. “Inside,” you breathed heavily. 

In a torrent of clumsiness and heat, you disrobed each other save for your undergarments and tripped into bed. “That was smooth.”

“Sorry,” he laughed.  “Don’t be. It’s the most fun I’ve had in a while.” Laughing, you turned him over and straddled his thighs, grinding back and forth and feeling his length begin to stiffen even more. The way his eyes bore into you made you feel...wanted. You hadn’t felt that in a while.

His hands slid up your thighs, thumbs teasing at the fabric of the panties you wore. Even the slightest touch had you wanting. As he watched, you reached behind you and unlatched your bra. His breath hitched at the sight and his hands followed, cupping the mounds of flesh and squeezing just slightly - enough to make you whine for him. “Take me,” you breathed. 

Quickly, he removed your panties and threw them to the side before removing his own boxers. You situated yourself back on top of him and pulled a condom from the night stand to sheath him before sinking down onto his length. “Oh,” you said, shaking as your walls molded perfectly around him, “oh fuck.”

A strangled grunt escaped him when you started to move up and down on his length. “I still can’t believe you like Generations more than Wrath of Khan,” he smiled as you bent down to kiss him. “I don’t know if I can be with someone like that.”

Your tongue stuck out slightly from your lips, taking Spencer’s laughter into your mouth. “Is that so?” You contracted your muscles around his length and giggled at the cry that escaped him. “It doesn’t seem like you’re having a problem.”

“Maybe I can make an exception.”

As your bottom half continued moving up and down, contracting tighter and tighter around his length, the laughter subsided; in its place took desperation. “Spencer...please.” You were doing the majority of the work, but your breasts needed attention. Grabbing his hands, you brought them up to your chest, silently telling him exactly what you needed. When his pinched your nipples in between his thumb and forefinger, you arched back, the feeling going straight to your core.

Your cry brought him to sit up, burying his head in your chest as you continued your grinding motions against him. “Will you come for me?” He whispered. The confidence - the 180-degree turn from earlier - made you shiver. He thrusted up into you. Everything became much more frenzied. He needed you and you needed him. Perhaps more importantly, he wanted you and you wanted him. “Y/N, please...come for me.”

Spencer wrapped his hands around your body, which started to shake with the force of your release. “Come with me,” you begged. “Oh fuck.” You gasped when his length hit the deepest parts of you and made the shaking more intense. And when his hand reached between your writhing bodies to touch your sensitive bundle of nerves, you cried out. “Spencer!”

“Fuuuucccckkkk...” he groaned. He hungrily devoured your flesh, peppering your collarbone and chest in kisses that made your body melt. “Oh my god, Y/N...that was...”

“Was it better than you thought from someone who likes Generations more than Wrath of Khan?” You asked, giggling into his mouth as you kissed him and removed yourself from him. “Or someone who likes dogs more than cats?”

“I think I can get over that,” he laughed. When you removed his condom and threw it away, he fell backward into the bed and stared up at the ceiling. “For you, I’ll get over it.”

“I’m honored,” you laughed.

“Should we tell anyone?” He asked. “That is...if this is more than just a one night thing...” He trailed off, his words losing their edge as he spoke. 

It was ironic how you questioned his need to be on the team just a month earlier. “I’m not a one night thing kind of person, Spencer. I was hoping it would be more of a-”

He cut you off, turning into you and taking your mouth in a searing kiss. “Good. Should we tell anyone?”

“Let’s wait a while,” you said honestly. “But in all actuality, they already know.”

@coveofmemories @jamiemelyn @sexualemobitch @unstoppableangel8 @iammostdefinitelyonfire26 @lukeassmanalvez @yoinkpeter @the-slytherin-ice-queen

[cameiotmagazine-blog]

"A Secret Honor" review

In this, what I was to call older things that I like, and wanna write about, because, why not? I wanna look at Robert Altman's A Secret Honor, and/or The Last Testament of Richard Nixon.

Recently I reread Alan Moore's Good Reads interview, which is, by the way, a great interview if you wanna get into the ideas that Moore thinks about and the very sad about  the personal fallings-out that he had with a lot of his good friends, over a lot of some of his greatest work. And get a lot of really good recommendations for books, but that's besides the point. The larger thing.

So he brought up A Secret Honor recently, and that inspired me to give that a rewatch. And my God, it's a good movie. Secret Honor is maybe the best Nixon movie, and that's a high order, but I think I can justify it. Starring Philip Baker Hall in maybe his best performance. I like Philip Baker Hall, but this is truly the Philip Baker Hall show, because he's the only actor in it. But it's that old chestnut of, you know, if you're a really good actor is that you can hold an entire movie by yourself. And that's definitively true here.

It's sometime after Watergate, and he's left the Presidency. He's alone in his study. And there's a bunch of pictures placed around, including Kennedy, which ... I don't know, that was kind of funny. It's like, did Nixon really have a picture of Kennedy? His single most hated enemy, the man that every time he looked at it, bitterly reminded him of all the things he wished he could be? Maybe.

Talking into a tape recorder. Dick, always with the tape recorder. Always the tape recorder. it starts normally, and somewhat humorously in that he doesn't really know how tape recorders work - well, this one. He starts drinking more, and he drinks and pulls out a gun, which he loads. And what starts as a rational Nixon-ish ideal turns into a batshit insane rambling monologue, where he attempts to where he acts as his own prosecutor to an unseen jury, judge and jury, and tries to explain the nature of Nixon and every action he committed. And it's a go-through of his personal life, his Presidency. And he goes further and further, and it makes some very disturbing claims.

It talks about potential people that were in control. And it ends with him claiming that Watergate was his noble sacrifice to the American people, by helping him get out of Watergate, of the Presidency, so they couldn't reverse the third term, which ... it has popped up in the news, reverts ... I think it's the 22nd Amendment, and allowed him to run for a third term, which suddenly became relevant again with the crazed madman in China talking about that.

The performance is excellent, and ... I had wondered slightly about this, 'cause there's some fairly conspiratorial things that Nixon is rambling about. Of course, A, Nixon is getting drunker and drunker and angrier and angrier, and the recurring theme is that Nixon is a paranoid person who does not know, who is trying to justify himself in every regard and hates everyone and everything.

And it's interesting, 'cause ... I'm sure some young film student like me thought this briefly, but decided "Oh God no, I'm not doing that." Will look at this film and go like, "You know what I probably should do, is do this with Trump." And I'm sure at some point, there will be. Maybe. And I thought, really look at it. 'Cause everything he did wrong is "Nope, not me. It's this conspiracy, or it's these powerful people all against me, and they're all looking out to get me, and it's the money, and the power. And I am uncontrolled in it."

Nixon in here is a raving lunatic, and this movie is scary in some ways, truthfully. Like really scary.

There's a great little setup with, there's four. There's a security camera, and there's four images. you can see Nixon with four different images, and that's a weirdly powerful visual. I can't totally explain it, except that the low resolution of it makes it look off, in a large way.

I was horrified in a weirdly sympathetic ... Nixon, in the end, just seems so destroyed by everything. This is a person that no matter what he did, feels destroyed. He was the most powerful, but in a weird way he still felt powerless. It's impossible to look at, I don't know. And I think if you look at him in that context, that movie ages beautifully. As a paranoid, very delusional person whose life is in shambles, and no matter what he did, he can never really experience true happiness.

It's interesting. This is a Robert Altman movie, and Robert Altman is just, I don't know. Maybe one of the all time, maybe greatest American filmmakers that ever existed. Whose every single film is brilliant and beautiful in some way. And he made so many, it's crazy. This might be one of my favorites of his, and that means probably it's one of my favorite movies. I don't like to assign roles like that.

There's an interesting parallel that Altman himself was essentially in exile, because he did this as essentially a final project for his students at the University of Michigan, where he was teaching film. Although unlike Nixon, Altman was welcomed back heartily. I've seen a lot of reviews compare the two, and there's something there. But I don't know totally. I think that's maybe why Nixon comes off you know, he's a crazy madman who's allowing his paranoid delusions to finally take hold of him. The paintings around him, he feels are in constant judgment of him. 

He just feels betrayed, fundamentally, by the system he dedicated himself to. It's a system he hated and resented and knew it would betray him, but he did it anyways. And maybe there's a way Altman is in there, and feels that. And this concept of secret honor is an interesting one, I find. That nobody else will give Nixon honor; nobody else will allow him that. So he has to make the honor himself, and say "Nobody understands this but me, that I have this honor in the world."

The filming is just fantastic. There's very little music in it, but you don't need it. Philip Baker Hall's performance is a beautiful opera performance. That's all you need. I love Philip Baker Hall, but Philip Baker Hall is one of these really great actors that is a kind of a guy who'll just ... if you pay Philip Baker Hall, Philip Baker Hall will be in a movie for you. So sometimes he uses that natural gravitas to not really care, you know. But this, he's utterly perfect. I'm not disparaging Philip Baker Hall, I'm just saying that Philip Baker Hall enjoys money and having it I believe he's the one who commissioned this idea, not 100% certain about that. But whatever.

It's great. There's a repeated thing where Nixon loses his train of thought, and he plays that brilliantly. I feel like that's a little bit of a thing that attracted Altman, is it's a weirdly ... for a monologue, it has realistic diction a lot of the time. And he'll try and say something, like one of the recurring jokes in this is, he'll say a phrase that is well known, and he'll go like, "We were both ... you know, you know. You know, that. That."

He can't bring himself to say almost half the stuff he wants to say. There's an interesting, very telling line where he talks about pact. You know, he says "Of course, I Ahhh Ahhhh."

The difference between Nixon and Trump, I think is the idea of I think in a lot of ways, Nixon felt heartbroken by all of the things that were said about him. Whereas Trump feels just pure anger at all the things that are said about him. Which is good.

This is a great film. Fundamentally. If you wanna see ... I recently got into kind of a bit of an argument with a friend, not an argument. A tiff. Where they talked about how films are too expensive to make. And that frustrated me, 'cause it's like, you know, great films can be made with very limited resources, and this is kind of the perfect example of that. One actor, one set, absolutely brilliant in every regard. I can't recommend this enough.

[republicstandard]

This Year In Jerusalem

My Dearest Comrade,

You asked me in your last letter how we did it, how after the long and bitter struggle we finally put paid to the white man.  It's an interesting question.  How did this once proud and confident people, rulers of the globe, find themselves at the short end of history, evaporating like morning mist?  How conquered by an alien ideology?  How did rule Britannia become out of bounds?  Who lost America?  Now that it's all over, and long since really, I feel free to speak my mind to a friend, though it goes without saying there's no reason to save this in any way, there is no reason our children or their posterity should ever know too much about this, not now that we have prevailed.  As a keeper of records I am privy to all kinds of information, some of it astonishing, some of it provocative, the lies, the propaganda, for I like to think a Jew is nothing so much as a sophist, proceeding by misdirection.  But, in the interest of time, this will be a truncated version.  Does one really need to know too much of the ins or the outs of the Marranos, the Masons, or the Illuminati?  Arcane banking records?  How we put the squeeze on Cromwell, or ran a slave ship?  Marriage certificates, baptismal records? No, the genius of what we did was what we did in broad daylight, the goyim is ever gullible. No less a personage than Spengler spent his entire career without writing anything of what the Jews had done or were doing, remarkable.  So much for him. So much for them.  And remember as you read this, we did what we did out in the open, and that the crucial factor in our ultimate victory was neither our animal cunning nor our indomitable will, but the fact that we were white.  How lucky!  Had we been blue or purple or red we never would have got away with it.  A star would have done nicely to serve them as a reminder, to remind them of the danger in their midst, and the peril that they faced, but we put a stop to that, amen.  Anyway, I hope you enjoy this brief foray, this ex post facto meandering. I am a humble man, and we are a humble people, so if this ever sounds like bragging it just means I get carried away from time to time, apologies ahead of time and all around.

As you know we are an ancient people.  Thousands of years and all that. We waxed and we waned like them, and like the others tried our best to increase our power, little of it though there was.  However, from nearly the first the other peoples always thought us strange, our famous peculiarity, the dietary laws and the way we clung tenaciously to our ancestral God when they were perfectly willing to share theirs with those of any mongrel people they came across, and we would not let ours mingle freely with the others.  Yes, they thought us barbaric and odd, repugnant really, but for the Romans at least, so focused on power, beneath the surface there was an uncanny fear, for we we had a principle other than honor that we would lay down our lives for.  They knew of honor but ours was truth so-called—the most risible in their eyes.  Yet despite their contempt they couldn't help from feeling uneasy, this they thought was something more than an army, this was either insanity or an enemy to keep an eye on.  It's probably apocryphal but it's said that when Pompey cast custom aside and thrust himself into the holy of holies he found an empty and white shining space. Every other people would have cluttered theirs with images of gods or animals, but we had pure emptiness, pure shining white emptiness, and it's said he was shaken, though it's doubtful that dullard had the strength of character to be disturbed. And it's telling that later the rumor went around that in the inner sanctum set on a pedestal was a donkey. They said we worshiped an ass!  Ha Ha.  He who laughs least laughs best, it's what I hold to.

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But other people were stronger, first Greece, then the Romans.  We finally became a fully subject people and many of us, understandably, chafed at this.  And though I thoroughly disapprove of the hotheads among us the one who threw that torch and caused Rome to level the city did us a favor, looking back.  It dispersed us and we could do a lot more good (for ourselves, that is) roaming abroad in search of monsters to destroy than sitting by ourselves in our mountain fastness.  We've always excelled as the stranger in the land, casting a cold and jaundiced eye on the natives, always ready to lend a hand to the leaders.  We are a numerically small people, so to adapt we let others build what one day we will own. That first holocaust (they say not stone was left on stone!) also gave us the great story (fictional of course) of Masada, which, like the Warsaw uprising, would be put to such salutary use.  The plucky little Jew, the eternal underdog, the mouse that roars, wedded to eternal principles, dying for an idea, for their jealous god.  Who would believe such rot?   Them, that's who.

Perhaps it was the memory of ancient defeat that spurred our later attacks; revenge is after all an underrated motive in history.

Some call it the grace of God, I call it a freebie, but either way, for sure, we got an unexpected and serious break in the person of Jesus Of Nazareth. Some vagabond wanders up the mountain and on his own authority deifies himself and the next thing you know an entire civilization is wrecked.  By means of his admittedly somewhat poetic ramblings and, even more so, by means of his bulldog, Paul, we injected a poisoned chalice deep in the heart of Europe, a Trojan horse smuggled in like the taking out of the key beneath the keeper's nose.  As I'm sure you know later on it would be the fusion of a universalized Protestantism and an aggressively subversive Judaism which would be the stake in the very heart of these people; which, long story short, makes The Book Of Acts the story of another itinerant vagabond proselytizing the virus of subversion.  Freud is said to have said, before disembarking in America, that he was bringing them the plague; so did we for Europe with this alien creed.  It didn't start out that way, for though no one could have known it at the time it was Christianity, with it's scribbling monks copying for no discernible reason, with it's unifying power, which strengthened the white race for centuries, made them a towering and indomitable world presence, which one day we would ride and vault on and over; until it turned sour like curdled milk and burned the building down. For when the time finally came we managed to fool them into believing that that great hater Jesus Of Nazareth, that man who walked around terrifying people, excoriating people, and viciously slandering public officials, calling the Jewish power structure irredeemably corrupt, shook dust off his shoes, brought a whip for the money-changers, scared the living daylights out of random passersby, said he brought nothing but fire to this mortal earth of ours, that this tremendous hater had no hate in his heart, that all you need is love.  You got that:  he had no hate in his heart. Fools like Leo Tolstoy served us admirably here, when he wasn't making shoes that fell apart he was telling the world that Jesus Christ would not have hurt a fly.  In truth real self hating Jews like Jesus of Nazareth are a dime a dozen, another madman Bobby Fischer comes to mind, and we know what to do with them. Hitler said to shoot Gandhi.  We agree.  Killing that man was the best thing we ever did.   Like I say, a freebie.

For Europeans Christianity was a mixed bag, it gave them Bach and baizuos, but in the end it's the order they came in that mattered. Wokeness is Christianity's hangover, the after-birth of a once proud religion.

Calvinism and Puritanism were already Judaism, some of Cromwell's men were so forward thinking they wanted to create a Zion on the Thames and thought that the notion of the divinity of Jesus Christ was blasphemy.

Later in the 1870s one of ours named Felix Adler would preach that the Jews should universalize themselves out of existence, for the good of humanity.  He got select Protestants to go along, the elect now meant those who commit suicide.  Arch WASP (and son of a universalist crank) William James said that moral values supersede survival, and his notion of pluralism later formed the foundation of multiculturalism. As can be expected the Jews declined the offer of race suicide but a century later whites took to it with a vengeance.  So you can see when we finally did wreck their country we were plowing in a fertile field.  You read about those American cranks in the 1850s on their farms growing rutabagas in their long johns and preaching universal ethics and the love of all mankind, they're portrayed as charming but really they were the first growth of our ideology, they did our work avant la lettre, harbingers of collapse.  For after all from Unitarianism to dismantling whiteness is but a step.  By the grace of a jealous God, as specified.

We're often called a rootless people but this is wrong, we're not at all, certainly not just just because we had no home, we were at home wherever we were, we made ourselves at home.  Indeed, we're one of the few people now who really have roots, they are just not tied to a land, a country, or a nation, little Israel notwithstanding. We're tied to us, not to the idea of us, to the reality of us.  We know how to stick together, to work together, to network, to remain ethnocentric, ethno-obsessed, to practice nepotism, over centuries, over time and space, though thick and through thin, over vast geographic areas.  Everyone knows of our checkered history, the famous one hundred and nine, the expulsions, the migrations, the conversions, the inquisitions, the pogroms so-called, the burning hatreds, the harassment, ejected, but always returning, always returning. We blend in, we creep up on you when you're not aware, we're blatant as can be but seep into the background. We throw fairy dust in your eyes, or we proceed by indirection.  And so it went for centuries. We would ingratiate ourselves with kings, be awarded patronage, be prized middlemen, do their dirty work, earn the ire of the populace, be banished, and brought back.  Always brought back because they couldn't do without us, we made sure of that, as useful as can be.  And slowly we built up secret and fantastic wealth, fantastic networks, webs of subterranean influence, intersecting directorates, interlocking systems,  always moving a little closer to the our goal, never stated but always in mind.  We'd drop out of sight, become one of them, convert, and be indistinguishable from what we were subverting.  They call us foreign, alien, parasite, and that's not far off; but neither is predator, and for them neither is prey. For these many centuries we were outsiders, we infiltrated the elites, we kept to ourselves, the power behind the throne. But that's never enough when the throne beckons. Which of course it always does, particularly among a people seemingly intent on abandoning it.  They were strong when faith was in the saddle but they loosened the reins, and money came in, and us not far behind.

I believe it was that Jew Karl Marx who said that in emancipating the Jews the Europeans themselves became Jews, for all practical purposes. They say he hated Jews but he's in the fold, he's one of us; once a Jew always a Jew's what I say.

In the early nineteenth century the idea of humanity began to spread like wildfire through Europe; now that it's all over we can see that this was the death of them all.   We Jews were still on the margins at this time; but a word began to circulate, circulate in the name of humanity: emancipation. It was a deceptive word, meaning freedom.  Give freedom to the Jews, let them join civil society, base membership in the clan on an idea.  Assent to a proposition!  A German was one who lived in the German states.  What madness comes from the temples of reason!  But for us from then on every year was the Current Year, every year was Year Zero.  We would never bow before other Gods but their civil society we'd salute, mingle freely in their society was fine.  It was to be ours soon enough in any event.  Yes, emancipation, it was certainly an idea whose time had come. It would not be the fist time that freedom could easily be construed as to our advantage.

Some Jews themselves were uneasy with it.  But some Jews are fools. Their concern was that if we blended in we'd lose our fervor....we would cease to be Jews, as if that could ever happen.  No, they needn't worry, we can go underground for however long is needed and we'll arise on the earth no one but ourselves.  Once a Jew always a Jew. Atheist, secular, orthodox, reform, international, indifferent, no difference, always a Jew in the end.  In the meantime be baptized, go into the professions, make a mark, become distinguished, become a European, become English or Italian, marry up, call yourself white, become civilized, speak the native tongue, German, French, whatever, abandon Yiddish, cut your hair, dress in a suit, put on a top hat, put on a bowler, wear a tie, whatever it takes, rise, rise, rise, make a pot of gold, interpenetrate the ruling classes, crash the directory, become doctors, lawyers, judges, writers, editors, publishers, reporters, you name it we're there, the more we're them the more we remain ourselves. And so we did. The long nineteenth century was a banner one for us, we came into our own, came into our power, we were the chimpanzee who put on a suit and rolled around on roller skates: see, they said, they're just like us, and so we shattered a world.

Europe was always just a staging ground for America.  As early as the 1830s Alexis de Tocqueville saw that Russia and the USA would be the twin stars around which the world would one day revolve.  And it was from the so-called pogroms (trumped up as they were) in the latter that we got ejected into the former, it's what led to that poem at the base of that statue, it's what made the liberals cry, it's what made a mass of Jews leave for the New World.  We were under siege you see, and for no reason at all. And so we headed out for our new hunting grounds.

Tocqueville said in the 1830s that the 20th Century would belong to Russia and America, eighty years later we controlled both.

When the Jews first came to America from Eastern Europe the Jews that were already there, who had come from Germany, who were a well dressed, assimilated and prosperous lot said: this could be trouble for us. And no doubt those new arrivals must have been quite a stinking crew. But we clean up nice, don't we?   Once we had undergone out civilizing ordeal.

America with it's ideals, it's openness, it's all men are created equal, it's nation of immigrants, it's huddled masses, it's making the world safe for, it's dedication to a proposition, it's shining city on a hill, it's exceptionalism, it's missionary bent, it's self-made men, it's rugged individualism, was always immensely subject to hijacking by a determined outsider, and by the end we were pushing on an open door.  Otto Von Bismarck said that the most important event in world history was when the first Englishman set foot on the American continent and that was true when he said it; but it was soon eclipsed when the first wave of Jews from Eastern Europe began walking around Manhattan.  Just look at the record. An ancient people living in miserable hovels on the spine of Europe, speaking a barbaric and snarling Yiddish, going in wave after wave into a young country, one about to become a world power; going to an intellectually backwards people susceptible to high sounding balderdash; it's young people ready to leave behind the nation of villages; a rather simple and moral people prone to pangs of conscience; we would soon make them a raceless people capable of offering no defense.  A country created on paper is eternally vulnerable to someone overwriting their script, when you are created by words someone can come along with different ones, or give new meanings to the old.  If a nation is just an idea what happens when we change our mind?  What happens when we win the war on the battlefield that is your children's minds?  By the end it was like walking into a sacred space and finding it empty, abandoned.  No, Hitler had it right: in America we finally found our perfect hunting ground. They even let this alien race scrawl graffiti on their venerable temples.  

The end of the nineteenth century was a fatal time.  After that there was no going back.  It's been said that if the Protocols are fake then a mad unknown genius was in the employ of the czar.  That is definitely true. Whoever he was he was a seer, a man after out own hearts, by violence and make-believe we rule the world!  Spoken like the poet he was.

The two fatally twinned movements, the movements which contradicted each other, complimented each other, completed each other, competed with each other, fed off each other, grew up together, fought each other, if only one could survive in the end, were  Zionism and Scientific Racism. That the latter is world famous and the former confined to the sewers of history is no reflection on their relative merits; ideologies are just masks for power, the power of peoples, and these two were no different; a last ditch effort to save, respectively, the Jews and the Europeans; daggers drawn is war to the knife.  These two, in the scope of history, appearing at the same time, were the twin stars in the drama to come, fatally entwined; one the dream of a homeland, the other of annihilation, or vice versa, if you will,  for by the time it was all over both dreams were the same for those dreaming it, staying alive and decimating the enemy.

It's said that American scientific racism started on a bison range and ended up in Nuremberg.  And it's true, it started on those hunts, ran through conservationism, immigration restriction, birth control, sterilization, progressivism, eugenics, and finally got applied in Germany where it's bible ended up in the famous trial as exhibit 151.  If it seems a declining trajectory it's only because we've made it so; had someone wanted you to think it was something ascending and been able to they would have; but they weren't, they didn't; the arc of history bends only towards those who bend it; the rest get crushed beneath it.  So even the mention of racism coupled with science sends heads spinning, horrifies and scandalizes; but in truth it is rather elementary, if you are a people who loves nature and beauty and purity why wouldn't one want it to remain unblemished, perfect?  The word ecology was dreamt up by a fascist, which was no coincidence, the Nazis were obsessed by personal purity, they banned smoking in public places, they eliminated asbestos, assured that no additives and nothing artificial made it's way into food.  In word they wanted to rid the world of it's toxins, anything foreign, anything extraneous to the initial plan, and of course to them what was a more bitter toxin than a Jew? What more alien presence?  What more corrosive, like an acid bath?  What more foreign pestilence?  With the end in view it seems clear that from our first northern migration it was set in stone that we and the Europeans were headed toward a climactic, shattering moment, one where everything would hang in the balance, for a while; we are drawn to flourishing like moths are to flame, we circle like vultures over carrion, over killed carcasses.  And when we talk about their trying to protect the astonishing success they had, four hundred years of going purely vertical, we get to a man who sensed this, and of whom I speak with nothing but admiration.  For the most part, and once the fighters passed away, it was like playing tennis with the nets down; but earlier, some men had spines of steel.  Some were willing to put their very souls in the balance.  Some were willing to do whatever was necessary to assure the survival of their race, their people, their country, their culture, their dominance and, as such, were worthy foes.  The others, our propaganda to the contrary, are the ones with blood on their hands.

Albert Johnston was a hard drinking newspaperman from a small town in Washington State.  When he became acquainted with the elite scientific racists of Manhattan he was gratified to learn that his old fashioned racism was cutting edge theory.    

When the 1924 Immigration Restriction Bill was passed Madison Grant told a friend that they had finally got rid of the Jews, but he spoke too soon.

In 1931 in Dyerville, California the world's tallest tree was dedicated to Madison Grant, Grant created the science of wildlife management, and he became fascinated by the possibilities of racism after his successful efforts to save animals from extinction by culling the herd.

The scientific racists in America were jealous of their German friends for having a leader who was finally applying their theories.

Nearly the entire American scientific racism establishment was on intimate terms with their Nazi counterparts, Madison Grant knew the Nazis well too but just before his death in 1937 he expressed an ambivalence about this close connection, fearing it could backfire......

There was a de-lousing facility in Poland used for Jews who might immigrate to America, the Nazis later took it over and supposedly used it for other purposes, after the war they said that limiting immigration was fascist because there once was a facility in Poland for Jews.....

The last people who could have saved White America were the WASP scientific racists of the 1920s, Franz Boas feared that there would be wave upon wave of these men with their spines of steel, but it turned out they were the last of a dying breed, and now their names are mud.

Madison Grant liked to brag that the key to political success was organization, and that he could create a group out of thin air and with the right stationary and the right letterhead he could work miracles, though anyone who knew him could have told you that a cold heart never hurts.

As late as the 1930s Franklin Delano Roosevelt could say that America was a Protestant country, and Jews and Catholics were only there on sufferance.

The list of the accomplishments of Madison Grant is a testimony to an industrious age (and takes one's breath away).  He founded the Bronx Zoo, helped build the Bronx River Parkway, was a leader in the movements for immigration restriction, birth control, eugenics, sterilization, led the effort to save the Redwoods, was instrumental in creating the California State Park System, Denali National Park, Yosemite National Park, the Everglades, helped save numerous species from extinction including the elephants of Africa, the Koala, the chinchilla, the gorillas of the Congo, the giant tortoises of the Galapagos, the ibex of Spain, the zebras of South Africa, the elephant seals of Mexico, the giant sable antelopes, the nyalas, the white rhinos, the wisents, and many kinds of whales, though with his one true love, that most charismatic of megafauna, the white race, his luck ran out.  Now as far as nature goes I'm with the American President who said "if they think I give a flying fuck about nature—they're wrong"—but white people seemed to care a lot about it, and so did Grant, and so did that entire generation of scientific racists.  And, of course, along the way he wrote the book that Hitler called his Bible which, I may say, is praise from Caesar.  And more than anything else it was the indefatigableness of the man that impresses.  The fact is that nearly the entire American ruling class in the 1920s was racist and in favor of eugenics, then after the war, or before it really, when our propaganda about Nazi "excesses" (so-called) started filtering back to America, they flipped to a virulent form of anti-racism--and so the game was lost.  It's that simple.  But those men in the top hats in Eastern cities at the turn of the century, they were the last ones who could have beat us.  And the reason they could have was that they were willing to do anything that it took.  And they had the right idea too-—eliminate us.  Don't treat with us, don't try to convert us, don't assimilate us, don't keep us down, don't discriminate against us, don't keep us out of the country clubs, don't keep us out of the colleges, don't stop us from marrying your daughters—or, rather, do all that, but don't stop there—yes, eliminate us, for the game of global domination is the game of total control.  Truly astonishing the unadulterated hate they had, they wanted to make us universal outcasts, to separate their lives from ours in every way possible, to banish us from the realm.  Grant himself in private is bracing—no nonsense about humanity, no treacle about universal anything.  And looking back over the records of my forbears they feared that their advent might spell the denial of their dream, but the fear soon dissipated in the fog of their dying gasp, the last gasp of the final cohort.  As they strode their way around Manhattan like they owned the place, because they did, they must have been an intimidating lot, and for a while they went from victory to victory, strength to strength.  Their later imitators at best would talk of deportation or remigration, as if it were gentleman's tea, but no one wanted to really do anything about it, or put one's soul in the balance.  It still surprises me how people don't grasp the fundamental nature of war. Even after you explain it to them they simply don't get it.  

Henry Adams said that when he saw his first Issac or his first Jacob walking on Boston Commons, straight from the misery of a Cracow Ghetto, speaking a barbaric and snarling Yiddish, he identified with the Indian, as one who had been ejected from his heritage. He was right.  And had he been born Cohen on the Temple mount, he'd have still had it.  

I can say without doubt that the raging battle that was waged between Madison Grant and Franz Boas was the hinge upon which world history pivoted and was, if I can say it, the cross upon which the white man continues to hang.  If that seems extravagant, pay attention, if I seem to give it overmuch attention, look again.  Consult the record. There were others of course, Dewey, Bourne, Kallen, but it was Boas who knew for certain what was at stake, the man keeled over in Manhattan in 1942 while preaching the evils of racism. Lined up behind Grant was the WASP elite, the American Establishment, prominent politicians, the best people on the East Coast, the media, propagandists, magazine editors, magazine writers, amateur scholars, gentleman scholars, folks across the American political spectrum who had rightly and finally woken up to the prospect of race suicide.  But along with Boas was the wave of the future, the Jewish intellectual, some early Protestant misfits, some East Village malcontents, New York Cosmopolites, some professors.  But he had one crucial advantage over the long term, the discipline of Anthropology was in it's infancy and he was a professor, a professional scholar, he had made some serious inroads in the universities.  And just imagine anyone after the war being taken seriously who was not a professor, a certified scholar, a monkey dressed up in a natty suit and tie, or a Bohemian loser talking down the master narratives, another one of our unsung accomplishments, the professionalization of opinion; and Boas would seed these budding hothouses of nonsense, sedition, truckling, and treason with his own kind and they would carry all before them, eventually.   And that, in short, would be that.  

America was started by words on paper and has never lived it down, it was the death of them all.  There is something inherently blank slatist about a country that begins this way, that is conjured out of thin air in some Quaker meeting hall, and when a more powerful and more determined outsider comes in to overwrite the script there is little reservoir of defense.  And this is true, we simply overwrote the script, we wrote our graffiti on the walls of their temples, we unrwote them and wrote ourselves in in indelible ink.  That it would be so easy was what was so surprising, it was like, well, pushing on an open door.  At first though the enemies arrayed against our race seemed quite formidable, quite daunting.  Any dispassionate observer looking on in the early 1920s would have been unlikely to predict the eventual outcome, let alone how much of a rout it was in the end, how we in time went from strength to strength and imposed on them our alien ideology. It's true that a most incredibly acute observer might have observed some cracks in their walls, a crumbling of their facades, some Churches going wobbly, some whites in the wilderness preaching the erasure of themselves, but in the main the fight did not seem fair. But in truth, had one been able to see all the wheels spinning, the issue was already decided the other way...the WASP you see was out of breath...he had become the default position....and no one gets too worked up about a default position.  That some among them valiantly and harshly stirred for a last ditch defense is to their everlasting credit.  Them we can save.  But in the end it was as if they used up every last bit of energy their people had and when they were vanquished (on paper, mind you) they were vanquished the only way you can be, for good. In some outdated history books I have lying around it says that in the old days when a battle was won one person from the losing side would rush the victors, immolating himself in the fire of defeat; they were like that, those great men.

Arthur Gobineau was the first European to talk about the races in a coherent way, he came up with the idea of the Aryans, Alexis de Tocqueville, who was at heart a timid soul, once told Gobineau that with his brilliance he would go far, and with his ideology would do much evil.

It didn't help that frequently the ones who flocked to their banner, though possessing truth, how much truth they knew not, more often than not had a little bit of the crank in them, just a shade of the charlatan.  It started with Gobineau, went on to Galton, went through Chamberlain, and finally made it's way to that Valhalla in Long Island, Cold Springs Harbor.  I always wondered if reputable circumspect American biologists had come to the fold, professional and even keeled men, who had been measured in saying what they knew, and what they didn't, but argued persuasively that genetics held the keys to the coming kingdom, what would have transpired, had they put racism on a respectable basis.  Better for them, worse for us, to be sure.  But instead they got bogged down in catch phrases, Nordic, cephalic, unit characters, family traits, which contained kernels of truth, more than kernels actually, but unprovable at the time, and that easily could be portrayed as bogus and which tended to obscure the eternal truth they possessed.  They focused on stories about Revolutionary War heroes bedding whores and breeding dullards, they interviewed old timers and took what they said about ancient hair lips as stellar incontrovertible evidence.  And so they were like people who possessed gold but muddled the selling of it, and when the gold became obvious generations later our propaganda machine had been so effective, had prevailed so thoroughly, that in Britain the Indian offspring of millennia of high caste genetics could screech in the pages of the Guardian that:  race does not exist!  Had they put all their money into IQ tests, and rode that horse hard, they likely would have prevailed, I mean you scratch a negro and you get what you scratch right?  It wouldn't have taken much to get people to accept that your average African was not going to put on short pants and take us to the moon.  But cranks is cranks and if there's anything America perfected it was cranking out cranks, unless it's doing away with itself.

If you got Madison Grant on the subject of cephalic indexes you had a happy man but Franz Boas ridiculed the notion that a cephalic index (the size of the brain) was related to IQ, and as it wasn't provable then his ridicule won out, when years later magnetic resonance testing proved the racists right it made no difference, so completely had Boas prevailed.

Among the genteel scholars Mr. Grants stands out.  No petering out for him, he knew that with an indomitable will, and a vicious hatred for the alien races, victory could be his, and it was, for a while. When I look back on his career the thing I think most is that at one point in the early 1930s he began to warn of the Southern Border and the Mexican Menace, and said to close the border now, and everyone looked at him like he had three eyes.  What a visionary!  What an implacable will!  What industry! The question is always was the decline and burial of the WASP murder or suicide and of course it was both, it was assisted suicide, it was euthanasia, but if the patient had seen clearly what was happening and got up off the table in time the doctor would have been eliminated.  Well, our Mr. Grants sounded the toscin, raised the alarm bell in the night, his conscience is clear.  There is absolutely no blood on his hands.

It truly is amazing that just as we were coming into our power a small committed minority of them were as well.  They advocated forced sterilization (in fact three generations of imbeciles is three too many), protected the environment, advocated both positive and negative eugenics, came out against smoking, against drinking, saved species, saved trees, went in for birth control, preached the Great War as the White Civil War, warned of the rising tide of color, identified the Jews as collectively a mortal threat to the white race, saw that Jews acted corporately, moved to restrict all non-Nordic immigration, spoke of race suicide, in a word—seers.  But for the final showdown not enough of them could keep up their head of steam.  They should have knocked us out while we were relatively weak.  They could have done it easily.  Instead they let us slip through their fingers.   And the thing about a Jew is if you give us two chances we'll never need a third.

I assume Franz Boas was a sincere man, meaning he was an idiot.  But of all the Jews he was truly the Jewiest, that is, he did us an incalculable service, he put paid to the America Of The Villages.  There is really no one close.  Against every ounce of common sense that most people had he argued that the concept of race, which had been so universally accepted for millennia that most never even thought about it, had no existence whatsoever.  No existence and yet they are all equal!  It would be some time before this absurdity would be amplified to it's logical absurdity by saying not only don't they exist and are all equal but that some are more equal than the others, more equal than whites that is, but an immortal race has nothing but time.  And, moreover, he argued, that race had no impact whatsoever on anyone's capacities or characteristics or proclivities or tendencies, or brains for that matter, eons of evolution and man had somehow-—broken free!  Everyone was a tabula rasa. Indeed, looking back on it those environmental anthropologists resemble nothing so much as the creationists that at the time they deemed the most absolute know-nothings.  You see, for them, a person's personality and capabilities sprung ex nihilo from the social world, environment was all, take the most benighted Australian Negroid and put him Berlin at just the proper moment, and he'll be composing sonatas, just like that, as if sonatas weren't bred in the bone.  And Boas took this cock-eyed idea, that there were no races or that there was only one race, the human race, and he beat them down. And you see the thing about it is, if environment is everything, and there is no human nature, if man is infinitely plastic, totally malleable, if you think about it, there can be no limit to our tyranny.  

When it came to Americans at large and the nature-nurture question there was always something latent boding well for our side, Lincoln in the log cabin and all that ridiculousness, every man a king, the optimism of a people always starting over, always lighting out for the territory, wiping the slate clean, picking up stakes, assuming new identities, as it were, so they were particularly stupid when it came to the big picture.  And of course the depression we engineered (banking minutiae) played into our hands, normally when things get scarce people turn on each other, but such was the brilliant homogeneity of the American people at that time that hard times actually drew them closer, in deep sympathy one with the other, and no one was wanting to hear about a master race, a hard doctrine, I'll admit.  In fact, since 1933, really, we ran the show.

So Grant and Boas had their little duel.  It played out in University Anthropology Departments, in access to government grants, in magazines, in newspapers, on boards, in meetings, in letters, in government institutions.  Each of the two would review a book of the other, or have their proxies or surrogates do it, they vied for votes on committees, each circling the other warily,  knowing that the other was too respected in certain quarters for an all out assault.  Relative to the other they generally kept their mouths shut in public, though in private one was the worst thing of all—a Jew, an alien—and the other was the worst thing of all—a non-scientist, a charlatan.  What particularly galled Grant and his circle was that Boas was turning Anthropology into a study of the marriage and sexual habits of savages, they'd travel thousands of miles to see the ritual aspects of some defunct tribe—why study a beaten people? Why romanticize an extinguished race?  Prior to that Anthropology was always the study of race and now it was the study of what?—pottery shards? What galled Boas and his henchmen and henchwomen was the smugness of them all and that they weren't practicing--wait for it--science!

And to give you an idea of how the wind blew over time Grant's protege Lothrop Stoddard was a widely respected writer in the 1920s and could speak comfortably against Jews in popular magazines, the everyday Jew hate of the average man in the street, the small change of life, really; but by the mid 1930s he confided in friends that the subject had become delicate and he found himself watching his tongue on the matter.  In his lectures at the Army War College he dropped the subject of Jews altogether and after Hitler's racial ideology was beaten he would die socially discredited and in obscurity in 1950.  This is how this country remembers it's prophets and great men.  And Linbergh, whose prestige was unparalleled, found himself at the short end of our wrath and paying the price for his untoward and ill-timed words about us.  In private letters Anne Morrow said that even though she agreed with him she wished her husband hadn't said those things about the Jews, that nothing was worse than the prospect of pogroms on Jews in America, nothing was worse than anti-Jewish violence, that even war was better than that, even losing one's country was better than that.  Better to die, apparently, than to hate! Better to die than to live!  Lindbergh!  This was a man who to wake himself up on his way to Paris dipped his craft into the troughs of the waves to have the water splash his face. But we are fiercer than any ocean.    

It didn't help them that we (we being the Jewish media arm) glossed over the much worse things the Soviets were doing and pointed to the little upsets of Germany.  In the 1930s the Soviet Union had murdered murdered millions of people and for these pains the Roosevelt's administration recognized their government, and spoke warmly of them. Hitler knocked off a few of his own followers and broke some windows and in the American media (see Jews, above) they were a byword for pure evil. We could point to the interlocking directorate between Nazis and the Americans, normal business of a people who wish to survive, and they fell all over themselves with a sickening remorse.  And then there were those those trodden on little Jews, that ship that got turned back!  We could say: you don't want to be like Nazis, do you?  Do you?

How Boas did it was by working through the very institutions that not too many years prior would have barred us outright (when they still possessed sense).  We really did, you see, overwrite the script.  While the young discipline of Anthropology was still growing and the opposition was allied with the government and putting out periodicals Boas was seeding with his acolytes the vanguard of the future—the universities.  While they had great stationary and sterling names on the letterhead and were taking Rockefeller money Boas had students and soon heads of departments all over the country—and they were teaching the next ones, to control the future control the minds of children, for the minds of children are eternal and universal battlefields.  And it must be said the race scientists, though they had eternal truth on their side, were preaching a hard dogma, we an inviting one.  As a poet who was no fan of our race said truly:  human kind can bear very little reality. And nothing was more inviting than equality, universal brotherhood, egalitarianism, a fair chance for everyone, all men are after all created equal.  It says so right there on the dotted line.  Would Thomas Jefferson lie?

Of course we had more work to do but in truth the deal was done.  It amuses me to no end to read the books of the early 21st century and see how they describe "race science", admittedly a forbidding name, as discredited.  Most of those scholars are Jewish, of course, and take their cues from one ours, a true hack but serviceable for sure, Gould, but even the ones that are not are obedient to the general plan, knowing all too well how bread gets buttered.  But how such "scholars" can be so ignorant of the epochal work going on even then in genetics, and now even more so, is beyond me.  Or perhaps they knew but wanted to keep it under wraps, with humans the race between stupidity and duplicity is always a close run thing.  Either way, they kept repeating the bromides. It's been discredited!  Everyone knows it!  You're not a Nazi, are you? But they served their purpose in the last push of the great awakening.  They are gone now, of course; being of no use.  

On the eve of the Second World War the race scientists were all dead or were outcasts, or soon to be.  Men in top hats were already dinosaurs. Their name was mud, we dragged them through it.  Boas as mentioned died during the war keeling over in Manhattan inveighing against them. But his pupils lived on, his ideas lived on.  And were about to make a killer entrance into the annals of history.

In the 1920s men who held the views of a later time's Dissident Right were deeply respected, socialized with Presidents, sat on boards, referred to FDR in letters as "Dear Frank",  thirty years later men with the same views were nearly universally looked on as moral monsters.

The question remains, how did it happen?  Into the early 20th century the American people were a materialistic people but a stern and a forbidding one.  We think of Rockefeller handing out thin dimes to street urchins.  But if there is one thing true about immigration it's that every people you mix in effects the blend, changes the people in ways subtle and unsubtle, and there is no doubt that by the 1920s the Americans, with their novel and at times exotic mix of ethnics, were fast becoming a sensual people, a ravenous people, a lazy people, the tone got lowered, as is said.   And with the Depression they became a frightened people, and when a sensual people becomes a frightened people they do not go looking for bad ideological news, it's only hope and optimism that they can bear.  So the flinty Yankee gave way to the little dark eyed brunette—and all soon being swept up in the rancid patriotism of the war  so that the nation of villages was left behind, left behind once and for all, without really too much of a look back.

Now to the annals of history such as they are, such as they were, for we Jews are nothing if not sophists, we proceed by misdirection.

Germany was the end of the line for the universalizing mission of Rome, they got ambushed in a forest and had to give up, had to turn back, wept over their legions, but we had better luck.  For it's true that until the end of time (last week) the German people had always been the bone caught in the throat of anyone who would rule the world.  For any universalizing mission it's always Germany that must perish.

Hitler was always the horse we always wanted to ride, no sooner was he dead than we symbolically dug up his corpse and have ever since continually paraded it around the public square so when anyone gets out of line we can point to it and say don't forget, Hitler....

I'm not saying he wasn't our implacable foe, he was, or that he was a pilgrim, he wasn't, or that he didn't cross and re-cross a line or two, or engage in excesses, he did, that much is obvious, but just that unlike the reports of his death the reports of his crimes, such as they were, were greatly exaggerated.  Did he have blood on his hands?  Hardly. For is it a crime to want a country of your own? Is it a crime to want your people to survive? Is it a crime to want to secure one's future for oneself and one's posterity?  It would seem to me the real crime is the opposite, a crime unprecedented, to deliver your people to being replaced by another.  No, we fought Hitler with all our might and main, and then turned him into the ideological gift that keeps on giving not because he was a criminal, he wasn't.  We did it because he was in our way. It still surprises me how slowly some are to grasp the laws of war, the laws of biology, and the laws of demographic conflict, and how shocked they are to hear them.

Nazism was an experiment in applied eugenics.  It was putting the broad, solid, eternal laws and principles of biology to use for social and political life, in the service of the people.  

Written in 1925 The Great Gatsby is the only book published prior to 1945 that contains both the words "holocaust" and "swastika", my staff assures me of this, they've done the cross-checking of this seeming anomaly. Fitzgerald complained to Ed Wilson that the southern Italians were practically Negro (there goes the neighborhood!), and that American naturalization should be limited strictly to English and Swedes.  In Gatsby Nick enters Manhattan in a car and sees, he says, two black bucks being chauffeured by a white man and notes, accurately, that one never knows what one will see when one enters Manhattan. And of course there is Wolfsheim, the predator, the Jew to out Jew all Jews.  And of course he was published by Scribners, the same firm that published Grant and Stoddard, the latter being famously being referenced in the novel, unless it was that other guy the allusion was about, the one who wrote about the hair lips and the morons, even my excellent staff can't yet say for sure, so we'll put a pin in it, for now.  Thus it's not a leap to put two and two together, that this great American novel is not in anyway about something as banal as the fragility of the American Dream, as untold numbers of English teachers, obedient to the general plan, have said, but rather how the clean green breast of the New World was destroyed and desecrated by Jews, Blacks, and assorted mongrels, causing decent folk to retreat to the German Midwest.  That's the theory, a least, but one I hold with.  They got to beat us down.

The Passing Of The Great Race was exhibit 151 at the Nuremberg Trials.   It started on a bison hunt.......

The USA entered the First World War only after Britain promised a homeland in Palestine to the Jews and the Jews gave the signal to Wilson that it was safe to make the world safe for democracy, that is, safe for Jews.  Hitler remembered this perfidy of Albion perfectly well, having cause to.......

After the war we concocted the allegation that Hitler was supposed to have said near the end that he never loved Germany, by then we had a cross between a stranglehold and a death grip on world media so the famous last words slipped into the realm of history, people only know what they read in the papers, our papers......

The message to the Germans was:  neither should you, you shouldn't love Germany either.   Had we wanted them to believe something else they would have.

If someone was in in the mood they might have thought that equally on trial those months in Nuremberg was the scientific racism of the Americans in the 1920s, that the so-called liberators were the real Nazis; in this way we had our view to the future. We brought in the American sterilization laws, the three generations of imbeciles is enough, the various eugenics movements, the close connection between German and American racists, and so we planted seeds that would bloom in a million flowers in the glorious anti-racist future.  We got them thinking: were the liberators really all that different from the ones they conquered?  Indian Genocide?  Slavery?  Jim Crow? The Klan?  The color line?  Weren't they just part and parcel of the same authoritarian system,  all far down on the F Scale?  White man Nazi, that was the lesson and message, one the white man learned all too well in coming years, being an eager and obedient student, an apt pupil—white man Nazi.  Patton is said to have said that the trials weren't cricket--that they offended his Saxon sense of fair play—indeed they must have! What a world of difference between Saxon fair play and eternal Jewish victory. As for Patton himself he is said to have said some bad things about some little Jews, and it must have been quite a shock for such as him to discover that he and his men had been used as a blunt instrument in the furtherance of an international criminal conspiracy.  Imagine his chagrin!  But we all need to wake up sometime, smelling the coffee is good for the soul.  And had he lived he would have been a minor irritant, at most, his prestige was enormous, but we had laid the groundwork with how he treated the men, that slap was truly unfortunate, boo hoo hoo, etc.  Even he would have seen that there are some things you just can't say about us, at least not with impunity. But he didn't live, you'll recall.

When one starts thinking one starts thinking about Adolf Hitler.

Hitler!   Now there was a man!  One after our own hearts, who saw things as we did, eye to eye, a brother under the skin.  To have utterly defeated such a worthy foe makes the victory all the sweeter.   Had he never existed it certainly would have been necessary for us to have invented him.   Yeoman's work for sure he did us, he's the gift that keeps on giving. I had one of my students who was looking  through the archives wonder if the H Logo for the long defunct History channel stood for Hitler and, clever as I am, I said no, it stands for Holocaust.  When I think of Hitler (which is the beginning of wisdom) I think of the question: could it have been different?   For certainly Hitler was their very last stand, the last thing that could have possibly withstood us, compared to him even Grant and the rest were bush league, for we could not make peace with that, we could not possibly let the white man have a country to call his own.  And they couldn't have a country to call their own with us. It's as simple as that.  The old us/them binary, who/whom and Jew/Gentile, the selfish gene is an amoral monster pursuing a blind and relentless will to power. Could it have gone different?  If perhaps he had had the later concept of whiteness and brought the whole flock into the fold he could have prevailed, perhaps; and had he, prevailed that is, there would be statues of him in every city in Europe.  But now, alas, his name is a byword for absolute evil.

It was always the German people who got in the way of every international dream, and we were not going to make Rome's mistake and get bogged down in some godforsaken German forest, where they say Freedom was born (though it was stillborn), that we could not allow.  Anyway it was never by arms but always by make-believe that we rule this world, an uncanny something that is more than any army.   How many divisions do we have?   How many have you?

Germany must perish!    A rallying cry, no doubt.  When I think of how history was falsified on the spot, at the time, how little the American people were allowed to know.  Hitler wants an alliance with the white world, I can't hear you, Hitler wants peace with Britain, scrambled in the telling.  We bamboozled them, really.  Only let filter out what was consonant with the general plan.  But we knew, and our surrogates in government knew, and that was all that mattered.  Hitler had to be stopped.  Germany needed to be pastoralized, pacified, they were our ancient enemy of only a century or so.  And, really, it's fascinating that we even had the chance, that we could stand up on our hind legs and say: we're Americans!   American as you, or more American, really, we believe all are equal, and we have our right to our opinions.  And in our opinion the Nazis represent the apex of evil and American boys (our boys!) should drive them from the face of the earth, they should be used crudely as a blunt instrument in furtherance of our international criminal conspiracy.....

In the 1920s there were three components to the Democrat party: rural Southerners, Northern Ethnics, and Jews.  When we all hit the jackpot in 1933 the first two clamored for jobs and patronage, lined up dutifully at the trough, but not us, instead we became very interested in foreign policy, for as a people we always keep our eye on the main chance.......  

And the timing was something, how we made our nearly vertical and sudden ascent up the back of America, letting it launch us into the stars, how we came from miserable Cracow ghettos speaking a snarling Yiddish, and nearly found ourselves, just like that mind you, atop the world of this brand new colossus—and no sooner had we than---came a man who could stop it.  It really was a pretty brilliant pas de deux, it was because we were we and you were you!  When you think about it he was the only one who saw clearly what was happening and was willing to put his soul in the balance, if that was even necessary, to redress it.  Worthy adversary!  Implacable foe!  Many can talk but who can kill?  Who is willing to take the existence of his people in his hands and kill for it? Animals in the wild have no compunction.  He saw that with our infinite network we were circling the globe, that finance was becoming a god, the rabble as bankers, that markets would soon suck in everything that was not firmly rooted, and even that would be a close run thing, we'd jar that loose too in the end; that we had the rising power of the West, even if we would ultimately lose that of the East, we had this stupid rising power, this Goliath in short pants, wrapped around our gold ringed fingers, in our deep pockets.  And we would stand atop it.  And with this wind at our backs, after centuries of scheming and manipulation from mere pockets of power, what could we not accomplish? Everything, that's what.  The whole world would be at our feet. And he saw with crystal clarity that it must be stopped, now not later, there was no time after the present.  He saw that what was needed was more than autarky in one country but, at the least, autarky in one continent.  There came a movement in the teens of this century of those claiming that the European Union was nothing but Nazism writ large, a direct lineage and genetic descendant, but they mistook means and ends, two men may get in an identical hand basket but only one will be going to hell.  And for our incipient EU (one world is enough for all of us......), our game of global domination, Hitler knew that Germany needed to assert a rival reign to supplant it, to combat it, if not defeat it, this was really the stuff of high drama, the true story of that war, the crucial one, it would make great reading were anyone alive to tell it. Instead we got syrupy pablum, stories of Democracy and Tyranny, and pious speeches at Normandy, and old battle-axes and womanly men preaching and screeching about the liberal order even as it crumbled at their traitorous feet.  For the propaganda surrounding the Second World War, then as well as now, was that it was a war against totalitarian dictatorship and for freedom, but really it was that a sharp eyed Germanic people saw clearly the net that was being thrown over the world by us and tried to elude it, but missed.  The rest of it is just catnip for the masses. Of course we covered that up in Old Glory, our new calling card, and the UN, and world peace, and boo hoo hoo about the Jew and his six million, and anti-communism when it came to that and, well, you know the rest. No, Hitler is a man we can respect, and not even begrudgingly, a man after our own hearts, a man who fought for his people, as we fought for ours.  It would make no more sense for us to bear him any personal ill will than to be upset by animals killing in the wild.  For surely at this late date it is a truth universally recognized that a people who are unwilling to defend themselves deserve to perish.   He was never that, God bless him.

When I think of him now I think of him as a man with tremendous courage, who educated himself to the truth, the truth of what we were doing, and said it plain.  Of course it was easy to brand him as a lunatic, as a clown, the ludicrous dictator, because who could believe we were doing such a thing, or who could admit to it, it seemed so warped, even as we were doing it right out in the open.  No, by that time we had trained them well to hate Jew hate above all and even the smallest hint of it was in bad odor among their elites, it's why the Lindbergh wife dreaded it, better they perish than hate.  I can tell you, comrade, as one who has savored it, there is no more perfect crime than getting away with it and calling all who object criminals and insane ones at that, it really is looping the loop, getting your victims to defend you, a species of madness some used to call the Amy Biehl syndrome, named after a seditious white women who went to help the blacks in South Africa, and paid the predictable price (help the coal, pay the toll, as was once said).  Ms. Biehl's parents later traveled to the rainbow nation and forgave the ones who hit their daughter in the head with a rock (one liberal, one grave).  As for us cranking up the propaganda machinery to enforce a general obedience to the general plan, and a Talmudic taboo against deviating from it, take Hitler's book.  If you believe what we say about it his style was poor, shoddy, and disjointed, pedestrian at best, his thoughts confused, but of course few read it, though it's sold freely on the open market.  But when one reads him with an open mind one finds him to be perfectly lucid, workmanlike perhaps, with the faults of the self-educated, but a fine serviceable workingman's style nonetheless.  And, needless to say, a penetrating analysis.  But we've attached the stigma to him, that he was some unlettered bumpkin, an unreconstructed racist rube rallying the racist rubes, an atavistic reversion, some self made monster, when in fact he was nothing of the kind.  He was a man who looked at things slowly and deeply, scratched his head, stared at them, stared at them again, studied them, took deep breaths, went back over and over them until it was all finally clear in his mind, and so over long periods of time worked things out for himself.  But if you only read the papers, our papers, you'd never know the truth. Indeed, his book shows that he did have a great struggle, had a great overcoming, to see though everything, and elucidate it perfectly, and then get cast as a joke, a criminal.  It's ironic that his last inheritors and imitators would label the intermediary world that we cast over the old one, that we overwrote the script with as "clown world", which is getting close to the bone.  But of course to the honest observer he was anything but a clown, though one of ours pictured him as the clownish dictator.  It's true, he had no pedigree, no lineage, came from common stock, but then Lincoln was born in a cabin, and his high sounding phrases were stultifying and stupid--—dedicated to a proposition indeed, any nation not dedicated to it's own survival will be gone soon enough.  When he arrived on the scene we knew we had to handle him with special care, to go all in on defaming him, on anathematizing him, on placing him well beyond the pale, off the reservation, others wrote him off but we never did.  When the reprisals started we knew that this was to be a war to the knife, we knew that he and we were fatally entwined, knew that this was the final showdown, winner take all, and everything would be swept before it.  For instance how much of the ultimate reaction against scientific racism came from it's association with Hitler?  See, we said, this is what it means, see?  This is what it comes to.  Few had the stomach for it when you put it that way. Indeed, in the annals of subversion the 1930s are an underrated time, textbooks were changing, history was being re-written, public officials were being re-educated, mouths were being closed, people were being shut up, a chill went over the land vis-a-vis the Jews, what one could say about us was being curtailed, the story line was subtly changing, and all from our perspective, all at our behest.  If anyone objected we said: Hitler? That's not what you are is it?   And so quickly, before he even did a thing, we ratcheted up our propaganda to warp and wailing speed, and he became the world historical monster of our own making.  I tell you had he never existed it would have been necessary for us to invent him, which we did after all.   Which we did.

Seen from a certain angle it's easy to see Hitler as barbaric, certainly his racial ideology has gone out of fashion, at least when it's articulated, we live it of course as a matter of course as do you my dear friend.  But the ideology's passing was only because in the years following the war civilization had reached a kind of plateau, one from which it was really impossible to see the past, the war had been a cataclysm no one wanted to peer back over except to be rid of it.  When the state of war returned, or at least an intimation of it, things looked somewhat different. What no one could think at the time was that he was doing what was necessary, he was acting in the extremity of the future, his future, his people's future, seeing the cold hand of total defeat that his people were being subtly dealt; but then such is the general fate of visionaries, we forget too  easily that the canary in the coalmine as often as not comes up dead.

There's a scene in The Stranger (1946) when an ex Nazi played by Orson Welles in order to cover his tracks tells Edward G Robinson that the German is incorrigibly evil and must be destroyed and driven from the face of the earth.  Mr. Robinson emigrated to the USA and fabricated some personal small-scale pogrom he witnessed in the old country, not his country, but the old one, and said when he came to the USA at age ten he felt for the first time free.   I'll bet he did, I know many people felt the same way, many people like Robinson, who were Jewish, more than a few up my family tree.

Gemany Must Perish!  We laid it on with a trowel, it's true, you can never lay it on too thick.  Germany Must Perish!  My god, read from the perspective of a later humanity what a dreadful book that was, one probably unwise to publish, but we got a away with it, we always do.  We were on the side of the angels by then, or damn close to it. What was the small change of life regarding what you could say about us not ten years before was now viewed with distaste, and so Jew hate was driven underground, where it belongs, if you could say boo about the Jew by then you could just say it barely. And in the first glow of our slow acceptance we made Hitler the pariah he is today; we truly created a monster, anathematization on a cosmic, industrial scale. Prior to that a man such as Lindbergh would think nothing of getting a service cross pinned to his chest by Nazi officialdom, little did he know that soon enough he would be seen as having supped with Satan with an exceedingly short spoon!  How could he have known?  He was just following the protocols of  the Knights of old.  But the reins were about to loosened, faith dimmed, chivalry dead; this new world we were creating was not going to be cricket.

But they had the right idea alright, they were taking hygienic caution, it was a racial prophylactic, they were seeing the world with clear eyes and taking the measures that were necessary for survival.   One can only laud that, most people want to live, though when not faced with having to prove it most will deem it a reversion, they are a squeamish lot; looking back there were the race suicide prophets in America, the alarm bell in the night about the rising tide of color, which by the fifties simply seemed odd; but everything in the post war world blurred reality, the battle between Russia and America froze it in an ice from which it was released in 1989, history resuming just as the neoliberals were saying it was ending; but the ones who saw clearly in 1940 knew that they were at the choking point, and theirs was the only way to save a civilization, a culture,  people, a race, a way of life.  For what we have now is not that, a civilization that is.  The machines goes on like before but no one can really distinguish it from the operators.

Germany did perish, thank god.  With them out the way it was smooth sailing, for the most part.  Some unreconstructed Southern racist was no match for our Fuhrer.  We wailed at the dogs on chains, and the water hoses, and the lunch counters, and cried them rivers about the back of the bus, and the eternal corpse of Emmett Till (may God rest his useful soul), but a man who can walk into a hospital and put  patients to sleep-—that man means business, that man would throw fire down on a school rather than let a black girl walk in.  

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But, comrade, I must leave dear Adolf for now, otherwise I'd go on forever, he is truly inexhaustible. Here at the Ministry I have employees look up and bring me odd arcana about him, I think I must be one of the few remaining experts on him, for most he's just some vaguely evil spirit from a dead past, something with which to startle the horses and scare the womenfolk from time to time but little more.  I have the misfortune to be an historical man in an unhistorical age.  And now that all the tension has gone out of history it's hard to understand that at one point, when the outcome was not apparent to all, any political or social issue could be resolved by reference to him, it was as if he had subsumed in his person everything from the past and brought it to it's primal and irreducible level. His thought and his life are the gifts that will always repay attention for he brought history down to it's focal point, shorn of everything superfluous, in his itinerary is the entirety of human existence; his works, his words, his deeds are endless.  Even I, old cynic that I am, learn something new from him now and again, from time to time.  But basically he reminds us of the law of life, prevail or perish. And one should never feel any guilt for wanting to prevail or for prevailing. Otherwise you have been captured by an eighteenth century paradigm, when the living was easy.  That, I assure you, was never our problem.

William James said that for a people being moral is more important than survival.   Jean Raspail said that if the white man was to survive he was going to have to do things that will put his soul in the balance.  I suppose that is true for everyone, either way, you must choose.  Hate or die?   Which will it be?

Before we turn to the post war era, the era of desultory mopping up, there's one last question I have for Adolf.  Was he wise in all he did?  The question is asked again and again.  A last gasp is one thing but a foolhardy thrust is another.  HP Lovecraft was thrilled by Hitler's emergence, by his advent, he said that he thought that the man could and would  rejuvenate the European peoples.  That was in 1933 but just before his death in 1937  Lovecraft said he worried that Hitler was becoming too extreme in his policies and in the end he might have the exact opposite effect of what he intended, which he did, we know by now. Was he right? History has many cunning passages....could he have taken the Junger route?  Drawn a circle around Germany and wished the world of color away?  Simply expelled the Jews?  Got them a homeland in Palestine? Made a nice little white country of his own?  I think not.  I think he sensed not only the gravity of his situation but the finality of it, that after him was the deluge.  Hitler was an impulsive man, but in this instance I think his impulse was correct.  He sensed which way the wind was blowing, he saw the French pour coloured troops into Germany, he saw anti-colonialism rearing it's ugly head, he saw the various ideologies of race-mixing being bandied about and finding a receptive audience among fools, he saw the American Negro looking for a place in the sun and, above all, he saw that we Jews were getting more and more powerful every year.  The white world around him was becoming morally weak and no country is an island, and unless the rot was excised then or soon it would soon engulf them all. Look at Eastern Europe in the 20s, they made their stand, they had their mini baby booms, but were unable to withstand the rising tide of...what do we call it...color...yes, color....they made their half-hearted try but our markets swamped them in the end, they were small peoples unable to withstand the tsunami.  Hitler rightly knew or sensed that racial autarky was an incredibly difficult thing to maintain, amidst prosperity that is, prosperity coupled with moral weakness, that race is that promiscuous thing, it's hard to make it impermeable, there's always someone sneaking off to the hay bale, that unless it is vigorously and jealously guarded it always bastardizes, it always becomes unstable, there is always a fox in the hen house somewhere, and there's always a negro in her wood pile, safe to say.  And we held the Anglo world in our clutches and Weimar, well, Weimar was just dormant, incubating, ready as ever to return, break out, a virus poised to become an epidemic. So it was, as the Americans used to say, when they were a much more confident lot, do or die.  And who knows, if he had punched through to the oil fields the world might have become a very different place.  If he had went pan-white, perhaps? Of course there was the bomb, the Jew Bomb. Would goy have bombed goy? Gentile on gentile?  Would they have been that obedient to the general plan?  Ah, who knows. History not only has many cunning passages, it always deceives by vanity in the end, but now no more, not now that it has ended.  But who can think of anything more dramatic, a man, a great man, a world historical man, the world historical man, makes one roll of the dice for the white man, come up snake eyes, but just barely; and the die is cast.  It's a story someone really ought to tell.

There are other theories too, that Weimar wasn't so bad and would have reformed, that Strasser could have threaded that perfect needle, Hitler never should have abandoned Feder, etc, that Nietzsche detested petty bourgeois anit-semites, the same old tripe, and I notice that the people who promote these theories tend to be over-serious Christians, so see poisoned chalice, see Trojan Horse, above, if you even bother.

Once Hitler was presumed dead and we put those pictures of bulldozed bodies on American movie screens History, with a capital H, was over. Just like that, amazing.   We eternal sophists had to blind our eyes.  Even we were a little startled by the suddenness of it.  It's true that the Holocaust, with a capital H, and that stands for trouble, did not emerge for some time, but one belt, one road, right?  All we have is time, we are the immortal race after all.  And now that we have allied with our equally stout and unwavering Han brothers (who also wanted to live forever and never hesitated for a single moment as to how to deal with their undesirables) all we have is the future.  Standing there in 1945 for all intents and purposes we might have seemed a defeated race, but for all intensive ones we had prevailed, we were on the cusp of a true breakout.  Who could see it?  A few.  Patton belly-ached....but what could he do?  He was dead, not having been obedient to the overall plan.  The others had been discredited.  No one knew or cared, but L. Stoddard lived on until 1950, a relic, a vanquished relic, an ideological husk.  Our enemies had been vanquished before us, our moral enemies, our mortal ones, and the world breathed new air, the air of An American Dilemma, a watered down American Creed, and the UNESCO statement on race. Safe to say that no one had a good word to say for racial ideologies, or racism or, even, race, that non-existent thing.  Oh, racism had turned Europe into a field of ruins, but anti-racism would level it all, we made sure of that. We would soon make genocide a right of the peoples, we would clothe tyranny in tolerance.  And it really wasn't all that hard when you're dealing with a weakened people. If you want to destroy a people you sever their roots, you destroy their history, you destroy their classics....you know the drill. Soon dead white males would be the red headed step children of the world.  But let us not move too fast.   Let us linger over the intervening four decades, the beginning of what was really little more than a clearing of accounts.

With Hitler dead and buried we had our totem, our talisman, our bogey-man, our thing-that-goes-bump-in-the night, our salutary example to the goyim, with him in our pocket there is nothing we could not do, he was truly the horse we always wanted to ride.......

No one writes history any more as we don't like to overmuch burden our youth with useless trivia but if one were to write the history of Modern America they should divide it like this:

1890 to 1950:   Softening Up

1950 to 2000:  The Great Unraveling

2000 to 2030:  Knock Out Blow

2030 to Present:  Death And Burial

One theory of social movements is that they succeed to the extent that their leaders possess "social capital" in the form of ties to the mass media, corporate cultural intermediaries, and the state intelligentsia---where dominant interpretations of reality are generated.

Of course we were a racial movement not a social one and we didn't have ties, we were it.  After the war we had New York, Hollywood, the universities, newspapers, all were in our pockets and we generated the dominant interpretation or reality which was of course: white man bad; and later on, when the time was right, white skin bad, dark skin good.  We like to keep it simple, by make believe we rule this world.

What happened in the decades after the war was not a cultural revolution it was something much more, and much better, it was a social revolution, everything solid melted into air.  If in 1960 one wanted to see pornography it was certainly possible but one would need to go to the weirdo part of town, to the weirdo theater, or to the weirdo book shop.  In short, one would be a weirdo.  A half century later not only would one be saturated with pornography, up to one's eyeballs in it, filled to the very gills with it, by watching it one would not be a weirdo, the weirdo would be the one who still said you were a weirdo (hang-ups you see).  A world turned upside down is one that can be ruled by violence, and of course by make believe, inversion is the best kind of magic.

They had rights but we gave them human rights in order to take them away.

And that's all it ever really was from May, 1945 on, a mopping up exercise, an index on the end-ex, a collecting of our winnings.  Just how massive was the win? As a for instance it's a sign of how America was overtaken by an alien ideology that what for over a century was an icon of Liberty was changed to mean they must submit to being invaded by alien races whose rule over them meant the end of their Liberty.

We overwrote the script.  Let me say that again: we overwrote the script. A country created on paper, out of thin air, created in a Quaker meeting hall, was particularly subject to this horrible indignity.  Better for a nation to be born in the mists of time beyond recall, any nation created on a rational basis will evaporate like morning mist.

We employed a long term and multi-faceted strategy to destroy White America but it boiled down to this, our strategy was very simple, very simple from beginning, from the time we washed up on their shores:  it was to mongrelize the in group until there is no in-group, mongrelize the in group until they have lost not just the ability to survive but the will do it.

Leslie Fiedler said that in the 1950s in Manhattan every gentile who came to the big city to become a big intellectual immediately started taking on the role of the little Jew, dressing like a Jew, acting like a Jew, speaking like a Jew, assuming the aspect and accents and affect of a Jew, and in this way American culture become thoroughly Jewish, which is an homage to power indeed......

We of course had our Frankfurt Group, our Adorno, our F scale, but I'd like to point out one that is often overlooked. It was the Civil Rights movement after all the was the dagger in their hearts, the subversive movement that was the paradigm for all the insanity that followed, it took their rights away and racially degenerated them.  And it was Brown v. Board which was the camel's nose in the tent, little black boys and girls and little white boys and girls and all of that disgusting nonsense, our lawyers saw to that, we Jewed up the Courts until they buckled like a cheap suit. They dragged their feet on implementing it, but it was the principle that mattered, nine robed visionaries properly shamed and coaxed could degrade the racial character of a nation of 200 million.  And behind that scam was an actually fairly little known (and less read, understandably) book by a guilty Swede, Myrdal's An American Dilemma (funded by the Carnegie Corporation, Yaweh love it). A stealth bomb that book, the unheralded keys to the kingdom.

Myrdal himself was a rather obtuse fellow, and his theory was that America was racist and had always been racist, and that in order to remove this stain it had to stop being racist.  They were wrong to defend themselves he says.  The color line, the only thing standing between anyone and the abyss, was made anathema.  It was written in 1944, weighing in at a dull thousand plus pages, just at the time the stampeded goyim were doing our dirty work in Germany; and the Swede did a number on America's elite, not hard you say, and you're right, they were a thinned out and rather unimpressive lot.  It's also the book that gave us the phrase "The American Creed" (see countries created out of thin air, above).  The book had a unique and undue influence in all the right quarters and was the key to Brown, etc., indeed a generation of white folk were inculcated in the idea that there should be no white folk.  The Swedes, my god, what a godforsaken people.

And some time in there, a little before or after, was the UNESCO statement on race, that there are no races and that they are all equal, that miscegenation does not lead to racial decline, that race was a social myth, etc., all of it certified by FDR's ghost, Eleanor Roosevelt, and Alger Hiss. That nominally serious people could have taken so seriously such child like fantasy beggars belief, it wasn't even high sounding balderdash, it was low-brow balderdash, but what was said of the Germans was true of white folk in general, they were always at your throat or at your feet.  Indeed, if we had a guiding star, it was that there are no races, that there was only one race, the human race, and that racism, something endemic and perfectly natural to humans, so natural that for thousands of years no one gave it a second thought, was anathema. We are racialists preaching anti-racialism, racists selling anti-racism, even as we are sophists proceeding by misdirection.  But then if you can believe that Ashley Montagu is a reasonable sounding name for a Jew you'll believe in anything, however far-fetched it is.    

Civil Rights (meaning no rights for the white man) was the vanguard but so much came in it's wake, and though it was ostensibly for blacks you can be sure we Jews lawyered the shit out of it.  And it's true:  equality is a weapon. If we had a theory it was if it was standing knock it down, knock it down until there was nothing left, nothing left for them but their eyes to see their own destitution. Kinsey, the Pill, free speech, psychedelics, rock and roll, imagine there's no country, race riots, assassinations, Miranda, no payer in schools, feminism, women in the work place, the two parent trap, outsourcing, abortion, gay rights, trans rights, the Loving ruling, pornography, the sexual revolution, the cultural revolution, the social revolution, globalism, libertarianism, Vietnam, anti-racism, no fault divorce, Dead White Males, the patriarchy, affirmative action, anti-colonialism, black power, Chicano Power, nothing comes between me and my Calvins, fists in the air at the Olympics,  Stonewall, Lady Chatterly, Playboy, Jackson Pollock, Pop-Art, modern art, an end of the great narratives, I could go on but, safe to say, to the average white man watching this all on television it must have been one massive  indignity after another.   It was the great unraveling. Everything solid melted into air........

Somewhere in there too (1976) a Jewess with a jaw-locking prose style named Judith Butler announced to the world that biological sex did not exist but rather there was something called gender which existed only in the mind.  Only in the mind, mind you. By the time she died she had been given every award a society can give to a scholar and so in the end we did to the sexes what we had done to the races, first we fused them and then we simply made them disappear.  

If you want to destroy a people you destroy their heritage, you destroy their history, you destroy their classics, their past, their heroes, their culture, their language, their literature; perhaps in the end you leave them only with their eyes so they can witness their destitution. A people who are without the voice of their ancestors are like a plant that has been uprooted and is living above ground synthetically with chemicals. Without lineage, without blood, without time, without identity, they are just a cipher waiting for a more dominant interpretation of reality.

Now that the Germans were gone we knew that the final bone in our throat would be the American White Man, White America.  They never had a full blown policy named after it, and that was the problem.  We turned all of our attention to him, to make him a stranger in his own home.  We knew that the white man in the end would always stick to his mores, his traditions, that after years of their being submerged, he would stick to them even more. We always knew that the white man was the last obstacle to our universal dreams, the very last.  And, as such, he had to go.  He had, after all, or so we put it about, blood on his hands, and tomorrow belonged to us.

The author of that defeatist Serenity Poem (a favorite of losers everywhere) was Reinhold Niebuhr, in the 1950s he also authored the so-called "truce" between the big three religions, essentially gutting any notion of religion in the public square, thus removing another ancestral claim of the white man to his own country.  Two percent and we got a rabbi at all of the governmental functions, "Judeo-Christian"--what a crock and what a coup, put a menorah on the White House lawn and call it surrender.

When I think of yeoman's work being done I think of little Emanuel Celler, in Congress at the time of the 1924 immigration restriction act, a brand new congressman from Brooklyn, on the losing side, but sticking around and re-emerging 41 years later to lend his Jewish name to the stake put into the heart of White America.  Imagine that! Forty-One Years!  Being a little pipsqueak Jew speaking up bravely to the WASP establishment, taking a drubbing, then not so much licking his wounds as rubbing his hands, and watching as the long decades rolled by, and as his enemies became more and more deracinated, their identity thinned out, more and more in disarray, more and more exhausted, more and more demoralized, waning while we were waxing, dying out and dying off, until that great day in New York Harbor where, as referenced, the representative of a once great Anglo-Saxon nation referred to the 1924 Act as a "cruel and enduring wrong", a "harsh injustice", and an affront to the American Creed of judging every man on his merits.  Imagine it!  A cruel and enduring wrong! Injustice!  Merits!  A people wanting to survive and have a country of their own cruel!  He spoke like one of us, or he was as dumb as Texas cow shit. And of course little Manny Cellar, Jewish little Manny Celler, was there that day and had to hold in cold contempt the people who would sign their own death warrant in full view of the Statue Of Liberty, a veritable suicide note it was.  As for the poem at the base, that was a fine bit of work, which reminds me that no self respecting people lets aliens scrawl filthy graffiti at the base of their temples. That poem, barely literate and indicative of suicidal tendencies for anyone who would adopt it, had started out inside the statue getting no attention, until a rich WASP socialite named Georgina Schulyer paid for it to go at the base.  It continued to sit there in obscurity until we played it up as of 1938 in order to get more of us in from Europe, and then a half a century later it was holy fucking writ, it was damn near the law of the land, a statue become like statute.  And on that fateful day when the America President, charged with protecting a 90 percent white nation, signed that people's suicide note, the Vice President chimed in too and he said the Act would prove that in America there were no second class citizens; he was wrong though, that designation was reserved for the white man.  It would not upset the ethnic balance of the nation, it was said, it was not a revolutionary bill, wrong on all counts, we are liars and we operate by misdirection. We were fully aware that we were delivering the death blow, that we got the unsuspecting white man to herald it as the triumph of the American spirit, and to do it in full view of Lady Liberty, that was just insult to injury.

If your ideals can be used against you you have the wrong ideals.

And that poem of course was occasioned by the so-called Russian pogroms that were largely fictional, we sold those too via innuendo, rumor and lies.  By make believe we rule this world.

The first way we work is by means of race-mixing, race-mixing in the sense of miscegenation (the flood of images of white women and black men coupling) and race-mixing in the sense of mixing the races together, multi-racialism, multiculturalism.  We flooded their nations with nearly sub-human mongrels, we mongrelized the nation until there was no nation left, the destruction of White America was beautiful to behold.  In 1960 it was a nice white country but by the year 2000 it was a disparate amalgamation of alien races, an international flop house, and more importantly a machinery had been set in place whereby over a million green cards were issued each year, a vast machinery for nation wrecking and, short of the political will to stop it, and there was none, it would go on til the crack of their doom. We turned this nice white country into little more than a legal entity, an economic zone, and a universal refuge situated at the crossroads of the world.  Everything that was solid melted into thin air....evaporated like morning mist.....

The money spigots of the neoliberal order are free trade, open borders, and war, the exact things which were the death of White America.

Amazing too is how slowly we got the left to be outriders for global capital, in the name of humanity they did the work of the ones they once called robber barons, and in a final reduction to absurdity even unions got on board with mass immigration and the decimation of the working man.  

For most of American history a tariff was a reasonable idea, but we moved around a lot so for us the free movement of people and goods became our ideology and our God, free trade and open borders, to reject these ideas meant a people wanted to have a country of their own, and if they were sane enough for that the Jews knew they'd be the first to go.

Open borders, and free trade, behind these twin ideas we put an enormous amount of effort, the jobs went out, the people came in and so all sides conspired against the middle, and so in earnest the American middle class was hollowed out.  We made "industrial policy" into a dirty phrase, but all industrial policy is is a people wanting to have a country of their own, so we made it a dirty phrase and free trade became a god, finance became a god, the usual neo-liberalism being the preferred method of societal suicide.  We had charts, graphs, a wide variety of voodoo, and luckily the Americans were suckers for anything with the word free in it.  You could take the rattiest old couch in the world, toss it out on your curb and slap the word free on it and it won't be too long before some asshole will come along to pick it up.

There is a reason after all they say Uncle Sucker.

The neoconservatives were Jews who started out as Marxists, moved on to Trotsky, when the USSR became anti-jew they turned cold warriors, they didn't like the hippies so they became conservatives, whereupon they proceeded to hijack the Republican Party and led them happily into social liberalism and eternal war.

Neoconservatism was simply the realization on our part that we needed to play both sides of the fence, that to destroy White America a pincer movement was required.

We worked from the right via neo-conservatism and after all the good work the traditionalists did to build up the Republican Party we hijacked it just as that great friend of ours, that great nitwit Reagan, took over the country.  We stole the Republican Party like the key from under the keeper's nose!  Just like that, as is said. And by the mid eighties we had the three-legged stool, we tossed in social conservatism just to keep the rubes interested, but sending that great gentleman and scholar Mel Bradford packing was a sign of which way the wind blew—at our backs. Ah, the Paleos—we did them in with our amen corner.  War, trade, open borders, it's not that hard to bring a once mighty people to their knees (simultaneously loosen social and economic controls).  You see after the war America was really the only one left standing, everyone else was wading through the rubble, and it was a golden age for the average person, and we worked hard on the re-proletarianization of them, never forget that the etymology of that word is the making of slaves.  And so the left got rid of social controls, the right got rid of economic ones and we played all sides against the middle---some things are so nice you need to write them twice.

And you my young friend, you know this drill better than anyone, your people bled America dry there for a while, they should have left you stagnating in your billions but they were a greedy lot, they couldn't leave well enough alone, global order and all that suicidal rot.  Indeed, after letting us in bringing you into the world economy was their biggest mistake, perhaps they could have survived the one, or the other, but that one-two punch was deadly.  The jobs went out, the people came in, the wages went down, the price of a housing went up, the fertility rate went down, men didn't make enough money for women to want to marry them, however counter-revolutionary that is, so bring more people in, more people in, wash, rinse, repeat, kaput.  It really was that simple.  It really was Satan's circle.  Combine it with the rising of other countries which their foreign policy facilitated, the web of finance needs so to become global, and then when we threw in automation on top of it, it was too much for them to withstand, they buckled then they collapsed, eating bugs in sparsely appointed pods.  Though I must say on the robots we held back a little, slowly in the wind and all that, there was never any reason to startle the horses or scare the womenfolk, better to let them slowly and gradually get acclimated to and even somewhat comfortable with their extinction.  Satan's circle has all the time in the world to spread it's basic message.

The left got rid of social controls, the right economic ones.....

Sometime in there a famous movie was made called Falling Down.  The hero is your average white collar white guy who's had enough and isn't going to take it any more and he starts mowing people down.  It was adduced as an example of the angry white male phenomenon.  But let's not forget that the movie was called Falling Down.

Middle American Radicals they were called. They had the right idea, of course.  Go third position on us, resurrect the dead ghost of the even then living Junger, it would have been very popular in the right hands, could have carried a lot before it.  A leader can always arise.  But we had a stranglehold on the parties, so it was a no go, we made sure of that, donors, networks, the media, the networks, the newspapers, the magazines, the schools, we had a tight little control on things.  From time to time those of us still interested in such things in the Ministry  (and there are fewer and fewer as I grow old) ask each other: when was it finally over?   There are still some among us that say Hitler's death was not the end and that, in theory at least, they could have sublimated the racism for the new age and have slaughtered us hard from the left and the right.  It could have worked, true, in theory; but it was always an odd brew, that chimerical Third Position, that unicorn world-view, that gossamer ideology as fool's errand; and anyway no one picked up the cudgel. Well, in truth Duke did and Buchanan did, and Perot did, at least a little, taken together they were by hook and by crook honing in on a white man's third position, but they faded away and no one seemed interested in taking up a viable mantle.  The problem was they were small fry and, like I said, we had a stranglehold on the parties.  And so we were able quell democracy, take over the courts, make the living constitution the death of them all, and split the sides against each other; where if a leader had emerged to join the far left and the far right and bring a lot of the heartland along they could have given us a run for our money, maybe.  And you know why they couldn't?  Race, that's why.  It was race that the conservatives were scared to deal with, wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole, it was race that the far right made frightening, and that the left treated the way vampires treat holy water.  The far right and the far left were naturally matched, almost peas in a pod, they were anti-Jewish, anti-Israel, anti-capitalist, anti-corporation, anti-war, anti free trade, anti-establishment, anti-finance, but race got in the way.  That's what kept these perfectly natural allies from greeting up and making one last stand: race.  How funny. The issue of race will always be the cross upon which they will always hang.  And it's why our basic strategy was so sound: mongrelize the in-group; and their's should have been always keep it white, through thick or thin, my god, just keep it white, and all will be well, all manner of things will be well......

And it was not really true to say that whites were being dispossessed, not all of them, many came over to our side and did fine with their possession, were fine with being obedient to our general plan, it was the Paleos, the nationalists, the white nationalists, the supremacists, the middle American radicals, the alt-righters and the right dissenters, the average white man, in short, who got disestablished, but then those are just other names for the losers.  That is, what was dispossessed was nothing less that whiteness itself, for they were always a people in themselves, but never for themselves, alas.  

And it's not too much boasting to say we decimated the middle class. There was a time when a man could work, the wife stay home, and they could have a nice white life in a nice white city and in a nice white country, take nice white vacations, have nice white neighbors, look forward to nice white retirements, but then suddenly it all vanished, things got pinched and both husband and wife needed to work and even at that they couldn't meet the standards that they had before.  How did that work? Fortress America could have saved them, autarky on one continent.  But the jobs went out, the people came in......  

When the epitaph of America is written it will say that this was a people who loved freedom but who from the first slave ship, to all the steamships, and to the last special exemption visa loved cheap labor more.  True that.

The left got rid of social controls, the right economic ones, the jobs went out, the people came in, and all sides were played against the middle.

America really was a husk of itself by this time though it continued to live off it's admittedly dwindling accumulated capital before the law of diminishing returns took effect, something you were too young to see.  If not quite eating bugs they were experiencing power outages, crowding, housing prices through the roof, under our tutelage it's always inevitable that Metropolis becomes Modern Times becomes Soylent Green....

Make Room!  Make Room!

Internationally,  anti-colonialism had the same goal of targeting the white man wherever he was and the promotion of the rising tide of color.  White skin bad, dark skin good, we had our mantra, simple is as simple does. Rhodesia, South Africa, two once thriving white countries that we turned into test cases, then black basket cases. And you'll notice how the white power structure all around the world heaped massive opprobrium on the only countries who had the right idea, the ones with the spines of steel, their backbones still intact, the ones who could have resurrected the chances of the white man, in embryo true, but one must start somewhere. But to get the white man to kill the white man's chances, to sell out their brothers in arms, it's rather easy when you've ruled rule Britannia out of bounds.  We know who lost America.

We might pause here to say: and the Jews were behind all of this?  Yes, we were, we were very much indeed, we most emphatically were.  I don't and won't supply footnotes to this, but safe to say find a movement, a tendency, an attempt to tear down something Christian, something traditional, something American, something white and behind it you're sure to find more than a few Jews in the woodpile, we have our fingers in every pie, if none in the dike.  After us, my lord, the deluge.

Someone once asked me what my social philosophy was and in lieu of anything else I told him: dark skin good, white skin bad.  And though we don't believe a word of it it's true: our stroke of genius was to get enough white people to believe that white people were immoral, there was the slavery, the colonialism, the treatment of women, the Indians, the aboriginals, it's life you say, but we made them hate life, made them hate living, made them hate their people.  So naive were they, so enmeshed in a bubble of their own making, that they believed the nonsense, believed the lie.  The white man immoral!  But who isn't?  One shoots Gandhi doesn't one?   The American generation that came of age in the mid sixties will go down as simultaneously the most lucky, the most stupid, and the most evil ever born; they literally inherited the world and their response was to fuck in the mud.  What can one say about such a people save good riddance?

We hit our true genius, really, well after the miraculous decade of the 1960s.  When did it start?  When is the fist time you heard the phrase political correctness?  When did you first hear that even more important phrase: dead white males?   Dead white males, more of them please!  In a very real way the madness that came to fruition in the teens of the next century, all of it,  can be traced back to that single phrase from the 1980s: dead white males! smash the patriarchy!  down with the classics!  Hey Hey Ho Ho Western Civ has got to go!  It seemed harmless or amusing at the time to many but these were  our poisonous growths that bore deadly fruit.  That a so-called serious nation would countenance such refuse is justification enough for it's demise but here's the truth: they ate it up, the flagellants ate it up, or enough of them did.   When a nation becomes busy abrogating it's past perk up your ears, something big is going on.  It's true that in the grand scheme of things the 1960s made the splash but my heart's always been with the 1980s, for the sheer audacity of subversion. That's when multiculturalism and the "studies" revolution got into full swing, that's when immigration hit it's ongoing fever pitch, when neoconservatism made it's vertical ascent, that's when the American mind finally closed.  Reagan and Thatcher were supposed to be leading some kind of counter-revolution but in fact those two were not even speed bumps on the road to degeneracy: they were it's necessary accelerants, neo-liberals always are.  Mr. Enoch Powell once told the Thatcher woman that he'd defend England to the death were it to become communist, which baffled Maggie, which is the difference between a being a real racial patriot and being a mercenary bitch.

And here we get to the heart of the matter, or near it, or near enough. When you can get them codify their own racial destruction, to exalt it as their ideal, to grant it the legitimacy of an ideology, to get them them to work for it and defend it as moral, you've achieved something.  And such was multiculturalism, the famed French living together.  Some time in the 1950s some idiot came up with the theory called Contact Theory.   He had noticed that racial tensions seemed endemic to all societies and he thought that it was because the races didn't really know one another, and that the more they did, the more they lived among one another, the more they lived together, the more contact they had, the more the tensions would be eased or erased, the more contact the more getting along; but of course he had it basackwards, the tension was due to the fact that they knew each other all too well, and contact theory was a theory that was stillborn, dead in the cradle, contact theory was a theory that did not survive it's first contact with reality; life is nothing but a state of nature, a state of war, the war of all against all, is nothing but demographic conflict, no matter how much prosperity papers it over, for a while.  Which is why, of course, we went in so big for the mixing.

The remarkable thing about Bowling Alone is not that it shows that the presence of diversity means that there is less social trust between the groups, that much is obvious, but that even within the groups the trust decreases, as if the presence of several out groups makes the in group turn on themselves........  

It's what we counted on.

I've heard that multiculturalism was just an ex post facto rationalization for the surprise of diversity.  This doesn't give us enough credit. We've known from the beginning that the 90 percent white country was bad for us, that every bit of white racial decline meant our power grew; and if society was split up among many factions we would be the most powerful, it really was as simple as that.  It took us half a century but when the civil rights movement made race hatred out of bounds, how could they deny their tolerance to the rest of the world?  Of all the things that happened in that era it was the one on October 3, 1965 which was the most important. Everything else could have come later, would have come later, eventually.  But once starting out on the road to race diversity, to race mixing, to race amalgamation, to social miscegenation, to the destruction of White America, there was no turning back.  And we did it at the time when their wealth had put them asleep and when they woke up they found that their decline and then demise was completely entrenched in the system, it was an unstoppable and vast machinery of undermining the fabric of the country, Mr. Johnson signed a suicide note......

Pavlov was never prouder of his dinner bell than we were of our "racist"—salivating is one thing but making them grovel is a difference of an order of magnitude.

In the 1970s a moderate form of scientific racism returned in the guise of sociobiology, the so-called return of human nature.  It was a measure of how successful we were that when Nixon called Dan Moynihan to discuss Herrnstein's book the first thing that the latter says is be sure no one in the White House knew he was reading it, Nixon agreed, as if he were reading a dirty book, which he was, which he was.

Richard Dawkins was the man who put forth the idea that genes were amoral monsters blindly pursuing a relentless will to power but who in his dotage became a dreamy humanitarian.  So much for him, so obedient to the plan.

And you have to admit that in our time period it was a real coup d'etat, though the outlines of it could not be seen until years later.  It was even more, truly, than an overwriting of the script, it was the engrafting of an alien ideology onto a healthy host, a healthy body.  And it was a real rout. The master narratives were dead and we placed chaos at it's heart.  If it was standing we knocked it down.  In 1997 President Bill Clinton said that his country was on the cusp of the third great American revolution, when America ceased to be a European Country.  The first two had been disasters, the third would mean death, but his Oregon audience of young white people applauded their own demise, they clapped not for themselves, and certainly not for their posterity.....

If we have just left the long period of the great unraveling, we now move on to the penultimate one, the Knockout Blow (2000—2030). Unfortunately by the time the 2010s had arrived the catch phrase "cultural revolution" had been taken; really it was perpetual; perhaps we could call it the Social Revolution.  Some of have said it was that old American favorite, a Great Awakening, with more than a few burnt-over districts.

In 2005  Sam Huntington, scion of The Mayflower generation, wrote his civic nationalist screed Who Are We?  He opened it with flags in Boston which reminds me by then more than a few had been ejected from their heritage. The flags had come out in honor of 9/11, and it was good that we channeled the righteous anger into good old fashioned patriotism that was as American as your mother.  A smarter country would have seen that it was the very notion of exceptionalism that had brought on this discontent, the belief in mission, the universalizing mission, the making the world safe for, the shining city on a hill, the dedication to, all to be tied bewilderingly, if not inexplicably, to the idea and reality of the Jewish state (miracle of god). When Truman recognized us in 1948 nearly the entire American foreign policy establishment was against it, they knew America was hooked in with the oil and why antagonize 100 million people?  But that ex-Klansman was the same guy who said that the 1924 Immigration Restriction Act went against the wishes of no less a personage than Jesus Christ himself and he wanted to be King Cyrus, the fool.

Decades later, and decades ago, a similar irrational orgy of Old Glory broke out in your province of Hong Kong, and as I saw it on the television I had to laugh up my sleeve, these Hong Kongers unfurling a symbol that was by then long dead, by then no one on the left believed it, no one paying attention on the right did, only a few old war horses dreamt of Ronald Reagan in the night, wave it for the Gipper, you know, but those protesters they were just the pallbearers of a dead ideology, appealing to a defunct ghost.

A smarter country would have become a hermit kingdom, would have created Fortress America, would have thrown up walls, and tariff walls, closed the draw bridges and brought everyone home, instead they plunged into the world and brought in more Muslims and more of everyone than ever, suicidal tendencies die hard.    

We are a patient people and we had our Witzes and our Bergs, and our Wolfs, and our Steins in the Defense Department for decades, blueprinting little Israel's wars as America's wars, it took us a while but soon enough we cashed in; our amen corner is very powerful; when Patrick J. Buchanan opposed the first Gulf War he said only two groups favored it, the IDF and that American amen corner; when he opposed the second we brought in one of our own from Canada to call him un-American which, in hindsight, was laying it on a little thick, that was one glint-eyed black Irish who would kill for America.  But it worked, the war fever brought out the worst in them, discredited the Paleos, to the point where some of them must have been thinking they used to be outraged by the allegation that America was the Great Satan but now they saw the point, it's a phrase that has traveled well.  And so they got bogged down in endless, pointless, expensive wars, our wars, wars without end, the ones we inveigled them in, split the country further; Huntington noted that the flags on Beacon street eventually dwindled but the chaos we left behind endured; it always does.  

I myself was ambivalent for a while about the value of Israel.  It put us too much on the radar, it was nice to flee to, but why wave a flag to point out how obvious what one is doing.  But I think I was wrong, broad daylight was best, flagrant is the best disguise, and we had those Americans groveling at our feet, hands on that wailing wall with a look on their face like they just had a religious climax, small hat on head, ours, ours, all ours; one elected official once said that they got their morality not from government but from us, yes sir.  And when they fought our wars, sent their very own children, flesh of their flesh, blood of their blood, to die for us it just put the most emphatic of periods on the last words of their suicide note.

The word goy does not strictly speaking mean cattle, that's a sort of slang, what the word means is one who is a little dim, a little obtuse, not too quick on the uptake, not the brightest star in the firmament, nor the deepest river in the forest, is too trusting, and with a singular inability to detect deceit.

The neocons were a strange breed, flagrant in their allegiances, they started out as anti-American reds, but when the USSR turned on Jews they got on board with the liberal establishment, wormed their way in you may say.......

In 1981 Hollywood made a television movie called Skokie, with several major stars, celebrating the fact that the ACLU defended the rights of Nazis to march through what they called a Jewish neighborhood filled with Holocaust survivors; the chances of Hollywood making such a movie forty year later were exactly zero.  See obedient comma general plan.

And yes from 1981 to, say, 2017, was a real sea change (consult the demographic charts for the reason).  Some put the great awakening in the year 2013, which is as convenient as any.  It's when we cast any caution aside and began to dismantle whiteness in a big way, brick by brick, really, so that no one stone was any more atop the other. And when they asked me later why we wanted to dismantle whiteness I always said that every criminal wants to be rid of the evidence of their crime, especially when they have no plans on fleeing scene, having long since taken possession of it.

Look at free speech.  Look at the record.  Mario Savio went to a sit in, and they clamored for it.  Hollywood made a film by one of our own celebrating the First Amendment, The People v. Larry Flynt.  As long as we were injecting them with degeneracy, lies, subversion, and filth we loved free speech, fought to the death for it, but if they tried to defend White America we put them in a cage.  Safe spaces became the fashion, making the world safe for us.

Some cry out as they strike you, others say sorry as they're struck.

And what happened at this time was really phenomenal.  It was as if every poisonous fruit that had been stored since the mid sixties had suddenly threw off perfect spores and bloomed--—the 'woke' arose as one to reap their rewards.  Statues were toppled with abandon, genders blurred, reputations smeared, pictures taken down, heroes debunked, streets re-named, whiteness pilloried (from pillar to post), murals from the 1930s were trashed, masculinity was reviled, books were banned, people were purged, channels were deleted, anti-semitism was deplored, anti-racism took center stage, fascists were de-monteized, campuses were taken over, professors were shouted down, Nazis were punched, conferences were cancelled, speech was curtailed, it was a Talibanic orgy, I tell you if it was standing we knocked it down, a great erasure was in place, as whiteness every where was under assault.  Imagine that!  Whiteness under assault!  White America was no more!  No self respecting people allow a race of aliens to scrawl graffiti at the base of their temples, and no self respecting people allow themselves to become servants in their own homes.  But we were not dealing with a self  respecting people; we were dealing with a fentanyl addled, opioid addicted, self-flagellant, guilty, cringing, dying race, a defeated people having been ejected from their heritage.  There were exceptions, of course, there always are.  But just because some take to the hills doesn't mean we haven't pacified the countryside.

The retroactive criminalization of the past is a sign post of revolutionary dictatorship, it says as much right there in our manuals.  

And somewhere in their too capital got woke, and antifa became the ground troops of the establishment, the left became complicit in global capitalism, in the new world order, no mean feat really, that.  It is a truth universally recognized that mass immigration is nothing more nor less than a transfer of wealth from the working class to investors.  I always imagined some multinational CEO watching the left scream for open borders, and the cold contempt that he must have for them as they did his bidding, did it with such vehemence. Well, they were doing our bidding too, as was the CEO, as was nearly everyone, let me repeat again, the left got rid of social controls, the right economic ones, and all sides ganged up on the middle.  But the way in which Big Technology, the corporations, went left, if in name only, how they bought off the radical's complaints, how they were somewhat taken aback by Occupation Wall Street, so went all in on men in women's bathrooms and drag queens flashing little children in public libraries to nip an outbreak of class warfare in the bud, was a thing to behold.  The Democrat Party became the party of the rich, the Republican party remained a hand maiden and we, as ever, prevailed.

The thing about the Great Awakening was it's burnt-over areas, it's moral puritanism. People need to believe in something, and unlike us, they were not able to believe in their race.  So they glommed on to a "morality" which was fine as long as their morality was the morality we spoon fed them—"white skin bad, dark skin good".  And they took it up with a vengeance, as if to our manner born.........

And of course every action has a reaction but by this time everything was dyed in the wool.  I say the ship had sailed for Europeans in 1945 but my more cautious colleagues in the ministry say they still could have resisted, that 1990 was more like it.  They could be right.  But certainly the so-called "populist movements" which reared their ugly heads in 2015-2016 were a pop gun in a thermonuclear blast.  They were going to take back their countries! As if they weren't already ours.  Reporters went on safaris in the hinterland of Pennsylvania to see what the natives were thinking which was: we're fucked.  Ah, by then they were walking across moonscapes filled with opium eaters.  And to be fair, of course, to get the chronology right, you can trace the lineage back before that, there were the old school die-hard and preeminent racists like Oliver and Pierce, hell, at his death the latter, who had taken over an ill run and defunct organization, was  raking in millions a year—but he died. As for Oliver, their true crown prince, the pristine defender of whiteness in it's purest form, our boy Buckley put paid to him like he did so many,  it's always nice to see an exaggerated high WASP accent so in sympathy with our needs. And of course their ilk had the right idea but we had so prevailed that they were the skunks at the garden party, pariahs to our paragons, their names were mud.  And as specified you had your Paleos and then the alt right and then the Dissident Right and then the—again on the right track but Hitler sent his goons to bust up our shops due to one of ours being an assassin—it was a far cry from that, you need broad popular support and a leader to kill your enemies.  As for the populists they were supposedly White America fighting back, but it was a last gasp of a dying people, as the next decade proved. If you want your people to survive keep a ninety percent majority, and stay in fighting trim, that's what I would have told them at the time, had they asked.

They would have been better off had they resigned themselves that they were not going to stop society's leftward drift, they were not going to stop globalism, they were not going to stop the market's voraciousness, they were not going to reverse white demographic decline, they were not going to deport thirty million people, and instead put all their efforts into becoming an unreconstructed white minority that would become the sharp bone that gets caught in our throat, which we could neither swallow nor digest.  But they wanted to get their country back, not realizing it had long since been lost.

That arch racist Jean Raspail wrote a novel called Who Will Remember The People? It is about the eradication of an indigenous South American tribe as the result of repeated encroachment and invasions, and he wrote it because he believed that nothing on earth is sadder than to witness the passing away of a people, any people, or to witness the passing away of a distinct way of life.  

And indeed the year 2020 was the year that anyone who had been following the bouncing ball could see everything clearly, it was after all our jealous god who made this joke.  And of course the 20s were the watershed, when it went from this to that, and after that, truly, the deluge. Prior to that the man on the street may have thought the matter was in doubt (it wasn't) but by the middle of that decade everyone had thrown in the towel.  They spoke of civil war, they spoke of boogaloo, but too many were obedient to our upward drift, and using a gun was getting increasingly legally perilous.  We had the full might and main and force of the most powerful government in the history of the world at our backs, we had the technology companies, we had the entire media including the controlled opposition, we had the entertainment complexes, we had the universities, the secondary schools, we had the internet channels, we had both parties, and each and every one blared out the slow drum beat of a victorious and irreversible world-view and, as a backstop, should things ever get dicey, we had the military, we had the big city police departments. And too we had totally completed the job of labeling anyone and everyone who spoke the truth as a thought criminal and worse.  The back of the American people was totally broken, though not all really realized it, they thought they were being moral; but nothing is more degrading  than being a servant in your own home, or enjoyable than ruling in a stranger's land.

And over time we amped up our war on the thing we hate the most, hate.   We perfected our algorithms to the point where if you searched for Adolf Hitler you got redirected to Yad Vashem.  

And oh how they took to canceling whiteness, that incubating virus, that cancer of world history (or so we said). They had their invisible knapsacks, their white skin privilege, they handed over microphones, they granted everyone else special privileges, they honored foreign races, they enshrined minority heroes, they ruled themselves out of bounds, they sat in the back of the bus for a change, they made way for their replacements, they dug their own graves, they deemed themselves immoral, they befriended their daughter's rapist, they forgave their child's murderer, they paid for their own demise, they universalized themselves out of existence, they excused themselves for living, they broke faith with their ancestors, they anathematized their own history, they took down their own statues, they erased their heritage, they surrendered to the tyranny of guilt.

We made up the word genocide, so it seems like it's up to us to employ it. And the thing about this White Genocide (for let's drop the charade and call it by it's proper, formal name) is that when you've combined humanism and genocide you've really accomplished something, if there were to be any future historians they would surely see this genocide as unique among genocides in that they would take as a given that the perpetrators are the good guys.  And of course I don't need to tell you that there are plenty of white people around, you see them every day, but whiteness is a dead letter, it's kaput, has crapped out.  We don't ask for much in exchange for living, just obedience and attention and a good word for ourselves now and again.

Human rights was our battle cry, but it was human rights turned upside down, to commit a crime against humanity in the name of humanity is quite a feat, to dress up tyranny as tolerance, enslavement as freedom, standardization as diversity, genocide as the rights of peoples.  By violence and make believe we conquered the world.

There were pockets of resistance, of course, there always are, some dyed-in-the- woolers routinely take to the hills for their ritual Masada, as we said there is always the pruning of the weeds and the mopping up to do, from time to time, now and again, one must mow the lawn.  The nationalist populist movements of the teens fizzled out, still born in their cradle, the last gasp of the white man before the death rattle could be heard clearly by all.  Those dissenters online, the tin pot Nazis, liked to play name that Jew.  Occasionally some white man would go armada like into one of our places of worship and mow down a couple dozen but they were pariahs before the fact, and whatever last rights to guns they had would be curtailed further in the fire and brimstone hysteria we cranked up in the wake of it.  The fact is they were like the alleged folks at Masada, no match for the Romans in a mood.  And as you know even these are now few and far between, symbolic Germany has finally been pastoralized, the people subject to a universalizing mission, to complete pacification. And, really, what is a score of slain Jews placed along side eternal victory?  At the drop of hat I'd buy it cheap even as I'd sell it dear.  Hell, I'd pledge six million if forced, not that we did, but if we had to, mind you.  Wave that bloody shirt boy, wave it until the cows come home, call it a steal at the price.  We no longer cry out as we strike them.

Somewhere in there an aging aesthete gave the bootless cry:  you will not replace us!, and this big replacement of his gained a tremendous currency in dissident circles, and was ridiculed by us, articles were written, etc., umbrage taken; we of course laughed up our sleeves knowing that we replaced him long ago; portrayed him as a Nazi and responsible for all sorts of crimes, standard operating procedure, pretty perfunctory.  And this was the same man who a little while previously had glorified random sex with rough trade in the bushes, he did our work for us when he had the chance, he was fully obedient to the general plan; and then on the other end, to soften the cushion of his graceless fall from society, he ran around screaming that the replacers were the real Nazis—while the opposite was apposite—at least the torch bearers had the courage to name names: Jews will not replace us! Jews will not replace us!  The magic word! Talmud and Taboo!   But you, you sly fox, you of the large replacement, you aging aesthete, you Gay Icon, you changed it to You.  Good one.  So much for him, so long Marianne.

The Great Replacement was the most important event in world history.   When the first Englishman stepped foot in Virginia it rocked the world, but when English culture went it was ten times as shattering.

Relative to their present mongrelization it's interesting that a first century Roman described his beloved city as the universal pot into which the cloaca of the entire world is emptied.  It's what happens when you become nothing more than a legal entity, an economic zone, and a universal refuge, situated at the crossroads of the world.

And truly all of the so-called Greats, the Great Plague, The Great War, and the Great Depression, were all small relative to this Great Replacement (because of course the theory was true): and what antiquarians there are will wonder is how this once proud and confident people ended up getting History's backhand.  Low numbers can't explain it.  With that large a lead they could easily have set a glide path for themselves, doing decolonization, say, in the 1970s rather than the 1950s, parceling out rights gradually, under tutelage, white man's burden, etc., and slapping them down in the meantime, but they didn't have the stomach for it.  Had they, their future would have been secure.  But, oh, they were greedy bastards and they engaged in the Great White Civil War, and then it was my God what have we done!---and they self-immolated in an orgy of self-recrimination.  A man can survive anything except a bad conscience.  

And so we created the universal slum, the global favela. Make room! Make room! We were going to have them living in pods and eating bugs which, while not quite true, was nice to slip into the stream, paranoid fantasies are the stuff of future plans.   But we did and have proletarianized the masses, and they are on their way to being the coffee colored serfs, docile and compliant, that we've always wanted for our world-wide plantation.

And in so doing what we did was make the world safe for Jews.  Can there be any other proper aim for a people?  We proscribed them, we outlawed them, we made them illegal, we de-platformed them, we de-monetized them, we branded them as criminals, we stigmatized them, we made them unacceptable in polite society, we held hearings on them, we called them immoral, we called them evil, we targeted them, took down their channels, we demoralized them, we banned speech, we banned words, we banned hand gestures, we cancelled people, we made certain that everyone knew that it was certainly not ok to be white, and left them in disarray, and all of this in their own home.  Our home now.  Who's even going to think about saying boo about a Jew?  No one: that's who.

As for your people and mine, comrade, we reached an honorable stalemate, one could not do without the other, the chessboard was complete and no further moves to be made.  And so we reached our accord, our separate peace.  When you think about the great peoples of the world, the Japanese, the English, the Germans, it's only us who will last and that's really the only metric that matters.  You'll run the machine and we'll be your lawyers and media consultants, you'll supply the violence, we the make believe.   For after all a master race is one that masters.  

Now that whiteness is little more than a rumor.

Any country created on paper is subject to hijacking by a different people with different words or that can give new meanings to the old ones.

And that my good friend is about how we did it.  If I went a little rapidly over the latter years it's because I know that was when you came of age and at that time your country still paid particularly close attention to the baiuzo, as a curiosity, as a weakness to be manipulated or exploited, though now they are smart and don't teach much history other than the bare minimum, like we won, they lost and so forth.  Like us you are a practical people and don't go around digging up graveyards, the past is now just a fable we dreamt up.  

But to answer your very good question:  how did we put paid to the white man?

Two police officers in No Country For Old Men are in a Texas diner in 1980 and one says he saw a boy with green hair and a hoop through his nose, never thought he'd ever see such a thing, never thought he'd see the like, and the other one says well, once they stop saying sir and ma'am, everything else follows.

It's so true, it's the little things that count.

Few individual in history have the honor of being simultaneously utter geniuses and complete nincompoops.  Leo Tolstoy is one, John Lennon another.  A third is Thomas Jefferson.  So befuddled was he that when he got one of his state of the art coaches from London and found he didn't have the cash he was surprised to be told by his creditors that his slaves could serve as collateral; and he signed them over forthwith, pleased with the discovery.  He did invent the swivel chair, however, to his eternal credit. As a matter of fact I'm sitting on one right now.

The white man had a good run in North America but it didn't take, it turns out it wasn't just the republic they couldn't keep, it was the continent

Jefferson  was going to Germanize the Great Lakes in this endless farming republic of his, freedom would be reborn in the city of Big Shoulders.  Herrs and Fraus up to their eyes in liberty and manure, all the live long day.  But in fact it was mild mannered professors in that second city who would drive daggers into that wonderful creation of his, that beautiful small scale nation of villages.

If there was one idea which served us in good stead, did us yeoman's work (in honor of the sage of Charlottesville) it was that America was a proposition nation.  A people become an idea!   Universalize oneself out of existence!  Rather a people is blood, time, history, heritage, lineage, ancestry.  The railsplitter and logic chopper came along and said that his nation was better than those that came before, it was dedicated to a proposition.  Better it should have been dedicated to itself.  Had it been it might have lasted.

And so we return to our old question, your question, or two really.  How did we do it? The answer to that is to answer when there was no turning back, when it was written in stone, when did the white man prove to have his identity graven in water?

It was all right there in the beginning really—that ill advised rhetorical flourish—all men are created equal.  It did us yeoman's work, stillborn, dead in the cradle.

Some people are born in the mists of time; others in a Quaker Meeting Hall.

As you know working in the ministry I have access to all kinds of records, deep in the minutiae, and from time to time I have time on my hands. When I do one of my underlings who knows my sense of humor will send me something.  Just the other day I found in my box an old commercial that ran for a while on one of our Jew networks. It was a white man, a southerner by lineage, one of our collaborators, a traitor obedient to the general plan, a middlebrow historian of some repute, the kind of person they trotted out when something serious was going on, the way in the old days you knew it was important when they served you up that hoary old bag of bones Doris Goodwin.  His voice over was simple, the message was clear.  He said that America was not a nation founded on a birthright but on the ascent towards an idea, an idea enshrined in-----

An ascent to an idea, an assent to an idea, I could not have put it better myself had I tried.

Whites created the civilization that we inherited, it's their world, but we are the only possessors, the only inheritors, and what succeeded their civilization is not a civilization but an anti-civilization, an anti-culture, an anti-history, the machine goes on as before but becomes more and more indistinguishable from what operates it.

It's one thing to be able to create a world but it's another thing to take it over.  We were a numerically small people so our adaptation was to feast on what other's had made; from a survival point of view it makes perfect sense, finding the niche that expands to a world; because what is survival but inheritance, being an inheritor?  

And when I take in the grand sweep of this history it takes my breath away.  A small people hemmed in all sides by enemies, beaten back by all, but always pushing back and making gains, but still by the beginning of 20th century most of us were mired in miserable Cracow ghettos and speaking a snarling and barbaric Yiddish, or just filing off of the boats in New York Harbor and catching a first glimpse of the green breast of the New World.  A hundred years later we controlled the levers of government, the commanding heights of the culture, the movie studios, the technology companies, the universities, had the military committed to making the world safe for Israel-—you know the list.  Yes, we went straight vertical, hoisted ourselves on the petard of this new colossus, it was always the horse we were going to ride.

Yes, it was our century, just as the present one will be yours and mine.

That once they got a taste of capitalism China would morph into a Western style democracy was classic neoliberal folly, steeped as it was in a defunct 18th century paradigm, they were baffled that race, blood, history, time, lineage, ancestry are all older than ideologies which they've already vanquished.

It is impossible for two percent of the population to generate a country's dominant ideology without millions upon millions of collaborators.  A people unwilling to defend itself deserves to perish.  They say that every nation builds it's monuments and writes it's epitaph, but in their case they built them, we tore them down and, in the end, we wrote it.  It went:  we wish die.

Seemingly eons ago some egghead and fool announced the end of history, just when it was resuming.  The cold war had locked it in amber but glasnost was appearing—and we were just coming into the completeness of our power.  But now history has come to a close, we have ended it.  They went gently into that good night in the end, what else could they do, we having won the game of global domination; we had to, really, win it that is, because we realized early on that the future is much too important to leave to humanity.  

Tomorrow belongs to us.

The arc of history bends toward those who bend it.    Those who believe otherwise bend beneath it.

Those who knew Bill Pierce remarked that he seemed to bear no personal animosity towards the Jews, it was as if he knew that to do so would be as absurd as to be outraged that animals kill one another in the wild when that is simply the nature of what they do.   I agree, there was never anything personal about it, nothing personal at all, it's just that it was always going to be us or them.   You see, they were in our way, and I really hope there are no hard feelings.

A thousand year Reich is child's play to the likes of you and me, a perfect example of shot term thinking—a sprint.  Which is nothing for an immortal race.  Only the strong can inherit the earth, only the ascendant can possess it.

And here we come to an end, their end, though our beginning.  This turned out longer than I hoped, though I could have gone on; I hope I haven't bored you.  If against my advice you do choose to keep a copy of this I flatter myself that I've hit the nexus of it, and that in some future time some recondite scholar of odd lore may think it contributed perhaps a little to this vexed and fascinating question.

But anyway, enough of them---to us, comrade--a glass!

Yours Obediently,

Jacob

from Republic Standard | Conservative Thought & Culture Magazine https://ift.tt/2q0pJ1P via IFTTT

[tvlou]

The Lady in Dignity/품위있는 그녀

Thesis Statement: All men are bastards, and Woo A-jin will cleanse the earth.

WARNING: these are the ramblings of a madman.

This show’s ratings are confusingly not very good, at least by netflix’s metric, but I wanted to watch it after seeing Tae-im on Knowing Bros. Thank god I did, beacause I adored this drama.

Subject: Main Cast

Woo A-jin, ‘tis of thee, sweet lady of dignity, of thee I sing.

Woo A-jin has become one of my favorite characters ever. She is so beautifully acted, and her story really overwhelmed me. Kim Hee-sun deserves at least ten fruit baskets; someone get this lady an edible arrangement. From her subtle yet pressing trauma over losing her dad, to her overt trauma over losing her husband, this woman rises from the ashes. Men want her, women want to be her, but she just wants to be happy. I loved this character. After seeing her cry in her mom’s house, and seeing her partner give her the paper crane at the hospital, I knew she was really special. She’s so open to her emotions and so willing to be loved. I can’t believe Ahn Jae-seok is the stupidest man alive, but I digress. I really enjoyed her with Gi-ho (Lee Ki-woo) even though his presence in the show was much smaller. He was a really considerate person and good match for her, and his back story was really touching and heartbreaking. Couple of the decade.

Park Bok-ja, girl, get a wig. This character actually pissed me off more than I sympathized with her, but I did catch glimpses of the light behind her eyes. Speaking of, Kim Sun-ah has really emotive eyes, and I found myself just staring at her face so much. She definitely did her job of being a sympathetic villain. I respect the writing and acting a lot.

Ahn Jae-seok you’re a bitch. A sad little man with no soul. I hated him so much midway through the story but just utterly deflated toward the end. He really does bring you back when you realize he’s nothing short of pathetic. I sympathized with him, which I hated, because he sucks.

Subject: Supporting Cast

Y’all mind if I wild out over my love for Seo Jeong-yeon. I love that woman. I would watch her alphabetize vitamins for 20 hours if netflix would offer it. Park Ju-mi is another one of those sad little people (all of the Ahn family seems to be, don’t they?) but she is just such a force. She’s been wronged, and so have her husband and son, and jesus god does she let us know. I mean, they all let us know, just to different degrees. I love her, she’s so emotive. She’s always in the middle of a blind rage or a sinking depression. The woman is amazing, and I fear her.

While we dance around it, I’ll mention Jae-gu and Jae-hui. Jae-hui is petulant and exhausting, but Jae-gu is really interesting to me. He’s one of the men that’s lambasted the most but the only one who doesn’t even cheat. Hmmm maybe rich people’s opinions are bad.

The Brunch Ladies:

•Gi-ok is the love of my life and her husband doesn’t deserve her. God, he sucks, and she works so hard to raise their disabled son while he sits with his thumb up his ass fucking his mistress.

•Gyeong-hui kinda sucks too, but I forgive her. She scammed her abusive husband, what a legend. I’m glad she got a cute BF.

•Hyo-ju makes me so saaaaad. She just wants love so bad and her venus flytrap looking husband does not provide it. Her old BF is a total lame ass and I lowkey hope her story wraps up with falling in beautiful love with the hotel manager. He was cute.

•Ms. Baek, capitalism failed you. Gangnam is in shambles and they will come crawling back. Until then, keep meditating and becoming an ultimate being.

THE MAIDS:

Thank you for putting everyone on blast, you horrible wenches. You really tore up this community, you wretched hags. I want to join your clique. Special shoutout to Pung-seok’s crazy ass. Love her.

THE PLOT:

I could lose my mind. The main plot smacks you in the face and kicks you right in the ass. Totally unexpected but way believable. I was kind of blown away, frankly.

The divorce subplot made me feel insane. Every time Ji-hu cried, I cried. Give that kid an oscar. It’s kind of amazing that men can be married to the perfect woman and still cheat. We’re on our misandry tonight, gals. I like how this resolved. Everyone got what they deserved to get and nothing more. It wasn’t egregious and the women weren’t disproportionately punished. A-jin is actually so gracious to Seong-hui by the end. It’s a certain bond almost. We love their growth.

The cheating subplot in general. It makes you really wonder how these people can live like this. Some get just as much out of the marriage (money) as the cheating husbands do, and some really don’t. I mean, Chairman Ahn (failed to remember his name, because I hate him and he’s an idiot) caused his first wife to worry herself to death because he couldn’t stop being a skank. It’s pretty abysmal.

Plot Holes and General Questions:

Where is Ung-yu going at the end: jail or a mental institution? Does this mean that Jae-gu will be freed? Who will take care of Ju-mi? HELP HER!

The company, she’s gone, so how is Jae-seok intending to survive? I know he ain’t cycling for a living. Are the Ahn kids good?

Um, Jae-hui should probably just go back to her husband, right? Confused on what she was even doing with the money to have him piddle it away, but she should leave because she’s annoying. Will she go back to treating her dad like an ATM?

And finally, why did Jae-gu say Ohio is a nice place to live? I trusted him.

RATING: ★★★★ ½

Yeah, that’s right, baby. I adored this show, and I may even watch it again. The cast is superb, and I will begin seeking Hee-sun and Jeong-yeon out more often!

[waldowski89-blog]

Two Lazy Weeks in the Making… (somewhere at the beginning of August 2017)

(Edit: Okay, the title sounds more dramatic than the actual bulk of this post but lets get into the ramblings of a madman who talks about nothing whilst trying to make it sound interesting. I’m also going to have to do a lot of writing as I want to catch up with all the post I’ve missed… which is a lot. Off we go into the post then)

(After Edit: Scroll to the credits music at the bottom and you can also listen to some albums/music that I listened to while writing this)

Hello again, I’m back! Not that I really left. I’ve been over on Twitch and Twitter mainly. So I’ve got lots of plans for social media stuff and am keeping myself busy. I know this shouldn’t be a diary type thing. Those can be boring. Especially mine seen as nothing much really happens in my life… honest!

I will be starting an Instagram account this week… yay! Please feel free to follow me on all my different accounts. It sounds like it’s all me me me (meme, har har) but I promise you it will all be entertaining… like a train wreck is entertaining. Tune in to watch a fully grown man go slowly insane. (Edit: That’s a laugh)

I’ve said before that: “Waldowski” is a character of mine and he is. However, my own personality seems to be… “shining” through in his work… or my work I suppose.

(12/8/17 (Edit: English style date)):

Right, so I wrote the top part a few days ago (Thurs 10/8/17 I think) and now I’m coming back to this. I’m going back to my old schedule and goals and adding a few things. When I do Twitch streams, which should be everyday. TWITCH STREAM ERRYDAY *AIRHORNS* I may do longer than an hour. I just bought Assassin’s Creed Origins too so stay tuned for that, exciting stuff! (Edit: I literally just bought it because I forgot to enter the discount code. What a mess!)

I was watching a vid earlier about Michael Jackson’s involvement in creating the music for Sonic 3. It was very interesting and I have heard about this before. The whole thing is pretty much confirmed now but it’s interesting to follow all the theories and research that’s been done into this. I won’t reiterate what’s already been said but I will link the recent vid on the subject. There are links in there too so hopefully I haven’t sent you into a research, insomniac inducing frenzy of a pit of information where you’re just holding a steaming cup of coffee with straggly hair and bloodshot eyes just looking for your next fix on that Michael Jackson/Sega music conspiracy… and breathe. Sorry for that long sentence, I got carried away.

Okay I’m back writing this again on 13/8/17. I’m going to finish this post tonight! I’m watching Key and Peele again. Those guys are funny, anyway, what I’m doing is writing out four pages by hand with my brilliant Parker fountain pen… okay… I think I’ve really lost it. I’m coming back out of retirement (secret link of more Key and Peele I didn’t post on twitter) (Edit: I put it in the Research section below too. Also, thanks to Philip DeFranco for the idea of a secret link. What fun!)

More plans are a: “Let’s Read” YouTube channel called: “Waldowski Reads”. I still have to get a few things to set that up first. It will be much like a let’s play channel but with me trying to read a book… funny, eh?

This kinda reminds me of when I’d do work at University. I’d have to set goals, plan things, etc… I have been doing this but falling behind lately. In any case none of that matters now. I’ve gotta move on and get on with actually doing stuff.

So, everything’s planned out for a little while for me. Anything happening out there? (apart from all the bad news of course. I already know about that stuff) I genuinely mean it too with following me on social media. I try to talk to as many people as I can nowadays.

Blergh, how did I do this before? A few months ago I’d bang out 1,000 words like it was nothing.

Oh my God, I totally forgot, Na Wri Mo (Edit: Almost, but it’s Na NO Wri Mo because it happens in November) is happening soon. Ugh, I’d always wanted to try it for years. What I’m worried about is one whether what I write will be any good, if I stick to it (quitting will feel like a massive failure for me) and if I’ll take it seriously (nothing should, I suppose) (Edit: Kinda gave up on the numbering of reasons, didn’t I ?) but I’ve had a tendency to let things travel into the realm of ridiculousness before… hmn, maybe that’s a good thing? It might turn out silly and fun for once. I’m not putting “The Vague Chronicles” in there either. Maybe the characters can crossover, I dunno.

It’s pretty much 12:00am as I write this. I’m gonna get it finished before I sleep anyway. So it’s four sides of handwritten A4 pages… did I already write that?

In any case, I keep liking vids on YouTube but they don’t stay liked (random I know but what else can I write… look at this shit. How the fuck is my Na Wri Mo (Edit: Pleb) project going to look? I don’t even have a plan Jesus Christ. Also yes I’m swearing… I’ve been drinking a little bit too. I’m not an example of how life should be lived… this is just an account of how I’m living mine)

Shit, I’m supposed to disappear. Well, at least in novel writing I am. Writing is about the characters not me, at least that what I’ve been told. I’ve also been told: “Write what you know”.

Back again. Been distracted by life. In… anyway what I was saying was ugh… it doesn’t matter I’m not supposed to be in the story, my characters are… but why do I become them sometimes? I have to… that’s the point.

So, this is the last page (handwritten anyway)

Damn, look at this, I’m letting myself get distracted at every turn. It’s 4:04 in the morning and I haven’t finished. I’ll have to type all this up tomorrow. Hello me! Weird right? You’re typing this up and I’m talking to you. (Edit: … yes very… I hope I get back to the point, whatever it was)

So, seriously. I dunno. This pen is kinda cool, right? Tired AndwewsiesTM. This will go up on Tumblr. I know I’m irrelevant at the moment. So drunk WHO CARES ABOUT THAT!? Nevermobf.

So, Assassin’s Creed Origins is coming soon… in October. Hopefully I’ll be ready to do a let’s play/stream hey I might even do an unboxing. It’s a collector’s edition with a figure and other stuff too. I’ll do it like the vid I’m showing someone now. Wink wink. (Edit: It was just me reading the handwritten version out… HUSHIES) She gets to see the handwritten stuff. This is her day after all! The best fan/troll anyone could ever hope for.

Gosh my writing is getting bad, so drunk. I’m okay of course. Oh! So there’s like four things I think I have to link in this “blog”. Um, the Michael Jackson Sonic 3 vid, the music from the Jetzons associated with that, the Key and Peele vid, oh and finally the AC Origins pic.

I’m back but for now… goodbye and I will see… MAY see you tomorrow. My name’s Waldowski and thank you to everyone who read this or listened.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ILY UWU!

AW

Research Links:

A Brief History of Michael Jackson's Sonic the Hedgehog 3

The Jetzons - Hard Times(Sonic 3 Ice Cap Zone Act 1 & 2 Remix)

Michael Jackson's Moonwalker - Sega Genesis - Angry Video Game Nerd - Episode 63

I’m Coming out of Retirement One Last Time...

Credits Music:

Thought Beings - Italo Nights

Tommy '86 - Disco Machine - [FULL EP]

Nightcrawler - Strange Shadows - [FULL EP]

VHS Glitch - Halloween Strangers [FULL ALBUM]

Bonus

Off we go...

Into uncharted lands...

[cystus-the-malignant]

Can I just point out HOW deep the “favored son” discourse ran in the primarchs? Because I’m going to, and as always we can pretty much sum it all up with our favorite Nine Inch Nails fan Angron (I refuse to apologize for that joke).

During the Horus Heresy, Angron confronted Guilliman to save Lorgar, and during their battle, Angron had one of his rare moments of clear mindedness, and took out all of his anger over being cast away with less than a second thought, pointing out how much differently the sons were treated.

"What would you know of struggle, Perfect Son? When have you fought against the mutilation of your mind? When have you had to do anything more than tally compliances and polish your armour?" [...] "The people of your world named you Great One. The people of mine called me Slave. Which one of us landed on a paradise of civilization to be raised by a foster father, Roboute? Which one of us was given armies to lead after training in the halls of the Macraggian high-riders? Which one of us inherited a strong, cultured kingdom? And which one of us had to rise up against a kingdom with nothing but a horde of starving slaves? Which one of us was a child enslaved on a world of monsters, with his brain cut up by carving knives? Listen to your blue-clad wretches yelling of courage and honour, courage and honour, courage and honour. Do you even know the meaning of those words? Courage is fighting the kingdom which enslaves you, no matter that their armies outnumber yours by ten-thousand to one. You know nothing of courage. Honour is resisting a tyrant when all others suckle and grow fat on the hypocrisy he feeds them. You know nothing of honour."

Angron, the man who had been missing an entire chunk of his brain since near birth, the man who could only feel immense pain and rage, whose only respite was when he murdered and brought fleeting moments of reprieve from the nails, the man who had an archaeotech torture device shoved inside his greymatter, said this. The man who could barely see anything but blind red rage saw all the flaws of the Primarchs different upbringings, and how they influenced their father’s opinions. Any other man, besides Papa Smurf himself, would have laid down his weapons and agreed with Angron. Hell, I know I’d have wept in shame if it were me. But this is Guilliman, the primarch of the ultramarines, so do you really expect him to be remotely humbled? OF FUCKING COURSE NOT CUZ HE’S ROWBOAT GIRLYMAN. 

"You’re still a slave, Angron. Enslaved by your past, blind to the future. Too hateful to learn. Too spiteful to prosper."

And sadly, he’s still fucking right, because Angron was doomed to be a slave to the butcher’s nails until the day he died. Guilliman’s words are short, and may even seem like he didn’t even pay any mind to his brother’s words, and that’s because he probably didn’t. Think from the other Primarchs’ perspective. Angron slaughtered a good chunk of his legion, had his brain completely ravaged by archaeotech, and was rapidly dying. Yeah, people seem to forget that last part  a lot, Angron was dying the entitre Crusade, to the point that the Adeptus Mechanicus estimated that he wouldn’t even live to see the end of the Great Crusade. The other thing they forget is that, at the time he made that speech, he was even more fucked up than when he was found, because the nails never stopped digging further. At the beginning, killing at least eased his suffering, but by the time he faced Guilliman, Angron was on death’s door and able to only feel pain and rage, with no way of easing it. His brothers probably wrote off everything he said as the ramblings of a madman, and regarded him as incapable of compassion.

The irony of this is that Angron had just saved Lorgar, making him realize the opposite. Digging through 200 feet of rubble and then CATCHING THE FOOT OF A TITAN AND HELD IT UP LONG ENOUGH FOR HIM TO RUN. Not only is that an insane feat of strength even for a Primarch, it showed that Angron did care, and that he cared a lot. Lorgar was the man who showed him he could find respite, that there was a god who was devoted to everything Angron was left with. You really think he wouldn’t practically worship Lorgar for that? Angron owed him everything for that. So was Guilliman wrong for dismissing his brother? YUP....but also no.

Guilliman only saw a man unable to think, it would be foolish to assume he could think anything like what he just spoke. However, Guilliman was still Angron’s brother, and the lack of any compassion most of them felt for eachother is the entire ground’s for Angronius Thal’kr’s speech. Angron is constantly protrayed as having no allies among the other primarch, but think about what Lorgar did for him, and what he did for Lorgar.