Write Power

In a recent post, James has sought to obtain the death face photos of Amy Leigh Barnes, a White girl murdered savagely by a Negro in the UK.  As James put it, this gruesome photo could speak directly to the amygdala of Whites whose brains have been injured by decades of anti-White hate messages, in order to make this crime something more than a bad news story that elicits Hallmark comments to online comment threads and friends, instead forcing Whites to confront the grim reality of forced racial integration.

While performing a search for these photos, I came across the following picture of Amy Barnes when she was 5 years old:

[IMG]http://i760.photobucket.com/albums/xx249/Aletheia14/2009143206097-1.jpg[/IMG]

At the sentencing for Amy’s murderer, her mother told how she sleeps with her daughter’s teddy bear, though it provides little comfort, as every morning she awakes again to the shock that her daughter is gone.  Perhaps it is obvious to us, knowing her only from news accounts, that she was no saint.  The image above, however, provides a glimpse into an innocent past, and a measure of comfort for her parents.  This was their Amy- the girl who loved her stuffed animals, not the young woman who slutted around with Negro footballers.  Amy’s mother also said the following in her victim’s impact statement:

“I want to claw my way to her. My loneliness is indescribable. The only person I want to be with is my child.”

‘I want to claw my way to her.’  I imagine Amy’s mother waking in a panic and searching for this stuffed toy, then squeezing it with all her might as tears and the memories of her child flood over her.  The power of this short, but unusual, sentence to bring emotional bearing on this crime got me to thinking about how WN writers have used anti-White crimes in their works.  When one thinks of WN novelists, two names stand out: William Pierce and Harold Covington.  Each has used anti-White crimes to create emotional climaxes in their novels (Pierce in Hunter, and Covington in The Hill of the Ravens and A Mighty Fortress).  How they work these crimes into their novels is consistent with the different styles of the 2 writers.

Spoiler warning: the following quotes give away the ending of these novels.

Background: Oscar Yeager (Anglicism of Jäger, German word for hunter) is a ‘lone wolf’ who has been killing interracial couples and Jews.  In this scene, he is meeting with Ryan, a senior White FBI official who has blackmailed Yeager into helping him kill Jews who are his rivals in the FBI, as well as Mossad members.  They are meeting to discuss Yeager’s next attack.  This conversation occurs about a third of the way through the novel.

“Congratulations, Yeager. You did a first-class job on Kaplan— not only putting the coke in his
pocket like I suggested, but hitting him inside that sleazy porno joint. The details are gossip all over the Bureau. I saw to that. The Yids who had been pushing that perverted little turd as Yahweh’s gift to the Bureau are keeping pretty quiet now.” Ryan grinned, genuinely pleased.

“Now, listen carefully. Your next target is a man named Daniel Feldman. He’s 33 years old with
black hair and dark brown eyes. His hair is in tight ringlets close to the skull, almost like nigger wool. Medium complexion, maybe slightly on the ‘olive’ side. Height five feet, ten inches. Medium build, about 160 pounds. His nose isn’t big, but it’s definitely Jewish, if you know what I mean.”
Ryan paused, watching Oscar’s face.

Oscar said nothing, and Ryan pulled a photograph from his pocket and held it where Oscar could see it: “Study the face. You can’t have this photo, so remember the details. Notice his cocky little grin. The bastard is always grinning. It’s his trademark. At first I thought it’s because he’s nervous, insecure.  Another thing that might lead a person to believe that is that he’s a little jerky in his movements, and he always talks fast, like he’s wound up too tight.

“Now I think the grin is calculated; it’s Feldman’s way of keeping people off their guard. And let me warn you, Yeager, he’s a lot more dangerous than any rattlesnake you’ll ever see, so be careful. He’s a cold-blooded killer, and if you make a false move you won’t get a chance to make another move. He doesn’t play by any rules at all. If he even thinks you might be after him, with no evidence at all, he’ll blow your brains out in front of 50 witnesses and worry about justifying himself later.”

“Whom does he work for? The Mafia?”

“No, he’s one of us, believe it or not,” Ryan replied with a trace of incredulity in his voice, as if he
couldn’t believe it himself. “He’s one of our dirty tricks specialists. The Bureau does a lot of things it really shouldn’t, things which aren’t strictly legal— in fact, some things which are illegal as hell.
Feldman learned his tricks in the Israeli Defense Forces. He’s a dual citizen. More than half of our
dirty tricks people are.

“Let me tell you just one of the things he did for us. When we rounded up all of those Klansmen last
year and put them away on conspiracy charges, it wasn’t as clean an operation as you might think. We first grabbed a couple of them, pressured them to squeal on three or four of their buddies, pressured some of those in turn to squeal on others, and so on until we had them all.

“Most of those Klan jerks are easy to pressure; generally the ones who talk toughest and have the
biggest arsenal of weapons at home are the easiest. Just tell ‘em how many years they’re facing and
then stick ‘em in a holding cell with about 30 niggers for the night. By morning they’re ready to testify against their own mothers.

“But some of the bastards are stubborn, and we have to use more pressure. One of the weak ones told us that a buddy had a case of hand grenades, but when we grabbed the buddy he wouldn’t tell us where he had his grenades stashed. I was there in this guy’s house with three other agents and Feldman. We had handcuffed his wife too, as an accomplice. That’s standard procedure. We generally have to let the women go later, but it gives us more leverage in persuading a man to talk if we’ve arrested his woman.

“The guy’s two kids were there too: a seven-year-old boy and a 14-year-old girl, a good-looking little thing. So when the guy refuses to talk, Feldman starts playing with the girl, talking dirty to her,
pinching her tits, putting his hand on her ass. Pretty soon he has her crying and scared out of her wits, backed up against a wall. I and another agent were holding the guy, and a third agent was holding his wife. The guy was putting up a big ruckus, shouting and cursing us, but not offering to tell us where his grenades were.

“Without any warning Feldman suddenly takes out his pecker, grabs the girl by her hair, starts
screaming at her, and forces her to her knees. Then, in front of the guy and his wife and little boy, he puts his gun to her head and makes the girl give him a blow job. The guy goes right out of his mind.

Before Feldman even has his pecker in her mouth, he’s telling us where he buried the grenades. But
Feldman goes ahead and makes the girl finish. It really made me sick.”

“You were there too, Ryan. What happened is your responsibility too.”

“Yeah, that’s why Feldman’s gotta go. We’ve got others just as bad, but Feldman’s the only one I’ve
worked with directly. He’s the only one who can say I ever broke the rules. He’s the one threat they
can use against me if I make an open move against the Jews in the Bureau.”

“What the hell is a police agency like the FBI doing with maniacs like Feldman working for it in the
first place?”

“Jesus, Yeager, you’re a dumb bastard! Feldman’s not a maniac. He’s just a Jew. He never really
loses his cool. What he did to that girl— everything he does— is calculated, cold-blooded meanness.  Why do you think he didn’t rape her or beat her up instead? Because then there’d be physical evidence.  Then she could go to a doctor, and he’d back up her story. It might even get in the papers, and we’d be in a mess. As it was he didn’t leave a mark on her. He used terror to make her do what he wanted, and that doesn’t show the way a beating would. Who’d believe the girl or the guy or his wife? They’re redneck White racists, the lowest of the low in the eyes of the media. The news people just laugh at them when they complain about some of our methods.

In the penultimate chapter, Yeager meets with Ryan, who is advocating an alliance with Jews in order to gain control and reform the system from the top down, with himself in charge.  Yeager rejects this non-revolutionary path, preferring to get enough Whites together to solve the Jewish problem forever.  The two men argue back and forth for a while, then Ryan decides he’s had enough:

Ryan snorted with impatience as he replied. “I’ll tell you what we must do, Yeager. We must
terminate this useless debate now. I’ve wasted more than an hour with you tonight. You’d better forget your dream and accept the fact that there will be order in this country. You can either be a part of that order or not. If you want to be part of it then you’re going to get rid of Rogers for me pronto, with no more slipups. If you don’t want to be part of it, I can fix that for you right now.”

Ryan glanced to his right and reached for the pistol on the cushion beside him. At that instant Oscar
squeezed hard on the pocket clip of the pen he had pulled from his shirt pocket some minutes ago and had been idly toying with as the two men talked. There was a faint popping sound, and a thin stream of liquid spurted from the end of the pen which was pointed directly toward Ryan, diverging into a narrow cone of mist as it approached its target. Ryan gasped, emitted a strangled oath, and stumbled halfway to his feet, upsetting the coffee table.

While Ryan, momentarily blinded by the tear gas, groped on the couch for his pistol, choking and
gasping for breath, Oscar sprang. He knocked Ryan aside and seized the pistol, then whirled and fired two quick shots as the other man lunged toward him. Ryan clutched his midsection, groaned once, and dropped to the floor. Oscar kneeled beside him and felt his pulse. Ryan was still alive.

“Sorry about that, Ryan. I really hated to do it. I really wanted to keep working with you. I think we
would have had a much better chance with you running the Agency, if only you could have shifted
your priorities and put the race ahead of order.”

“Then why?” the mortally wounded Ryan gasped weakly.

Oscar thought for a minute before answering. “1 guess that, behind all the arguments about what’s
realistic and what isn’t, 1 did it for that 14-year-old Klansman’s daughter you told me about, Ryan.”

Oscar rose to his feet, pointed the pistol carefully at the back of Ryan’s head, and administered the
coup de grace. Then he gathered up his own pistol and slipped out into the night.

Background: It is the middle of the 21st century.  Don Redmond is head of the Bureau of State Security in the Northwest Republic, a WN nation that seceded from the US after an insurgent war.  He has been charged by the president of the republic, Corby Morgan, with investigating one of the greatest acts of treason from the war of independence, several decades ago.  Redmond is married to Morgan’s daughter, Sarah.  Corey Nash is Morgan’s longtime bodyguard/personal secretary, an awkward character who it has turned out was the one responsible for this act of treason.  In this scene, near the end of the novel, Redmond is confronting Morgan about not acting on suspicions he’d had about Nash.

“Why did you do nothing?” demanded Don. “How could you let Nash stay so close to you, to me, to Sarah, to my children? You must have known what we all knew, that he was never completely right in the head? What were you thinking, man?”

“I believed, and as it turned out I believed correctly, that he would never again do anything quite so evil,” sighed Morgan. “Although that business with Hillary Clinton came close. That was an accident, by the way. We didn’t…never mind, all that’s gone now. Don, I owed Corey Nash. Owed him big, big time. Did it never strike you as odd that in all the time you have known both of us, I never told you how we met? How he came into the family, so to speak?”

Don frowned. “You know…damned if you ever did,” he said softly, remembering in surprise. “How strange. During this whole investigation, that thought never even crossed my mind.  Nash was just…always there. He was the first person who opened the door at that house in Bellevue when I knocked on it at age twelve to collect my newspaper money. I remember he tried to Jew me down on the price. How did you meet?”

“You know how Sarah’s mother died?” asked Morgan.

“Yes,” said Don. “I also know that Sarah ran away from the corrective school where they sent her to be de-nazified and somehow she was able to get back to you up in the mountains, just before you came down to Bellevue to organize Number Two Seattle Brigade where I ended up. Sarah and I have never spoken of it. It is the one off-limits subject between us. Not overtly forbidden, just…closed. She’s never actually said to me that she doesn’t want to talk about it. It’s just that I’ve always known that to speak of it would hurt her more than any possible good that could ever come of it. Over the years we have developed an understanding that it’s the one and only topic that we will never talk about. Once a year or so, Sarah makes some passing reference to Vandy, and I pointedly don’t take her up on it. I believe she notices this, but she has never voluntarily offered to
lift the taboo, and I have no intention of asking. She obviously wants to keep that one door locked, and I have always respected her wishes.”

Morgan lit a cigar. His hands were shaking as they held the match. “I was in the mountains for the first time when ZOG tracked down my family. They were in a safe house in Ballard, although it obviously wasn’t as safe as we thought it was. Vandy saw them coming in time to get Sarah dressed and send her running out the back door, but they caught her anyway. That was early days, they didn’t have the special camps set up then, so they took Vandy and Sarah to the King County jail. The Federal section was notorious. The FBI and the Department of Homeland Security had a…they had a special treatment there they would inflict on women Volunteers…there was this one Jew FBI
agent…”

“Sir, I know what happened,” said Don. “You don’t have to…”

“Did you know they made Sarah watch, in case she knew where I was and she’d betray me to save her mother?” asked Morgan, staring out the window.

“Yes, sir. I know. It is a matter of historical record. Odd, isn’t it? Everyone in this whole country knows what happened. Yet Sarah and I are the only ones who pretend we don’t. And no
one speaks of it. No one, not ever, not for forty years. My God, what a mighty and magnificent compassion and respect we receive as a family, from an entire nation! It fills me with awe
every time I think of it! How could anyone not love this land and this people?”

“Well, there are some details you don’t know. When…it happened…Corey Nash was in the same jail, on the floor above,” went on Morgan tonelessly. “He’d gotten caught heisting some wheels for the NVA, but the idiots pegged him as an ordinary car thief and he was waiting in the bull pen to get bailed out by a Party bondsman. Some Seattle cops were taking him down for out-processing, they got another call for something or other and they tossed Corey into a holding cell on the Federal block until they could get back to him. Then they forgot about him until noon the next day. An open holding cell. No walls, just bars. Right next to where lay what was left of my wife and my child.”

“Ah, I think I understand…” said Don with a nod. “FBI Special Agent In Charge Bruce Goldberg. He liked to play with electric drills into the skull and turkey basters of acid. Do It Yourself lobotomies, he called them. One of their most notorious and brutal counter-terrorism operatives. I remember. He and his entire family were found dead in their home several months later. The family was shot, Goldberg had been burned to death with the necklace. So that was Nash who did that? Yeah, that
sounds like his style. I can see why…”

“No, it wasn’t Nash!” snapped Morgan. “Shut up and listen to me, God damn it! Christ, boy. do you think that I would leave a personal obligation like that to anyone else? That Goldberg job was me and Tom Murdock and O. C. Oglevy. No, what Nash did in that prison cell… it was nothing less than holy. Sacred, touched with the divine spirit of human mercy and compassion. Kind of odd that we can speak of Nash in such terms, eh? But we can.”

“Tell me,” ordered Don softly.

“Somebody had left one of those old Styrofoam coffee cups in the cell he was in. You remember those? It was raining, and Nash was able to get up onto the cell’s bunk and stick the cup into an outside corner of the barred window where there was a little drip. It wasn’t much, but throughout the night he managed to refill that cup again and again. Sarah dragged her mother over to the bars and time and again. Corey Nash held that cup of water to what remained of Vandy’s mouth, and she was able to drink a little. And in between times, while he waited for that slow drip from the rain to fill the cup in the barred window, Corey Nash comforted my ten year-old daughter, who was by then quite out of her mind. Sarah had become a child again, a little baby, and Nash sensed this. She was talking baby talk, curling up in the fetal position, on the verge of shutting down her brain and leaving us forever. So he sang to her. Every children’s song he could think of, London Bridge Is Falling Down, Mary Had a Little Lamb, Barney the Dinosaur and Great Big Gobs Of Greasy, Grimy Gopher Guts, the Alphabet Song, anything. He told her every story he could think of. Three Little Pigs. Jack and the Beanstalk. Rumpelstiltskin and Rapunzel, Little Red Riding Hood, and he held her hand through the bars. It wasn’t me, it was Corey Nash who was holding Sarah’s hand in the dawn when her mother died before her eyes. Somehow, Nash kept Sarah with us in her mind. He also managed to get into Sarah’s head an address and phone number in Seattle. Afterwards, when she got away from them, Sarah didn’t come looking for me. She came looking for Corey Nash. Nash brought her back to me, past the Fatties and the cops and the Homeland Security and the FBI. From that moment on I lived in his debt. Please try to understand that, Don. You have to remember, this was in the time of It Takes A Village, when white children were being stolen away every day. I had already accepted in my mind that Sarah was gone forever from me, just like her mother. You have Cindy El, you have Eva, so can you understand what that means. I had accepted in my own mind that my beautiful girl was gone forever, taken from me by the Beast, to live the rest of her life at the bottom of a latrine, for all the world to piss and shit on. I think I went insane for a time, and I probably would have gone Oglevy’s way. I’d have been dead myself soon after. And then one day up there in the Olympic mountains I saw Sarah rise from the dead. I saw Corey Nash walk into camp, and he’s leading my little girl by the hand. He returned my child to me, returned her from the dead. Don, whatever you may think of me, that is a debt that one never, ever forgets or betrays.”

Background: This novel takes place during the war for NW independence, in the early decades of the 21st century.  It covers the insurgency as well as the negotiations between the NVA (Northwest Volunteer Army) and the US government regarding the formation of the NW republic.  The following scene takes place just over 2 months into the negotiations.  The NVA negotiating team consists of Corby Morgan (future president of the republic), General Frank Barrow (head of negotiations), John MacCausland (Christian Identity Pastor), Robert Gair (Odinist), and Cody Brock and Nightshade (2 high school students who’ve joined the NVA).  Among the US representative are Oliver Cabot Lodge (Skull and Bones, Boston Brahmin, de facto head of US side), Howard Weintraub (Jew, head of Homeland Security), and Senator Jeanette Galinsky (Jew, confidant of Hillary Clinton).  The following passage is interesting too, as it depicts the disagreements about religion plaguing WN, a recurring theme in Covington’s novels.

“We all feel that way,” Barrow told him, standing up. “Put the iron away, John. There’s no need. We’re going to go ahead and wind it up now.” Morgan sighed and put the Magnum back in its holster, and everyone in the room breathed a bit easier. “I have an announcement to make,” continued Barrow. “One way or the other, this will be the last session of these proceedings here at Longview. We have been here for almost two and a half months, there has been virtually no progress, and it doesn’t seem there is going to be any. Accordingly, I am going to give you one last chance to sign the six-point agreement which we have been presenting to you virtually every day for the past ten weeks. If you do not, then we have to assume that the United States is not serious about bringing the present conflict to an end. Ten weeks is enough, ladies and gentlemen, more than enough. We have our border delineated, thanks to the diligent work of our subcommittee, and frankly we got more than we expected, including most of Wyoming and more of Montana than we thought we could glom. Groovy. That was the important part of this conference, but none of that is worth anything so long as we keep dragging this out. It’s time to sign on the dotted line and then we’re outta here. Or not, as the case may be.

“My comrade’s theatrical flourishing of the weaponry notwithstanding, we know we can’t make you sign at gunpoint. But it is time that you people faced up to the reality of why you are here. A new world is beginning and it wants only your signatures, twice, once on each copy of this simple treaty.” Barrow placed the documents down on the table before him. “There is nothing complicated about getting the hell out of our country in two weeks, and it is well within your logistic capabilities to get all your forces out of the Republic in that time. If you do need any help in getting out, free passage on our highways or gas for your vehicles or anything like that, by all means, we’ll speed you on your way. But this delegation is leaving this room now, and we’re leaving this hotel tomorrow. Early. We’ve eaten our last breakfast buffet in the Sockeye Grill. Our breakfast tomorrow will be field rations with our army preparing for the assault on Portland if your General Partman decides he wants to break bad on us. That need not happen. I assume and hope that being a good soldier, Partman will obey orders. You’ve got until tomorrow to save God alone knows how many lives and give this process of a new nation’s birth some kind of peace and order. Or it can be a bloody mess. It’s your call. Now make it. Because we’re not hanging around anymore waiting on you.”

“If you can postpone your departure for a moment, General, as I mentioned before, I do have a surprise for you,” said Lodge, as if the whole speech had not been spoken. “We understand your concern about members of your organization held in Federal custody, and we have been more than willing to release those whom we feel are no longer harmful to society. After some discussion we felt that this lady fell into that category.” He went to the door and opened it. “Ms. Frost? Could you come in, please?”

There was a flutter at the end of the room, and a tall woman stepped in through the door. She was wearing a scarf over her head to cover her short, patchy blonde hair where it had been largely pulled out by the roots. Her face was a glowing red mask where it had been reconstructed surgically, yet it still showed an expression of suffering unimaginable. Her chest was flat, both breasts gone. Her original face had been removed by the FBI paramedics during her interrogation, strip by strip, with a scalpel, yet through some miracle she was still recognizable. Cathy Frost, still dressed in her drab khaki prison dress with the number on it. For over a year, she had been tortured to the point of death, time and again, because the FBI wanted her to betray the whereabouts of her husband. Although they did not know it, Edgar Frost had actually died of his wounds sustained during the contact and been secretly interred in the hills around Coeur d’Alene, several days before his wife was captured. Cathy could have saved herself at any time, simply by telling them this and revealing the whereabouts of her husband’s body so they could dig it up and destroy it, but she would not talk to the ZOG out of principle. In the very height of her torment, all she ever told them was the Five Words, “I have nothing to say.” So it went on and on and on, until it became a personal issue. The mighty FBI and Homeland Security would make the evil racist bitch speak. But she never did.
Her case had become so egregious that even in an America become accustomed to routine torture of so-called domestic terrorists, it had attracted attention, thanks to the heroic effort of her fellow women prisoners at Pullman Federal Detention Center who had risked life and limb and torture sessions of their own to smuggle the news of what was being done to her out of the prison. The international community, finally becoming fed up with American behavior in general, had decided to take up her case as a cause celèbre, an interesting example of the trendy Euro-left’s hatred of the American empire finally outweighing their distaste for so-called fascists. The entire NVA delegation arose in stunned recognition and respect.

The two Jewish members of the delegation were dumbstruck. “Who the hell said you could do this, Lodge?” screeched Howard Weintraub at Lodge in fury. “This woman is a Class A terrorist detainee, an unlawful combatant in the direct custody of the Department of Homeland Security! No one has the right to dispose of her except me!” Weintraub was especially embarrassed, because he had personally supervised her torture in the Pullman Women’s Detention Center, while the other women prisoners had sang A Mighty Fortress Is Our God to the sound of her screams.

“Actually, Mr. Weintraub, it was my idea,” said Stanhope quietly. “Ms. Frost’s situation was becoming an embarrassment with international ramifications which it is imperative that we moderate, and as such it comes into my purview. If you’re worried about some kind of turf issues, I procured the signature of the President of the United States on the warrant authorizing Ms. Frost’s release into my custody.”

“Hillary would never have let Chelsea do any such thing!” gasped Jeanette Galinsky in shock.

“The President has a tendency to agree in full with the last person she has talked to, as you know, Senator. I had a friend of mine talk to her and he carried the order in his briefcase. Mrs. Frost is now being handed over to the Northwest Volunteer Army delegation. This is a done deal, and it’s a deal that should have been done a long time ago. I am getting just a little bit weary of having to explain to the international community why the land of the free and the home of the brave is skinning women alive in our torture chambers.”

“Comrade Frost, welcome to Longview,” said Barrow, coming forward to grip her hand. “I am glad that you have been able to be here, even if it is on the last day. Are you all right? Jesus, that’s a stupid thing to ask!” He looked at Stanhope. “You do understand we’re taking her with us no matter what happens? You’re not getting her back, under any circumstances. Not ever.”

“You’re not getting any of us back,” said McCausland in an angry voice. “Not ever.”

“I’m still alive, General Barrow,” said Cathy. Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, due to the year of screaming that had nearly destroyed her larynx. “I didn’t think I would ever see this day. I have now, and God has been more good to me than I can say.”

“At least you get a chance to tell your story,” said Barrow. “I know this is a hard thing to ask, ma’am, but do you think you could handle some kind of press conference or make some kind of statement for this army of media reptiles we’ve got overrunning this place?”

Cathy looked at Weintraub and her mangled lips broke into a sneer. “Sure. If Mr. Weintraub would stand beside me and explain to them just how I ended up looking like this. I’d be interested to hear his version of things, and then I’ll give them mine.”

“Oh, I couldn’t appear in public with a Class A terrorist,” said Weintraub, suddenly breaking into a guffaw. “I might lose face!”

It is a simple and underestimated historical truth that the Jewish people are in fact nowhere nearly as clever as either they themselves believe, or as clever as others give them credit for being. Howard Weintraub had forgotten that he was standing a few feet from a large and violent man whose wife had been murdered by a Jew, in a manner very similar to the unspeakable mistreatment that Cathy Frost had through some miracle survived. John Corbett Morgan seemed to take one single step into the air and fly over the table like some mountain Nijinsky. Weintraub went down like he had been hit by a roaring, charging bear, the .44 Magnum was at his head and Barrow was just barely able to grab Morgan’s gun hand and knock it aside before he pulled the trigger. The gun thundered and the round went into the floor. Howard Weintraub screamed like a woman in sheer terror. Barrow was wrestling with Morgan, trying to get the piece away from him. “Help me!” he yelled at the others. Gair and Stepanov and McCausland all came to his aid, grabbing the mountain man around the waist and legs. The door flew open and a dozen FBI and MPs came running in, Uzis and pistols at the ready. Reporters out in the lobby had heard the shot and were yelling, demanding entry. Cody whipped out his 10-millimeter automatic and leveled it at the first FBI gunner in the bunch. “Back off!” he shouted. “Nothing to see here! We’ll deal with it! Get the fuck out of this room!” Nightshade had vaulted over the table despite the uniform skirt she wore, her switchblade flashing, and she had gotten hold of a screaming Jeannette Galinsky by the hair. She held the blade under the Senator’s quivering double chin.

“You heard him!” she yelled at the Federal muscle men. “Out the door, all of you, or we’ll see how this Jew hog can take a little of what you motherfuckers gave Cathy!” The Feds stood there like a gaggle of geese, waving their gun barrels in the air, uncertain of what to do. Morgan still had Weintraub clutched in his left fist. He was even stronger than he looked, with Barrow clamped firmly on his right arm keeping the .44 pointed away and the other three all over him, and he was slamming Weintraub again and again against the wall.
It was Cathy Frost who put a stop to it. She walked over and managed to reach through the struggling group of men and simply touch Morgan on the face, and suddenly he stopped. Sensing that she might be able to get through where they could not, the other men let Morgan go and Barrow was able to quickly twist the gun out of Morgan’s hand. “Let him go, brother,” she said to Morgan softly. “This is our day, the day when the people of Coeur d’Alene arose against the tyrant and struck him down. Don’t let a cockroach have any part of it, even by paying him to much mind as to step on him.”

“How can you say that, when he did you like that?” said Morgan, still half insane with rage.

“I say it because we are the true seed of Adam. It is we who bear the true yoke of God, not these creatures of darkness, and God demands that we be better than they are. All of us have suffered, brother. We share a common pain, you and I, someone beloved whom these devil things took away from us. There will be vengeance and justice for us all in plenty. God will not deny us that. But for every thing there is a season.”

“Ecclesiastes,” said McCausland.

“Yes,” said Cathy. “This is our day. Weintraub has but one part in it. He must sign that paper. Let him go, so that The Beast will let all of us go.” Morgan suddenly released Weintraub, who crumpled to the floor. He had fainted, and the stink that filled the room told of what he had done in his underwear in his terror. Nightshade’s nose wrinkled and she sent a sly smile of remembrance at Cody.

“I think I’ll always associate this time of my life with the smell of Jews shitting themselves,” said Cody in disgust. None of the others picked up on the possible implications of the remark.

Barrow picked up the two copies of the six-point treaty. He tossed it down in front of Stanhope. “Screw this. We’re not even waiting for tomorrow. We’re going upstairs and we’re going to pack our stuff and I’m going to call Captain Chernilov and tell him to warm up the helicopter. If you decide you want to stop any more killing, sign this and mail us our copy. Otherwise, you can all go fuck yourselves. You don’t want peace. Well, it doesn’t look like you’re going to get it, and your beloved Israel is just going to have to do without the million or so troops we’ll be keeping occupied here in the Northwest.” He quickly tossed the .44 back to Morgan. “Here, John you may need this yet.” He turned to the gun-toting Federal officers clustered at one end of the conference room. “Get out of our way,” he told them. “Now.”

Walter Stanhope made a signal to the FBI agent in charge and they turned and left. The NVA delegation filed out, hands on their guns. “The stairs, not the elevators,” commanded Barrow as they pushed through the excited crowd, some of whom recognized Cathy Frost. The reporters shouted questions about Cathy, about the gunshot they had heard, about the whereabouts of the missing Susan Horowitz. After a long and nerve-wracking walk they reached their rooms. Jane Chenault was staring at pandemonium on CNN.

“My God, what happened?” she cried. “What…my God, Cathy, oh, Cathy! Oh, what did they do to you?”

“Hi, Jane,” said Cathy as the two women hugged one another. “It’s so good to see you again! It doesn’t matter, Jane. I have lived to see you all here in the uniform of the country Marc and Eddie died for and I suffered for, and I am fine, fine, fine! Hey, you think this is bad? At least they did some reconstruction on my face before trotting me out in public. Two months ago I looked like the Phantom of the Opera!”

“How can you joke about it?” whispered Nightshade in horror.

“The best way not to weep is to learn to laugh, Lieutenant,” said Cathy. “Look on the bright side. At least the media will now have something else to put on the front page besides you and your boyfriend here going at it like rabbits next to the Coke machine. Yes, I saw that on the helicopter coming in.”

“They have a video of it,” said Jane disapprovingly. “It’s been all over the news. I thought we had a very clear no-nookie rule established, young lady!”

“You do realize now that your Mom’s worst fears are confirmed?” asked Cody with a grin.

“That was part of an undercover mission!” Nightshade protested.

“Oh, is that what you kids call it now?” asked Cathy.

“Cease this bootless badinage and start packing, you guys,” said Barrow. “We may yet have to shoot our way out of here.”

But they didn’t. Instead, half an hour later there was a knock on the door. It was Seamus O’Connell, looking pale and wan. He had lost twenty pounds in the past ten weeks and even joked about it. “Sure, ‘twill take a lot of Bewley’s fry-ups and good pints o’ Guinness to bring me back up to fightin’ weight.” O’Connell handed Barrow a large leather folding document case.

“What’s this?” asked Barrow, not able to force himself to look.

“Confirmation of what you already know, General,” said O’Connell. “The very proof of the pudding so to speak.”

“Confirmation of what, Mr. O’Connell?” asked Stepanov over Barrow’s shoulder.

“You won the war, gentlemen,” said O’Connell. “The Pacific Northwest is yours.” Barrow opened the folder and found the treaty inside. It was signed by all five American plenipotentiaries. “My country took eight hundred years to drive out the oppressor at the point of the sword,”
O’Connell went on. “You lads did it in five. You’re bloody good, I’ll give yez that.”

“We had some good teachers, sir,” said Stepanov with a smile. “The lives of Michael Collins and De Valera were required reading in the Party.”

“How did this happen?” asked Barrow in wonder, staring at the paper in his hand in disbelief.

“Mr. Stanhope. Apparently he called them all in and gave them a good talking to. He asks one thing: that you postpone your departure long enough to help with the announcement. It’s going to be a bit hard for a lot of people on the American side to swallow. After that, it’s all yours.”

“We’ll be down in twenty minutes,” said Barrow.

After O’Connell was gone, Stepanov said “That must have been some talking-to! What in the name of the devil did he say to them?”

“I suspect he was speaking with Lodge’s voice,” said Barrow. “Lodge is nothing if not a businessman. Theatrics don’t convince him, but he knows better than to pour good money after bad. That’s all I can think of. Let’s just take it as a miracle and leave it at that.” The news still hadn’t sunk in, and everyone was simply standing and looking at one another.

“So what do we tell the world at the press conference?” asked Cody. “How good are you at making historic speeches, sir? You did all right in the conference.”

“We don’t tell the world anything, Lieutenant,” said Barrow. “We show them.” He went to his suitcase and pulled out a large plastic bag, from which he drew a folded Tricolor flag of strong weatherproof nylon. “Six by ten, pre-10/22 Party manufacture,” he said, opening a few of the folds.
“Made in Taiwan for one of the old Party front companies, ironically. This is the one that flew over the central post office in Coeur d’Alene five years ago, during the Sixteen Days. Red Morehouse gave it to me before I came down here. This hotel has a very fine outdoor speaker system for golf tournaments and whatnot. I’m giving Chernilov another call, and I’m going to ask him to send down all those CDs he has of classical music so we can select something nice and dignified to play as we march out there and lower that red, white and blue flag of a once noble experiment that failed so badly, and raise up this flag of a new nation wherein hopefully, we’ll do a better job this time.”

“Maybe this time we’ll learn to keep the rats out of the barn,” suggested Morgan hopefully.

“I hope so, John. Comrade Frost, would you do the honors?”

“I would be honored, sir,” said Cathy.

It took almost an hour to get everything set up, get the reporters and everyone else herded outside to await an unannounced major event, and get the American delegation present. Weintraub and Galinsky originally refused to attend and Barrow shrugged. “Fine with me,” he said. And yet at the last minute they came downstairs, white and staring, creeping quietly up to the fringe of the group that stood in the lobby speaking in low tones, unable to keep away. “Are we ready?” said Barrow. “I know I am. Where’s McCausland and Gair?”

Cody appeared at Barrow’s side. “Sir, could you come into the office?” he said in a low voice. “We have a problem.”

The problem was John McCausland and Robert Gair, standing in the back room of the office where the public address system’s control panel was placed, bellowing at one another with rage. This time it was John Corbett Morgan who was keeping them apart; they seemed about ready to start swinging on one another while Doctor Doom, who was in charge of the PA, sat hunkered in the chair in astonishment with a small stack of music CDs in front of him. “What the hell?” demanded Barrow.

“Musical differences, sir,” said Lieutenant Waters.

“This day will be a celebration of the victory of Christ!” screamed McCausland. “It will be a statement to the world that this new land will not be some kind of comic book Fourth Reich of socialism and paganism! I’ve put up with this constant derision of the Bible and the Christian faith for ten weeks now, General, but by God, sir, this one time we are going to acknowledge that America is a Christian country and that we are a Christian people and we always will be! For fifty years ZOG has shut God out of our national life! No more, damn you!”

“Major McCausland wants me to play Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus,” explained young Waters.

“Twenty million Germans and other Nordic people slaughtered!” bellowed Gair. “Babies burned in their cribs in the Dresden firestorm, from bombs dropped by Christians fighting for the Jews and the Jew god! German women raped by the millions by the Bolsheviks! You want to go back before that, try the Thirty Years’ War, two thousand years of White people slaughtering one another because some of us are stupid enough to worship a goddamned Jew as a god! This day is vengeance for 1945 and it’s a sign that our Folk have finally awakened and we are casting off all these Jew lies!”

“Captain Gair wants The Ride of the Valkyries from Wagner,” said Doctor Doom.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” yelled Barrow. “Okay, bad choice of words. You guys just couldn’t leave it alone, could you? I suppose you want something else, Commandant?”

“Actually, I’d like some Charlie Daniels, but this Russian chopper pilot seems kind of light on country,” said Morgan.

“Well, let’s see what else he’s got,” said Barrow, pawing through the CDs. The problem was that Chernilov was a Russian and he had mostly heavy classical stuff. “Okay, looks like we’re going to have to find something to compromise with. Nuts, I have no idea what most of this stuff even is! Well, here we go! Hohenfriedburgermärsch, the Hills of Peace, by Frederick the Great. A good, solid, dignified piece.”

“The Nazis were very big on Alte Fritz,” agreed Gair. “Okay, that will do.”

“So instead of a pagan piece about female demons flying through the air we play a Nazi song?” growled McCausland.

“Enough, gentlemen,” said Cathy Frost calmly from the doorway. “We are in the presence of the enemy. This has to stop, and it has to stop now. If you think that this movement owes me anything, I want you to lay your differences aside and this my way, on just this one occasion. It is the only reward I will ever ask of the Party.” She opened her purse and took out a Walkman CD player. She took out the CD inside. “I asked the Red Cross for this when I was released,” she said, handing it to Waters. “Lieutenant, when the Tricolor begins to go up the flagstaff, please play track number four, as loud as you can. It is my favorite hymn, the one my imprisoned sisters sang for me so I could hear it while I was being tortured under the so-called Dershowitz protocols. Yes, Captain, it is Christian, but it was written by one of the greatest men of our race who ever lived, a German. His name was Martin Luther. The name of it is Ein Feste Burg Ist Unser Gott, which means A Mighty Fortress Is Our God. However you view God or the gods or whatever destiny rules our world, this day could not have come about without the approval of that force. He has been with us, gentlemen, throughout all these terrible years. And even if we have forgotten Him, He has never forgotten us. Play track four, Lieutenant.”

Of the two authors, I feel Covington uses crimes against Whites to better effect.  In Hunter, the impression is more of a clever ending, whereas in Covington’s novels the emotional fabric is more thickly woven.  The hurt of the victims, not just the outrageousness or depravity of the crime, is better developed.  Perhaps Pierce’s intention was not to make us sympathize with the victims, or maybe it wasn’t within his skills as a novelist to do so.  Hunter feels like it’s 50/50 novel vs. essay.  Covington, while including some monologues that read as essays, is a much better storyteller.  His characters are more than angry or righteous.  Sometimes they are funny, and sometimes they are in pain.  Someone with Covington’s writing talent could bring anti-White crimes into the hearts of White people.  Even if it cannot be used as evidence in debates, these fictional crimes can make the anti-White nature of the current system reach us in a way that statistics, or even graphic photos, cannot.

Posted by Dasein on Monday, January 11, 2010 at 10:45 AM in
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