Thrice the Rooster…

rooster

Had a long hard day, lads. Chainsaws, axes, and maws. We loaded the wood, drove it across town, and dumped it.

When all was over, I lit up a cigar and plopped down on an old truck bed. As I was resting, a rooster came strutting up.

He’d come to me, pause, then come a few steps closer. On and on until he was at my feet, twisting his head to study me.

I looked at him, he looked at me. We appraised each other for close to 15 minutes. The thing was interested in me. We had a connection. He was judging me with his eyes.

“Did you betray Christ, too, you piece of crap?”

“No sir. I stood my ground.”

“Well…now you’re just being cocky…”

Shotgun vs. the Liquid Jew

alien

I was told that if you’re sensitive to caffeine, stop using it for awhile, then take a high dose, it’s liable to give you a panic attack later in the evening. I didn’t believe it as I chugged one of the many brands of liquid jew on the market, but here it is, almost five in the morning and, I believe!

I was sitting on the back porch surfing my daily reading when, out of the corner of my eye I caught a slight movement that looked every bit like a seven-foot-tall “grey” alien, ambling menacingly outside my field of vision.

Whatever it was scared the (redacted) out of me.

The fear gave way to anger. No demon from Hell was going to treat *me* that way. I’m a son of Adam and holder of the sacred fire of the Occident! He shall not pass!!!

I burst out of the screened area onto the deck, shining my flashlight in all directions. A Netflix documentary popped into my mind. It was about this man who was “haunted” by aliens and saw them frequently, as well as mysterious little girls who’d peer at him from between his porch railings. I shined my light to the railings, expecting to see a little white girl with bulging, alien eyes.

“You are *NOT* welcome in my yard, you little minx!”

I didn’t see anything (lucky for the alien) but the dogs a field over were howling for all they were worth. I gathered my things, came back in, and am writing this post – where, I now realize (upon cooler reflection), this is all probably caused by that damned energy drink.

…the liquid Jew.

Not. Even. Once.

Traveling Knight

questingknight

“Still the knight is young
 and traveling on with pleasure.
Grant him wishes well,
luck in the fullest measure.
Bid you all adieu,
stories to keep and treasure.
When he’s passing through,
ever and on he goes…”

I tweaked those lyrics; I hope the Willis Clan doesn’t mind. They suit me better now. And not just me, but all Christians. We’re all going ever and on. If you’ve stumbled across my blog and you’re not a Christian, you’re not exempt. Thinketh not ye are safe! The refining light of Heaven issues from a terrible being who spares not the wicked from celestial fire…at least I hope He doesn’t.

Don’t hate me! Don’t hate me! I don’t mean I’m wishing you were in Hell – that’d be unkind to my readers. Rather, I’m wishing your submission to the forge of Angels. Consider MacDonald:

TheVeryFire

That flashy intro out of the way, what’s the point of this evening’s post?

I’m traveling onward. Again. Ever and on.

My criticisms of Kinism – not new or capricious – have recently garnered attention. While not necessarily good attention, I consider it a small boon and will say a quick word while I’ve got an audience:

The trouble I have (had?) isn’t so much with the doctrines of Kinism, although I have always had small disagreements hither and yon with this or that talking-point. Rather, looking back, I think I was wrestling with the Reformed faith itself. I’ve noted here (and others have affirmed elsewhere) the importance of Calvinist dogma in laying the intellectual ground of Kinist polemics. There is no better or more thorough defense of racialism in the entire English speaking – perhaps in the entire white – world. No Alternative Rightist, no white nationalist philosopher, no Darwinian HBD guru, has as intimate a grasp of the underlying epistemological issues nor have any of them developed such an intricate, worldview-in-scope philosophical system to underlie their political philosophy. None. Of. Them.

I defy *anyone* to say otherwise – and even now, while I’m something of a pariah in official Kinist channels (and am in some doubt about the Reformed tradition), I could easily defeat such a challenge. Probably within a matter of minutes. They’d be reduced to profanity and sputtering about how useless philosophy is (I’ve seen it happen many times in my career as a Kinist). There are, of course, many who come close; there are some sharp guys in the pro-white community and I don’t want to disparage their work or discourage them. Nevertheless, the fact of the matter is, whenever a Kinist can be bothered to write the “Kinist Manifesto”, it’ll be the most thorough intellectual defense of the white race ever to have been written (assuming they do a good job in explicating the doctrines).

There’s a problem in the Reformed tradition however.

I’ve mentioned this elsewhere at Shotgun Barrel Straight (and in some of the podcasts I’ve participated in), but there was a split in American Calvinism, corresponding to the North / South divide in America. Refer to it as the “New School / Old School” debate if you’d like, but for those who aren’t interested in arcane Presbyterian history: the North (except Princeton) was radically “liberal” while the South, in whole, was Conservative. It’s difficult to lay out the theological issues specifically since there were so many of them. Nathan Strickland and I did a podcast on Southern Presbyterianism and Kinism which is still on Soundcloud if any of you are interested (the bad audio is completely my fault – I apologize). You can all guess: the Southern Calvinist tradition was lost along with the political South.

What happened afterwards was a spiritual tragedy. Northern religiosity spread throughout the entire country – this has been documented and analyzed elsewhere, especially by the Abbeville Institute (search their articles if you’re interested; also see “Strangers in Zion” by William Glass for a concise study of how “fundamentalism” in the South is an aspect of Northern religious tradition).

For better or worse, this “spirit” (if you will) dominated all of the Reformed tradition although, years later, the conservative wing of it spawned the Christian Reconstruction movement which later spawned Kinism. Kinism, however great, is, nevertheless, mired in the Northern Calvinist religiosity. To the extent most Kinist are Southerners however, they’ve managed to mitigate the negative effects and yet, the total devotion to a dogmatic system is, perhaps, in varying degrees, a disease in all modern religious expression.

And however mean and childish (fill-in-the-blank with whatever other criticism you prefer) you think I am, I’m simply not comfortable with this “Dogma-Uber-Alles” attitude. Hence my struggle with Kinism – a struggle perhaps more with a dogmatic religiosity than with the Kinists themselves (most of whom are still very dear friends – I even still like the ones who claim to be my friends while publicly psychoanalyzing me).

What am I now if not a Calvinist? What am I traveling on to? Onwards and upwards? (Or, downwards if you’re convinced strict adherence to a system is the path to Heaven)? Well that’s just it, isn’t it? What does it mean to be a Calvinist? Is it that I believe in some typically Calvinist doctrines? If so, then maybe I’m still a Calvinist. Or is it that I’m a formal member of an organized church? That, I’m certainly not. Or is it that I participate in and identify as a member of a certain culture, with certain jargon and social habits? If it’s that – and I suspect it is, even if a Calvinist says otherwise – then I’m not at all a Calvinist.

In fact, it’s only been recently that I’ve stopped caring about dogma at all. There are far greater and more important truths about our Father than how His liver might work in conjunction with His pancreas. He’s not on the theologian’s autopsy table.

Call me a “Christian Romantic” if you need a label. My mentors in the Faith are the likes of Lewis, MacDonald, and Owen Barfield…although, don’t suppose that’s an exclusive list. I value Spurgeon and Machen as well. Far more so than anything I’ve ever read in Calvin or Edwards.

At any rate, I still care for many who claim to be Kinists; I don’t suppose for a minute they believe in abstractions over flesh and blood, or dogma over bonds of honor. I’ll never forget the fellowship and in-the-trenches-type battling we’ve done together (many of my Kinist friends came to my defense when I was being slandered by the national media, some even risking exposure and doxxing on my behalf).

…but I’m sorry. I can’t continue traveling the Calvinist path. God is taking me (quite against my will, truth be told) onwards and upwards. To higher truths and a stronger Faith than I ever imagined.

I truly hope He does the same for you (although I pray the flames aren’t as hot for you as they are for me).

Shotgun and the Leprechaun

Leprechaun

If you’re wondering what happened to my response to Ehud’s F&H slam article, I’ve unpublished it. I decided to take the high road; be the bigger man, as it were. So come, my minions. Critique me; psychoanalyze me; make judgements about me based on little more than a phone conversation we had years ago. I welcome it. Really. I’ll enter your criticisms in the footnotes of my ten-chapter-long memoir (which I’m sure F&H will publish).

…but if you’re new to my blog (visiting thanks to the publicity my friends decided, out of the blue, to offer me), then be mindful that I’ve been publishing my struggles with the Christian Faith. You’ll be interested to know that after a particularly dark bout of providence and a resulting spate of angry prayers, I challenged God to discipline me. He did, in at least two instances, both of which, oddly (though humorously) had an Irish twist. The first was a few weeks ago and is recorded in my last post (Luck of the Irate). Here’s how the second happened:


Suffice it to say, I was having a case of the Mondays. Two hours from home, my car had broken down in coon-town. My radiator was bone dry and I was in a vacant lot surrounded by be-bopping jacobins. Was this God punishing me again?! “Well…” I reminded myself, “…I asked for it.” Asked for it indeed, with a healthy side of profanity. In hindsight, I’m pretty sure God disciplines us whether we ask for it or not. Best not to ask for it.

Luckily (and the irony of that word doesn’t escape me), there was an auto parts store about half a mile away. Believe it or not, it was an Irish-themed establishment with, you guessed it, a large shamrock as part of their logo. I put my pistol in my back pocket and set out to a gas station to get water. I was able to fill the reservoir enough so the car would start, then managed to drive it out of the lot and down to the O’Reilly’s. I had a busted seal in my thermostat housing; the water blew out so fast the radiator was dry again by the time I arrived. I thought I could purchase sealant and plug it enough to get home.

…turned out, that was wishful thinking. There was no way the sealant could plug the entire leak. At that point, I called my dad, who had to stop what he was doing and drive two hours with tools so we could perform a minor operation right there in the parking lot; we’d have to replace the entire thermostat. In the mean time, I needed more water (to re-fill the radiator), and asked the clerk if I could get some. “In the back,” he said.

I’ve had radiator issues before and I knew about the large sinks in auto stores. They use them to fill mop buckets but they’re also ideal for milk jugs. Sad to say, when I got to the back, theirs had an “out of order” sign on it. I swore. All the frustration of my recent religious struggles hit me full force. “Why God!?!? Again?! You just can’t give me any good luck, can you?!”

If you’ve arrived at my blog from F&H you might be used to judging your fellows harshly. I implore you not to in my case. There are times we all lose our cool and the pressures of life, even the relatively small ones, act as proverbial “feathers” to break a peeved-off camel’s back; or my back, as the case may be. Broke down in coon town, surrounded by vagrants and thugs. Even the O’Reilly’s employees were shady looking. It just wasn’t my lucky day. Until…

“Hey man…maybe I can help?” a voice said.

I turned around and…you’ll never believe it… there was a midget. A friendly lil’ feller, who, despite his stature, had the trustworthy features of an honorable, normal sized white man. He was holding a water key.

“Yeah…” he explained, “…this one’s broke so we’ve been having to use the outside spigot. You have to have this key though. Come on, I’ll help you out.” And help he did.

A kind word and friendly hand at the right moment, dear readers, mean all the world to a Christian down on his luck.

…although, maybe I wasn’t down on luck after all?

Luck of the Irate

irate

Here’s a pro tip guys: if you give a girl flowers and she’s disappointed because they’re not edible or otherwise useful around the farm, marry her.

Here’s another pro tip: no matter how angry you get at God, never challenge Him to discipline you. “Come on! Do it! We both know you wont! We both know I’m praying to a God who doesn’t answer prayers! You only discipline those you love anyway; I’d prefer that to silence. So come on! Have at it!”

If, hypothetically, you ever pray such a prayer, consider the following two stories about what happened to me after doing it. Interestingly enough, both anecdotes have an Irish twist. The symbolism escapes me but in hindsight, adds an hilarious irony I can’t write off as coincidence. No, what I’m about to relate are real interactions between me and God. Frustration aside, if I’ve learned anything, I’ve learned they still celebrate St. Patrick’s Day in Heaven…


The first happened a few weeks ago. I was angry because God seems capricious, “…you’re no better than a weathervane, Lord.” He blesses one minute, curses the next with no rhyme or reason. This makes God more of an impersonal force than a divine person. We may as well be praying to the wind. Although that’s not quite true either (so I reasoned). No, the wind, at least, changes directions from time to time. With God it’s a never-ending stream of bad luck. “Why can’t you be more like the wind, God?! Change it up a little! Give me some good luck for a change!”

The next morning I got out ye olde power washer, put on my headphones, and began a day of labor. Hours went by. I washed everything, high and low; destroyed wasps, spiders, pollen, and mold. I had to re-fill the gas tank five times. As the day was wearing down, the machine inexplicably shut off. I checked the gas – it had plenty. I checked the water – it was on full blast. The engine started but I wasn’t getting any pressure.

After messing with it and performing all the troubleshooting I could, I decided my water pump had gone bad. It’s a common problem with pressure washers. Unfortunately, a new pump costs as much as the whole machine. I’d have to scrap it. “See, God?! This is exactly what I’m talking about! Where’s my luck?! Why can’t I have good luck for a change?!”

As I began coiling the hose and preparing for a disappointing end to the day, it occurred to me there was one thing left I might try. I hadn’t checked the water hose’s connection to the washer. Maybe, somehow or other, something had gotten lodged in there? So I squatted down, hunkered over the connector, and released it. As soon as I did, residual pressure exploded out of the nozzle, blowing… (and you’ll never believe this)…clovers all in my face. Shamrocks! Not just a few, ladies and gents; an entire face full of stereotypical good luck charms. They were clogging the hose and blocking the water. It took me awhile to clean them all out, there were so many.

Now you tell me, you science-minded denizens of modernity…you tell me how that many clovers got into my water hose. You tell me how they made it through miles of county pipe to arrive, at the most ironic of times, plastered all over my face.

Fun Fact: St. Patrick, it’s said, thought of the shamrock as a symbol of the Holy Trinity.


In the interest of keeping these a manageable size, I’ll post the second story tomorrow. It may involve a leprechaun…

The Braggart

phariseebraggart.jpg

Men who brag about wanting to meet Jesus have something seriously wrong with them. You all don’t have to share this opinion. Our judgements of others are influenced by life’s little anecdotes as well as individual temperaments, so I don’t offer this as a universal truth. You can take it or leave it. But I reiterate: there’s something wrong with a man who so boasts. Don’t trust him.

There’s too much of the pharisee in modern Christians. Their holiness consists in outward shows of piety, while on the inside, they’re petty, cruel, and tyrannical. Ohhhh…by their own admission (they’ll have you know), they’re on excellent terms with Christ. Their every word is Scripture and if you disagree with them, you’re “disagreeing with the Bible!” Is it naivete? Stupidity? Or down right sorriness? Yes and yes. It’s that petty, streak of meanness that runs through the hearts of both the cultist and the revolutionary alike – the two are the same creature, after all.

I’m absolutely terrified of meeting Jesus. He’ll see right to the black heart of me; all my weaknesses instantly revealed. The shame of it will be unbearable. And yes, yes, my pharisee, cult friends are right. He’s forgiven us. That’s what Easter is all about. But friends, there’s a reason the men in the Bible fell to their faces and weren’t able to speak in the presence of the Lord.

I thought about all this yesterday morning as I drove to my special place of prayer to watch the sunrise. On Sundays or on holy days, I like to devote my prayers specifically to thanksgiving, worship, praises (and the like). Too often my regular prayers turn into strategy sessions where I hash out what I’ve already decided while God watches from the sidelines. Sometimes those prayers drift into daydreams or drag up new worries. But on holy days, I allow none of that.

Only, yesterday, not for the first or last time, I was speechless before the throne. What do you say to a perfect and holy God? What can you really do other than fall (even if only metaphorically) to the ground and beg for mercy? But then we hear that wonderful voice that touches us lightly and says:

“…be not afraid. Stand!”

Beware the man who takes that voice lightly.

Shotgun vs. Hipstergrass

streetperformers

Modern bluegrass needs its own category: “Hipstergrass.”

The Dixie Chicks and Nickel Creek, back in the 90’s, started the slide, and now every two-bit suspender-wearing degenerate is strumming a banjo, claiming to sing old time music, and wearing the thickest framed glasses he (or she) can find.

Their music is about how bad blacks were treated, or about the “fusion” of urban culture with the surrounding rural landscape. Sara Watkins, the girl from Nickel Creek, has joined up with Sarah Jarosz and formed a group called: “I’m With Her”, for example, an obvious nod towards Hillary. Other groups (like “The Dead South”) are explicit in their views and feature prominent diversity. In all, there’s a new melody resounding around Appalachia (whenever these clowns see fit to visit): Dear white boy…your culture no longer belongs to you.

If I were two ounces more musically inclined, I’d go to war with these people.

I have a cousin who is in the thick of all this. He’s a prominent blues musician and having been indoctrinated at the nearby college, he now tries to educate us backward whites on the history and importance of his chosen genre. Specifically, the blues (according to one of his presentations I attended), were developed as a way for blacks to secretly voice the frustration they felt, living under the unbearable yoke of white domination. It was a way for them to make sly jokes without being lynched by the Klan, which, apparently, was hiding just around every corner.

He’s often encouraged me to check out the “Carolina Chocolate Drops”, a rare band of negro “old time” musicians. My cousin’s entourage approves and have often suggested other “bluegrass” for me to check out. It’s always the same story. Always the same hipstergrass.

There’s a larger point to be made:

Many of these people are really good musicians. Unfortunately, they’ve become acolytes of the new religion. The very people who, in a Christian world, would be making the most beautiful music, are obsessed with praising the devil.

While the situation is bad, there might be hope.

See, these hipstergrass musicians are trying to be the poetic voice of their people, but it’s a major doctrine of their religion to give up any notion of having a “people”. As a result, their songs are nonsensical (in many cases), formulaic, and without spirit. They latch on to jews or blacks (who still have a people) or they sing about vacuous nothings. This can’t last forever. They’ll eventually lose interest whenever a new fad comes around and those with one foot still in that ol’ time religion, will have the field to themselves.

When that happens, we may no longer hear banjos on the radio, but front porches across the South will, once again, sound forth the music of Dixie.

A Rose From the Ruins

rose

“What would you do, Captain Quantrill, were yours the power and the opportunity?” inquired the secretary.

“Do, Mr. Secretary? I would wage such a war as to make surrender forever impossible. I would break up foreign enlistments by indiscriminate massacre. I would win the independence of my people or I would find them graves.” ~ The Autobiography of Cole Younger

The secretary turned down Captain Quantrill’s request for generalship, presumably because of the above sentiment. The Confederates were determined to be gentleman. In hindsight – and this is a new feeling for me – I’m not sure Quantrill was wrong. If any of the Confederates were alive today and could see our modern savagery, they might, along with us, wish Quantrill had been given free reign. Cole Younger was right when, earlier in the book, he says “Gray heads suffer because younger ones had not been noosed”.

As it is, there’s not enough rope for all the lynching needed today.

My readers might guess it’s the recent London terror attack that has me riled. You’re all half right. I am not surprised Muslims are killing people. This one is far from the first (or last) of such crimes. No, what I’m angry about is the way Satanic lunatics are attempting to justify this one.

The Islamic mayor of London (!?) says these sorts of attacks are to be expected in large cities. The “social justice warriors” chime in with the same talking points. “There is no crime wave. There is no rape epidemic” they say. “The normal amount of crimes and rapes are taking place but the bias of the government and news media – those evil bastions of right wing propaganda – report the Muslim ones more often. They’re trying to scare whites into racial aggression.” Their recommendation? Open our arms wider. Be more welcoming. Double-down on our anti-racism.

Can such be reasoned with? Given my Presbyterian rationalism (which I’m now cured of, I hope), I used to try. I never realized how ridiculous I looked. I saw that foolishness on display in a recent podcast where a panel of young commentators from different ends of the political spectrum discussed their differences. There was an “anarcho-syndacalist” (a radical left-wing Marxist), an “anarcho-capitalist” (who sounded homosexual), a left-leaning moderate (admitted he was confused and would probably listen more than contribute), the host (a self-styled Christian traditionalist), a “manosphere-type” (with generic Alt. Right leanings but who was mostly interested in discussing feminism), and a self-professed Alt. Right fascist.

Their discussion quickly turned into a debate when the Alt. Right guy suggested there was a muslim rape epidemic in Sweden. The Marxist quickly chimed in with the talking point I’ve outlined above. The anarcho-capitalist agreed with the Marxist and suggested the Alt. Right guy had no real stats or data to support his ludicrous claim. After all, said the Marxist, most rapes are committed by someone the victim knows and it’s ridiculous to think there are gangs of muslims, roaming the streets looking for white women to violate. The two Alt. Right guys attempted to argue until the one got so disgusted, he said “I don’t care! I don’t care what the statistics are! I want them all out of Sweden!”

He should have led with that.

The Marxist understood the religious nature of the debate from the outset. His was a religious passion. He openly suggested violence is necessary to bring in his utopian scheme (although, he quickly added he wouldn’t personally be open to practicing it because of his Buddhism – he couldn’t speak for his fellow anarchists, however).

None of the other panelists had the religious passion to match the Marxist’s. They had a secularized version of my old Presbyterian rationalism.

So what, then, Shotgun?

I’ll tell you what. At least, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do: I’m going to find the prettiest, kind-hearted, woman I can, and marry her. And I’m going to begin creating a small piece of the old Europe that used to exist – build it on top of the ruins.

And that, ladies and gents, is a far better use of my time than attempting to rhetorically force a Satanist into conceding some minor ideological point.

(12) Chivalry vs. The Mexican Mafia

chivalry(An anecdote from my time in the prison. As I’m no longer employed there, I thought I’d re-post it):

Some of you know I’ve taken a job as a prison guard. The rules say I’m not supposed to talk about my experiences but with apologies to my pagan state, I think I will anyway:

I’ve often told people I can spot white trash from a distance. I don’t know their history but I’m convinced they all share the same ancestry. They’re low class but not in the dignified way of many poor southerners. They slaughter the English language, engage in all sorts of depravity, and worst of all, they’re the whites most prone to race mixing. It’s odd, but the majority are scrawny and have blond hair and blue eyes. Their skin is tanned and their faces squint up like weasels. If all that sounds imaginary, tell yourselves it’s their bastardized accents that mark them. The shame of it is their women are usually gorgeous. So, with demoralizing certitude, I knew when I saw our new co-worker, she was probably infatuated with a negro.

Why think so? She’s of the class I’ve described above, in her late twenties, and still single. She’s never mentioned having children so I assume she’s either aborted them or…well, she did tell me her favorite television show was “Orange is the New Black” (a prison drama focusing on two lesbians). I never believe women when they tell me they’re lesbians. My bet, and I’m more certain of this as I watch her with our co-workers and the inmates, is that she’s infatuated with a negro, probably the whole lot of them.

I’ll leave that dark trail of thought and get on with the story.

She tries to deal with the inmates as if she were a negress. She tries to battle it out with them, will to will. She takes her cue from the black female prison guards (there are many and only they seem to gain rank). “Why yoooo disrespetin’ me?!”

But there was one day she called me and asked to be relieved on the yard. She looked a little sheepish and said she just couldn’t take it out there anymore and needed a break.

“What happened?” I asked.

Apparently, when they’re around white men, these girls find it easier to let go of their defense-mechanisms – I mean their anti-feminine machismo learned from the black race. They sometimes revert back to being white.

She lapsed into such a state and told me what happened. She had walked by a group of Mexican inmates and one of them had whistled at her. That struck me as an uncharacteristically lady-like thing for her to worry about, but there it was. She indicated the “tall one” who, maybe owing to his unusual size (most Mestizos are around five feet, he was probably six), had gained some level of respect among his fellows. I had no doubt he was showing off for them.

I walked onto the yard with all the voices of the Alt. Right in my head. They were cursing chivalry and calling me a “White Knight”. And even as I walked out there, I knew whatever I did wouldn’t be appreciated. Still, by God, a white woman had been insulted and, well, I’m no ordinary Alt. Righter.

I knew El Alto was associated with a Mexican drug gang and I also knew most prison guards give that group a wide berth. The last of us who tried disciplining them was shot at while pumping gas the next day. The police never caught the shooter.

On the inside, the Mexicans are smart enough not to openly cause problems but they do break the rules when no one is looking. The guards usually look the other way, especially over something as petty as a lustful whistle.

Not today, hombres…

I walked into the group, took El Alto’s arm, spun him around, and handcuffed him, right in front of his amigos. Then I marched him inside a dorm, kicked everyone out of a shower room (making a big commotion) and strip searched him… a long, slow process.

“Why choo doin’ dis mayun?” he kept asking.

“You like whistling at ladies, eh? That makes me suspicious. Makes me think you might have something on you. I’m going to find it.”

I drew it out as long as possible, speaking loudly, knowing my voice would echo around the bathroom tiles and into the dorm. His macho air was obliterated for all to see – a serious punishment among those degenerates.

I found multiple articles about El Chapo, the cartel leader getting publicity down in Mexico, as well as other cartel paraphernalia. But technically, he didn’t have anything against the rules; I wasn’t really expecting him to. It was the search that did the damage.

Long story short, I’ve warned my parents (both law enforcement) and I’ve taken measures for my own safety. As for my fellow officer, she’s warmed up to me but like all the blacks in that prison (employed or doing time) likely thinks white men are sniveling panzies, terrified of all the strong, virile black men. That sort of brainwashing is why her kind choose to race mix.

It seems like violence really is all savages understand. But her? She belongs to a people who, at least at one point, saw true Love and recognized it for what it was. Can the feminist be rescued by kind acts of chivalry?

…ought we even try?

That, dear readers, is up to each of you to decide. As for me, my heart decided and I acted accordingly, without much thought.

Now I’ll have to live with it.

How to Save a Life

Where did I go wrong?
I lost a friend,
Somewhere along in bitterness, and,
I’d have stayed up with you all night,
Had I known how to save a life…

I got to Paddy’s before Heimbach (aka: The Little Fuhrer) showed up, allowing for an hour or so of pleasant conversation with the man, now famous in Alt. Right circles for his musical hit “The Ballad of Tiny Tim Wise.” Call it vulgar, but bathroom stops resulting in disruption of travel plans that weekend were blamed on the unfortunate Tradzi having to “…stop and take a tiny Tim Wise.” Paddy, however, was too humble for accolade; instead of devoting the weekend to promotion of his music, he lead the Mid-Atlantic chapter (and friends) of the Trad-Worker’s Party in an event devoted to Tribe, Tradition, and finding local solutions to globalist problems.

I traveled to Philadelphia at great risk to myself – I lose my superpowers north of the Mason Dixon – to attend the Trad-Worker event and Paddy, a great leader in his own right, was kind enough to host me. As I was poking around his home, I noticed the music to “How to Save a Life” by The Fray on the piano. Even though we were separated by hundreds of miles, Paddy and I shared a desire to learn how to play the song (just last week I had been working on a rendition of it for the banjo). Yes – despite the inroads made by the damned globalists, we honkies share an affinity for the same things; we’re still bound together in a slip-shod culture.

Uprooting us from these ties-that-bind is constantly in the minds of the globalists. And while it has profound economic and political implications, it has an even more nefarious effect on the soul (or psyche for you godless heathen). When one loses the “chains of place” one loses his very sense of personhood. Lost are the social mores, the etiquette, and all the humble ties of human hearts that give a man purpose and meaning. When so uprooted, a man becomes suicidal. Seeing The Fray’s song on Paddy’s piano reminded me that no matter how powerful the Devil’s minions become, the simple and loving acts of individual hearts, when reaching out to our suffering friends (be it in prayer or the countless kind acts Christians perform for each other throughout the day), have, inherent in them, the mighty power of toppling strongholds.

I wont say where we met because it was so surreal in its whiteness, we hope to meet there frequently (we don’t need ANTIFA showing up to protest). It was a predominately white, working class enclave, nestled in the heart of the city and blew my southern mind; everywhere I’d see a group of people on the side of the road, I’d expect, owing to the surroundings, to see blacks or mestizos, but instead, they’d be groups of healthy young whites. I joked with some of the locals who attended (Keystone United!) that the neighborhood was kept pure because all around it the crafty denizens made a barrier of “help wanted” signs to keep out the coloreds.

When our merry meeting (detailed elsewhere) was over, I travelled with Heimbach and company through the heart of Pennsylvania (made inexplicably difficult by the state’s insistence on tolls), to the house of the famous doctor of political philosophy, Orthodox priest, and Alt. Right hero, Matthew Johnson. There, lining his make-shift chapel, Matthew Heimbach was baptized into the true Orthodox church, while receiving apologies on behalf of all Christendom (and the Church in particular) for his rough treatment at the hand of the American clergy.

It was a pivotal moment; a moment tied to the past and profoundly symbolic. I was so affected emotionally, I ventured into the sanctity of the place, despite my being a nominal Presbyterian. To the surprise of all (except maybe Fr. Johnson), I didn’t burst into flames. Instead, I had to wipe the mist from my eyes. Seeing Heimbach undergo such an historic ritual, officially inaugurating him into the church of Christ, made all the more meaningful given his trials and the thankless stance he’s taken in public life, was a bit much. If anyone asks about it later, though, I’ll blame the incense.

Fr. Johnson, without knowledge of the Fray, spoke with inspiration from God when he reinforced the importance of camaraderie, the ties that bind, and friendship for staving off the inevitable depression caused by the pending rootless dystopia of the Globalists. It was the most powerful Orthodox service I’d ever attended; that it’s the only one, thus far in my career, doesn’t diminish its importance to me. I doubt I’ll ever attend another like it.

Afterwards, we all ventured our separate ways; only now, as I returned to a bleak Carolina life, I had the knowledge that I wasn’t alone in the world and that there is a Kingdom of friends and a power looming in the hearts of Christian men that globalists, wherever they are in the world, lay awake at nights thinking about…and fearing.