The Confusionary

by J.J. Archer

23 August 2004

Jack McGill went to a film, "Gold Soul." It was hot, playing in the art houses. At first Jack had hesitated to see it, always distrustful of trendies. But his friends kept telling him it was good, real cool, so finally he viewed it. The film was about corporations. It was done pretty well. People who opposed large corporations had made it. The film was a bit repetitive and adolescent here and there. But overall, it was effective propaganda.

Jack left the theatre in a quiet mood. He had sat in the lobby a few minutes after the film, observing the crowd. The people who had viewed "Gold Soul" were a bit more intelligent than the crowds leaving the other films. This crowd was better dressed, more alert. But Jack had seen them before. It was a crowd of trendies. It gave off a uniform buzz. The film had indeed been effective. Jack wondered why these intelligent people needed such films.

Jack walked the dark streets home. He walked slowly, troubled by the film. What was bothering him? He ran certain scenes through his head. His instinct kept pushing these scenes back to his mind. Jack trusted his instincts to resolve them.

First off, the use of benevolence to confuse. Yes, he was sure the intent was to confuse. The corporate guys were completely bad, and the people the corporations went after were "just people." That was the heart of the trouble: they are people; they need no other identity. As "people" alone they had all the political and moral weight to stop all evil. Mind you, most of the scenes were shot in the land Jack's ancestors had built, but most of the people in the film did not look like Jack. They were black, brown, mixes, jews. They wanted things made by the big corporations but never, ever got these things in the ways they deserved. The film showed street demonstrations, riots. There were interviews with ruthless-looking executives and functionaries. A few of Jack's people were mixed in with the blacks and browns. Jack noticed also that an awful lot of the spokesmen, the leaders, of the blacks and browns, were jews. Now, Jack had nothing against jews, but he thought it warped that so many of the people arguing for the blacks and browns against the corporation were jews. Strange, when jews were the richest group of people in the world, and getting richer and more powerful -- all the while arguing so hard for "the people." The contradiction grew very quickly on Jack, and from that night on Jack could no longer think of jews as he did before. The images of jews in "Gold Soul" ran off in his mind like a runaway locomotive.

But was that all that was bothering him from the film? No. Jack didn't understand why the Germans came in for such rough treatment in the film, as the ultimate evil and perfect accomplices to global corporatism, when Jack knew other history. He knew, for example, that New York banks had financed the Bolshevik revolution. That was a fact. Here was another: the Bolsheviks killed far more than the National Socialist Germans did -- and before the Germans did. What did that mean? He began to wonder what he himself would have thought and done if he was a German in the 1920s and '30s knowing what was happening in Russia. Anyway, the attacks on Germans, the Third Reich and German-ness had been gratuitous. Any 12-year-old could see it.

The streets seemed to be growing darker as certain bits of history and scenes came together, almost like they shared chemistry. Indeed the streets were dark. No, actually they were dead. Almost for the first time, and certainly never before like this -- Jack paused and looked at the immense blocks of buildings abandoned, stained, infested with weeds, rats, graffiti. Some of them were superb, ornate, of stone, with carvings and ironwork. He was sure the men with the skills to build such buildings did not exist any more. Or if they did, they were very few, and specialists like himself, in the niche markets for the rich. Thousands of white people lived here once. They worked and loved, made children, improved and built, debated and struggled against the tide of decay that encroaches on every civilization. Well, they lost. That was damned obvious; they had lost. Now they were bones under the grass and their legacy was sinking into the jungle. Centuries of hopes and struggle and sweat, sunken into African savagery...

Suddenly Jack was appalled. The confluences of what he knew, and what he had seen in "Gold Soul" this evening, bored through him like a hurricane. Quiet, but powerful, the realization was so strong that he shuddered. At first he thought his body was reeling from an invasion by bad microbes; then he realized a revolt was taking place in him. Was it psychosomatic? Maybe. He felt cold, and sinking inside. Like something was dropping out. He walked on a few steps until he couldn't resist it anymore. He stepped into an alley and vomited so violently it was more like angry ejections. Smelling his own bile, and the urine and feces of derelicts, he finally withdrew back to the sidewalk, grateful for the "fresher" air. How deteriorated he had become, living so long in the city, when the air of this filthy place could ever smell "fresh." He wondered a moment what else he had grown numb to, what more was plain but which he did not see.... His head still reeling he struggled on until he found a bench and sat.

He did not know what to do.

A small park was behind him. He realized that someone could come out of the dark and break his skull, shove a gun in his head. But he didn't care. That was material; his mind was revolving a hundred miles an hour, putting pieces together. One idea which pressed on him again and again was the issue of land, of space. He looked around. Indeed his people had built this city. It had been a great city, but now it was rotting away. One third of the population was gone and those who remained were, about half of them, living off the government to one degree or another. Some received buyoff money; others held government "jobs" which paid salaries these people could never hope to make in the private sector. Jack realized that whatever his people did they always seemed to give up space, retreat before the tide of black and brown. And Jack realized that land, space, was the key to all survival, physical and psychological.

He had read war histories. He knew that there is strategic surrender and psychological surrender. A strategic surrender is a planned yielding of land to a stronger foe with the understanding that the land would be retaken someday. But a psychological surrender equated with death in the long term. Psychological surrender meant a people no longer cared about what their ancestors had done, had left to them. The phenomenon of psychological surrender was both fascinating and lethal. In North America the indigenous peoples had lost their land to the Euro man. Even though many fought bravely and died, they lost. But the memories of heroic resistance were not transmitted down the generations. Now the condition of the Indian nations was a pitiful sight: broken, alcoholic, miscegenated, generally pitied and coddled, they paid the price for surrendering psychologically. Because this was the fact: Jack had never heard or read of any Indian talking about driving the Euro man out someday and taking back the land. No doubt some did, even though such a declaration would be impossible to carry out. But the benefits to the Indians who declared it, believed it, would keep them alive and strong.

Now Jack understood why so many jews had been in "Gold Soul" and why the emphasis was not on nations but on 'people' -- the anonymous, gray mass of bipeds, race-mixed, shunted into materialism, become animals. The jews, being rich and powerful, needed to weaken all other groups. It was their way of survival. What a diabolical path!

Troubled for days, Jack grew tired, and left it alone. After all, tens of millions of others suffered from the same eternal circular confusion. Symbols had been inverted; words and terms emptied of their traditional meanings and refilled with the dogma of "one people." Boilerplate jew psywar. Thinking back on the film, Jack came up with a term for such things: "confusionary."

And like most whites, Jack was just too busy trying to survive with some dignity. He hadn't all that much energy to spare. With the rest of whites he figured the extreme danger -- inevitable and approaching -- would launch him into the proper responses. His instincts would take over. Whites would coalesce. He really believed it, and believed the better whites believed it also.

But cancer never sleeps. Not in the great Euro corpus; the jew never rests. Jack managed to keep his mind off things, but with effort. And once he became conscious that he was shutting out the markers of occupation by hostile aliens, his struggle was lost. Henceforth he saw them, felt them. They ate at his honor and his morality. His struggle to maintain indifference was impossible to carry on. Once one wakes up it is impossible to sleep again. And he remembered his own conclusions about territory and interior space. And he saw his people's space shrinking, the physical and psychological. Against his wishes he began to notice the war of symbols in the mass media, the curve and the content of the media meant to edge Euros in annihiliation. Annihilation. That was not too strong a word for it. Still, still -- what could he do?

Jack went on and made his living and tried to find the right girl. It was hard, damned hard, finding Euro women who weren't insane. Everywhere he looked the same suicidal fever had seized the Euro brain. The rudeness, the refusal to look up, to control themselves. In fact he perceived a conscious striving to be as vulgar as possible, to brush the edge of boorishness and brutishness without destroying themselves. The culture, such as it was, had been inundated with the worst traits of the prole. Cultural combat had become for Jack a bit like the dynamics of drug use. Jack had used drugs in his earlier days. He remembered how it was good to get high -- but then one had to fight against the effects if one wanted to pilot a car, walk a city street, hold down a job, keep a girl, conduct business. And since he had to apply counter-effects after use, why use the drugs in the first place? No, there had to be another way of psychological comfort. He was real enough to know that constant comfort is not possible; but still some way, some wormhole must exist into which he and like-minded whites could dive and find relief without chemical dissipation of the senses. He began to consider the warping of the senses by chemicals an affront. Against whom? God, or gods? This was another idea that he must investigate and answer.

Gradually solutions came to him. Perhaps only band-aids, but they would serve to cap the problems besetting his thinking. They remained vague, the merest theories, because he wasn't really scared, and wasn't really angry. Until he heard the news.

Jack heard through friends that Andrew Hoy's sister had been raped. It had happened near the campus. Jack dived into the newspapers and found the article in the city section published two days ago. Five lines comprised the article, little more than was given to car thefts and burglaries. Races were not named, although he later learned through more research that the two suspects were "African American, in their early to late 20's..." etc. Witnesses said they must have weighed well over 200 pounds. Without realizing it he turned to the masthead of the newspaper and read the names of the editorial staff. Yes, there were jews, but the top third of the decision-makers had "white" names.

He tracked the incident through his friends and his searches of the media. He saw lots of space given to hate crimes committed by whites against not-whites -- although they were very few -- and noted the stronger terms used. It was then that he realized that the first battle against the jew would be for psychological space.

How could that be fought? He considered the fact that the jew cannot rule openly, and never will. Jack knew that the jew was entering an era of unprecedented power for himself and that the jew was going to attempt to rule openly. It wouldn't go. But that was not Jack's concern. He was thinking instead on one of the perennial questions kicked around by White Resistance: should the primary targets be the jew, or his white-skinned frontmen?

That there was a White Resistance was open to debate. If so, it was fragmented. It might coalesce -- but history was full of the tragedies from betrayal. Jack had read of Lincoln Rockwell and others. Jack concluded that the visual media had grown so sophisticated, so pervasive, that it was affecting the neurological workings of people who consumed media regularly. Really, these were different sorts of people. A white person who embargoes the media cannot see the world in the way which a regular and faithful consumer does. The main difference Jack observed was that the instincts of the addicts were disarmed. A healthy Euro man or woman purged the media from their sensory diet -- or else consumed it like an intelligence analyst.

It was time, then, to clear Euro psychological ground. ZOG's physical security was overwhelming. The notion of clearing and holding physical ground was absurd at this time. The white-skinned masses were indifferent; the Resistance knew better; the healthy Euro knew in his quiet way that now was the time of waiting.

Jack decided to skip the frontmen. If he went after them he'd be slipping into the jew's intention: wasting energy on jew insulation. Yes, the ticket was to attack the jew directly. Attack him, terrorize him, attack his technology of propaganda.

A few days after this decision Jack ran into Julia Hoy at the market.

Jack felt her before he identified her, felt an abscess in the energy, something crushed. He squinted in the bright lights, through the obstructions of other shoppers. Yes, it was Julia. Her head was down. Gone was her erect bearing he remembered. She had loved to move, loved the outdoors. But now her spine was bent and her eyes were down. He watched her for a minute or two, wondering if he should speak to her. She came on, cruising along the shelves, putting Jack in mind of a wounded fish come to shallow water for refuge. her long brown hair was missing the luster he remembered. She was a tall girl. The day was hot, it was late in the spring, but she was wearing heavy clothes. Too slowly she was moving. Jack felt tears burning under his eyelids. Then he went forward.

"Well hello, Julia."

She did not want to speak with anybody, but being a well-bred woman she halted and dredged a smile. She understood who he was and what was behind his greeting. Really, Jack was just another acquaintance of her brother. They had met each other a few times. Nothing special attached to Jack.

"Oh, hello." Jack saw the automatic energy of politeness rush to her facial muscles but the smile came out very weak, forced.

"I'm Jack. I'm a friend of Andrew. We've met a few times."

Her eyes were drained of light. Or rather, the light had receded in them. "Oh yes. How are you?" Her hand came out; obscenely, he was reminded of a clerk in a burger joint handing over a bag. He took it. It was limp, warm. A worm turned in his gut.

"Haven't seen you in a while," Jack said. "How have you been?"

Her chin came up. Instantly he knew she had seen through his cover. Now she had to think about herself. And she didn't know what to say.

"It's a bit too crowded in here for me now," he interjected, pretending to look around. "I usually come after ten. Thank god for the 24-hour store."

A weak smile broke the corners of her mouth.

"How are classes?" Jack continued.

"All right." She was looking at him, neutral, lost.

The worm turned in him again.

"And what have you been up to?" she asked, her voice very soft.

Jack shrugged. "Oh, same-o, same-o. Just pushing the elephant. You know."

She nodded, and looked a bit to the side at something in his cart. The silk scarf around her neck parted a little. Then he saw the bruises on her neck. The worm flipped again, hard. "Are those yams, or sweet potatoes?" she asked.

Jack smiled to cool himself. "That's a good question," he said. "Don't know the difference."

Again the weak smile. "Well," she said, "I have to get going. It was nice to see you."

He wanted to hug her, pull her tight to him, give her his blood oath he would avenge her. But he couldn't. He had to stay cool.

"Yes," he said. "Hey, would you like a coffee some time?"

She froze. He thought she shuddered a moment. Then she half turned. "That's awfully sweet of you. But I simply don't have time. But thanks." And she went on, wounded fish in the shoals.

He watched her all the way down the aisle, and noticed that she was limping slightly. And what he noticed next cut him like a knife. He saw that her abbreviated steps were caused by her pelvis, which she was restricting to short motions. And when she turned the corner a cuff of her pant leg came up and he saw a bandage on her ankle. The worm in his gut tumbled. An icy coldness flooded his belly and his chest and seemed to rush up into his brain.

On the way home he stopped at the café and gleaned the local papers. Not a word about the search for the rapists of Julia Hoy. But there was an article about the great progress teenaged African American mothers were making in a new program. And there was also an article about the new dean of journalism at Brandwin University, one Dr. Melvin Grossman. He read on. The article was brief and laudatory.

The name echoed in Jack's mind. When he returned home that evening he ran an Internet search and discovered that Grossman was considered the father of "counterculture" journalism of the 1960s. Now well into his seventh decade, he had taught at Yale and Columbia and many of the power editors of the present had come through his classes. Brandwin University, having received a large endowment from an alumnus, had hired Grossman away from his consultancy and part-time position at Yale. It must have been a ridiculously fat package of perks and salary. But Grossman was a product of boilerplate jew strategy: march a bruder up through the power structure through unremitting positive press; checkmate Euro competition by hostile media. Bribe venal whiteskins behind the curtain. Grossman had toned down his curricula, of course, in the 30 years since because Euros had finally been eliminated from power. Now his job was essentially to keep the machine oiled. But down in his bones he was the same, just another ghetto rat jew, glib, malicious and cunning, viscerally the enemy to Whites, the eternal ahasver imitating a civilized European. The university trash were, of course, excited that a celebrity was joining the faculty. Jack had other thoughts.

And this one intruded again and again: the image of Julia Hoy tortured and broken, probably forever.

Over the following days Jack searched all local media carefully for news of Julia's case. He found none. Eventually the police would catch the filthy animals in some other crime, run their profiles and DNA, maybe link them to Julia. Maybe not. Whatever happened, it wouldn't come soon enough, and whatever the System did to them would fall short of Aryan justice. There is only one payback for a nigger who violates an Aryan woman.

In effect her "case" had simply disappeared in the black wave of criminal offenses, tens of thousands of them disappeared in System computer records, too many, undifferentiated. The System might catch the niggers who raped her. And if it did, the niggers would draw a decade or more in the prison System. Or less. Probably less. The State had no time. The State had no money. The State was drowning in the black and brown tide. ZOG was the State, and ZOG justice would never heal Julia Hoy.

And Jack realized, too, after more reading and thinking, that the violation of Aryan women was part of the jews' strategy to break the only race that can stop them.

Once again, he dismissed the idea of any action against their front men.

He remembered the article in the Sunday paper a few days after the incident, the pictures of students holding a "candlelight vigil" where Julia had been beaten and violated. The jew press had approved, and so these whiteskins thought they were doing something "real." They, who thought these pleadings with an indifferent Universe were effective, were thus impressed with themselves. But such responses no longer impressed Jack. Thousands of vigils had been held for gentle people who had fallen prey. Nothing came of them. The well-fed whiggers in the suburbs nodded, sniffed and thought, "Yes, this is powerful medicine." Yet the statistics piled up, and the best of his race continued to die and retreat into Christian voodoo.

Jack went away from this very troubled. He knew all of that had changed him, he knew an intervention was coming -- but he couldn't imagine what. He was not the man he had been before learning of the rape of Julia Hoy. Now he could no longer let certain things go. Whatever came, he hoped he responded in the way best for White people. In the meantime he continued to follow the case of Julia Hoy and the arrival of the new dean of the school of journalism at Brandwin University, Dr. Melvin Grossman. There was plenty of news on Grossman, nothing on Julia's case.

Jack spent the several following weeks usually. He rose at 5 a.m. to drive to his job as a stonecutter for a custom builder. He stopped after work at his favorite café to read and unwind and watch for clean white women, noting the increasing number of white women with black men. It was trendy, and they were picking it up from jew media. And he wondered, as he did habitually, if he should return to school, finish his degree. He was falling behind socially and economically. But he loathed the jew System, and he felt himself being edged out by the changes, the slow eradication of Euro-ness from the civilization of North America. He wondered if he would kill somebody before he manageed to move to the country. he wondered if ZOG security would catch him. The Army had his DNA and prints. He was always thinking about killing someone: niggers, arrogant jews, white females with not-white men, rich whiteskins riding his ass with remote phones in their ears, even the abortion-minded white playgirls with advanced degrees. He knew it was unhealthy to imagine himself killing almost everyone he saw, but that was the way his mind was going. And the next day he did this cycle again. It was meaningless. He was wasting himself -- yet there was no way he could apply his talents to the System longer. He was simply too far out.

Naturally, he wanted to change the System. He wanted the kikes and the niggers gone. He wanted a White ethno state. He wanted it because the not-whites and the jews were making his life, and the lives of all worthy whites, hard and unpleasant. The ZOG complicated everything; it increased the competition for clean white women; it drove down wages with cheap shitskin labor; it drove up costs with overpopulation; it demented and harassed whites with anti-white laws and media. Yes, life for himself and sane whites would be unimaginably better if the filthy jew was eliminated. He wanted to act, but he knew the time for action, for striking ZOG in a hurtful way, was not here. But what would the signs to act be? He was not sure.

Sometimes Jack drove out to a special place to relax, the old Vulcan Quarry, filled with water years ago. He trespassed to get his favorite spot, a perch high above the enormous pit, on gleaming, raw limestone. There he liked to sit and read, and watch the rolling landscape still covered with trees. There were deer and hawks and the beautiful little birds that couldn't survive the filth of the city. There was an ex-ZOG army merc the corporation employed as a watchman there. Jack called him "Sergeant Rock." It was a 300-meter hike up a steep trail from the road to Jack's perch, and Jack knew "Sergeant Rock" would never come up. He never got out of his vehicle. Jack would watch him through his Steiners, driving the perimeter road, disappearing and reappearing through the trees. Sometimes "Sergeant Rock" pulled over and jerked off to a skin magazine. Jack would like to find the right woman and they could lay naked up here in the sun, like proper pagans. He was sure he would. As the Fuhrer said, without faith there is no victory.

A few days later Jack was crossing a street downtown and noticed a screwdriver in the gutter. He examined it, a cheap import of the sort that was driving White craftsmen out of business. He was not sure why he dropped it in his work coveralls, but he forgot about it until the next day after work. Sitting at his spot at Vulcan Quarry he felt it and pulled it out. Again he looked at it. Then, mindlessly, he began grinding off the slot end on the granite. It was a sort of prayer-bead diversion for him as he looked and listened. The soft, steady grinding sound satisfied him. Without realizing it he was making a tool. After a few minutes he set it aside.

The summer passed and Jack continued his days, as we all do, of routine. It was the way of life, the work of the world. The material animal requires maintenance. Animus resides in corpus, without which animus can do nothing useful. He continued to watch for reports of Julia Hoy's case (absolutely nothing) and of the impending arrival at Brandwin University of the great Doctor Malcolm Grossman. He would be there for the start of the semester. The campus newspaper fawned on him, reported his latest lunches, his statements, his "vision," reviewed his books, almost narrated his preparations to move his residence to New Frankfurt. And Jack would come to Vulcan Quarry and sit and hone his screwdriver. One day he noticed he had put a razor point on it, perfectly centered in the shaft. He capped it with a wine cork and set it aside.

Jack had run into Andrew Hoy at a party. Andrew told him Julia had gone to a Buddhist monastery in Colorado.

"How long will she be there?" Jack asked.

Andrew shrugged. Then he turned serious. "You know, I assume?"

Jack nodded. "Everybody does. I saw her a few months ago in the store. She was way down. How else could a woman be after that? It broke my heart. I didn't know what to say to her."

"None of us do. Anyway, only another woman can talk to a rape victim. We don't understand. We can't."

Jack was numbed a bit by Hoy's manner. He was almost reciting text from self-help books, from "When We Die" trash the latté drinkers read. But he agreed politely. "No, we can't."

After a few minutes of this -- Andrew Hoy growing increasingly limp in every way -- Jack left him, disgusted. There was no fire in him, no shake. An unmistakeable attitude of surrender was on him. Two filthy nigger animals had violated his sister and the fellow had massaged his mind into accepting it. Jack understood why. There were plenty of inverted symbols, and the powers that be had made it so, by which to "accept" something like this. The propasphere was sophisticated, ubiquitous. We are swimming in an ocean of propaganda, Jack knew. But yes, Andrew Hoy had accepted it. The System had made all this and the System had offered its remedy -- the police and criminal justice -- in whose hands it all rested. And that was good enough for the majority of whiteskins, no matter how intelligent.

Jack went off to a corner, so upset he wasn't interested in talking to anyone else now, not even the very attractive women about. Jack thought about Andrew, and realized why Andrew was like this. Only in his early 30s, Andrew had his PhD already, in "human development," a specialty doomed to feed off the System teat. Every breath Andrew Hoy took, every morsel of food, every perk and public accolade, every loan and holiday, would come by favor of the System. He was assistant dean of admissions at Brandwin's Humanities Department and his future would be comfortable and probably lucrative. He was a creature of the System and so of course he was not going to rock the boat. Not even for the honor of his sister. Thus the empirical weariness Andrew had displayed, as in, Well, that's life, what can you do? It was probably a cover. For what? Maybe cowardice. Jack disliked labeling any white man a coward. He tried to take it easy on his fellows. But after his lonely meditation in the corner of the yard he concluded that cowardice was the force underlying Andrew Hoy's disgusting attitude. And Jack wondered how brave he himself was. He let that germinate in his mind: how brave was Jack McGill? And the answer finally came: it is irrelevant. The fact was, Jack simply could not let Julia Hoy go, could not let the image of her crippled White soul and battered body walk off the cliff of his consciousness. She, like a magnet, was tugging him after her.

Jack thanked the host of the party and left. He drove home and lay down to wait for deeper night.

It came, that time between midnight and dawn he called the "dead zone," where all things which are of the night have withdrawn and the day-things are not yet about. He showered, drove down to that section of New Frankfurt called the Old Town, the oldest part of the city, now a rotting demimonde. He knew it fairly well. He knew it because he used to prefer it to McWhiggerville. He had admired the old warehouses and snug sailors' homes and architecture and imagined the life of the port city in the days of steam and horse and sail, and he felt it. But finally, after months, the sheer seediness and decay, the awful subhuman quality of its inhabitants, had disgusted him beyond reconciliation and he lost his affinity for the place.

But he remembered the lay of the streets, certain corners, venues of ingress and egress, what sorts of bipeds favored which areas. Jack cruised the dark streets, seeing almost no one, and none of the sort he was seeking. He knew he was risking a stop by a cruiser on suspicion of looking for drugs. A whiteskin came to niggertown for blowjobs and dope. There was hardly anyone except a few blasted alcoholics and addicts who would be dead in a year. But his gut told him his prize was here, in the open, moving. And finally he saw him: a very hard nigger. A killer, afraid of nothing. The animal swiveled his head with pure instinct at Jack's passing car. Jack nodded at him. Jack drove around the block and parked. Jack got out and walked around the corner.

Here the nigger was coming on. Jack walked toward him, smiling.

"What you got?" Jack said.

The nigger snapped into a higher predatory awareness. Jack entered his path and at four meters charged in low. He stabbed the nigger in the crotch with a hunting knife. He came up gripping the nigger's jacket and slashed him from eyesocket to chin. The nigger went down. Jack stomped on his skull and neck until he heard something snap. It was over in 25 seconds. For Julia Hoy.

Jack went down the alley, threw the knife onto a roof, then another alley and another. It was dead quiet, black and abandoned. Most of the street lamps were out -- the city had to spend its first money on the animals. He came to his car. He got in and drove away. His wake was quiet as the grave.

The newspapers didn't make much of the terminated nigger. He was known to police and had done time for rape, assault, and armed robbery. His corpse would stand in the morgue for a month or so until the case was buried by subsequent murders. A few "human rights" organizations -- surveillance run by jews for jew security -- sniffed danger in the killing. The police had been puzzled that the nigger's wallet was on his body, and commented on the skill of his attacker. But the nigger had been pure street shit. His story would yield nothing useful, so the jews' alarm faded out.

But now it was time to monitor the prize, Dr. Grossman, agent of chaos, architect of "the confusionary." Jack became an intell analyst, although it wasn't much of a challenge. The weekly campus newspaper told him nearly all he wanted to know, including the neighborhood in which the great man had purchased a house. He was bringing his shiksa cunt with him, also a professor. She would join him later. Good, very good. And there would be a party, a bash, after his formal acceptance speech before the assembled faculty of the Journalism Department, the high administration and anybody else who managed to fawn their way in. Jack would have several ways to apply justice. Aryan justice.

Now his Grossman plans were not taking so much of his analytical energy as the aftermath was. What would he do after he liquidated Grossman? He gave this some long thought, because he wanted to live. He wanted to walk the earth as a clean white warrior, and make white children, and develop a relationship with a fertile part of the land. To do this, he must escape detection by ZOG security. To do this he must minimize his signature. The ZOG security would hunt him down with the full force and fury of jew rage and paranoia. Where would he go? Where could he go? There were no secure White zones yet. He would be acting before the arrival of desparate times, that time when the jew and his brown and black cancer will back the Aryan remnant to the cliff's edge -- of mind and physical space. What would he do? He was on his own. Half of the whiteskin population would turn him in to ZOG; a fourth would refuse to help him; a small part of the healthiest quarter were scattered in the countryside waiting for Ragnarok, with little or no political power.

But what other kinds of power were there? He shook his head violently, realizing he was thinking as ZOG propaganda had imbued him, to wit: all power is in the form of the political or economic organization. With a shudder he realized, further, that there had to be other forms of power because so many people simply ignored the Sytem now. There was the so-called underground economy. But it was more than economic; it was a symbiosis. Families and deep friendships were its warp and weft. Now, how could he access this volkisch power?

Well, that was a measure to be handled later. Certainly no security was to be found in the city. Every White man and woman knew this by now. The city was a meatgrinder of fear and economic slavery. The city was death for anything White. The best of them had fled long ago, and were making do in the rural areas. They were denying ZOG their talents and taxes as much as they could and there was little ZOG could do about it. The desperate jew tactic of importing black and brown primitives in bunches and emplacing them in rural towns had failed to do what the kikes intended: deracinate whites. The program was continuing but it was growing dangerous to carry it out. A bit of mailed fist had done it. One Baptist minister in Tennessee who was "sponsoring" an influx of Sudanese was sniped on his tractor. In Maine a Catholic church was burned to the ground for the same reason. In east Texas a carload of predatory Mexicans was riddled with 5.56 and shotgun fire when they had crossed a certain county line. The national media howled about the "horrible brutality" of the coup de grace applied to each of the shitskins: their throats were slashed. But all real Whites everywhere knew that this had not been "coup de grace" but release of pent-up hate. In Wisconsin a cabal of jews and Marxists, driving upstate to investigate racist violence by whites, was liquidated on the road between Glidden and Park Falls.

The fact was, rural areas had attained a critical mass of anti-ZOG whites. The ZOG sent its security dogs into these areas, but no one talked. The few who did later disappeared. There were some hardcore whites in the countryside now. They had awoken; they knew there really was a ZOG, and that it meant to kill them off. These were just a single digit of the population, but that's all it takes. They were clearly no-go for jews and not-whites. Jack settled on that, then, in the broad: he would pick a rural destination and make plans to get there.

But what he waited for with almost pornographic anticipation was his chance at the famous Dr. Grossman. As Jack studied and read on, as he learned more about such men and their tribe, he crept toward an almost monk-like focus. It was beyond his power to resist. He realized that he was opening himself up to scrutiny, that he was becoming eccentric, that ZOG security could, and probably would, profile him through some eccentric incident, and detain him. But he did not care. The track was laid; the locomotive was fired; he could go forward only.

He studied the map of the campus. He walked all over. He memorized the roads, the service drives, the paths, the buildlings and parking lots, the gates, the locations of panic phones. He observed the routes the campus police patrolled; they were predictable. He reconnoitered the woods surrounding the campus, knew their trails, where they led. There was Morgenstern Hall, where Grossman was to speak, and a party to be held for him.

Zero day: August 19.

Jack knew his acts would effect terror, not damage the System. But he was one man, and one without the technical knowledge to damage the System. The System was an organism; if one could break its supply of energy and food he would damage the System. This is the only effective act of war; all others are warm-ups, auxiliaries, to the destruction of food and energy supplies. But an individual could attack the minds of his enemies. He could terrorize them, cause them to abort support for the System. And retribution was a form of terror, because it was justice delivered to an identity group which thinks itself and immune and excepted from the laws of the Natural world.

And what are those laws? Jack McGill studied them, learned them as his ancestors had learned them before the jew-god poison infected Europa. It was this: there is no cozy place in the afterlife. Life is made sweet in small spots by strong men struggling the rest of the time. Civilization is forged by the sword; the men wielding swords must reserve a part of themselves for the vision of civilization. The best killers are those who have civilized hearts. Decay and predation are always closing in. Always. The man or woman who gives up improving himself, of struggling up from animal, is a slave. And for the white man or woman who forgives those who give up, the jew-god religion is fit for him.

And Jack certainly wanted to live, to improve himself. The world was fascinating. He had no illusions that "his people" would appreciate what he had done and would do. But as he would tell his sons and daughters shortly before he died, "I had become a soldier." And a soldier pushes on; a soldier who believes pushes on. His belief is like the rock to Sisyphus. What counts is the struggle; there is nobility is gained, not in victory. And Jack had come to believe this: there were tens of millions of worthy white men and women out there, those who understood, had abandoned the System, the cities, and were lifting themselves all over again in the rural areas. From the beginning. They were off the grid, or trying to get off. The System propaganda reports didn't mention the incidents in the rural areas. This corroborated Jack's suspicion that the System was losing control of the rural areas. Jack had faith, then, that if he headed into the rural areas he would find shelter.

He would marry into a clan -- and it was the clan that was defending the rural areas. This had become the basic unit of White Resistance. Over the decades the failure of hundreds of White organizations, under System Capitalist society, had proven that the ZOG easily infiltrated and destroyed them. Organizations based on ideology only did not survive. System propaganda always rendered them down. The System could not be co-opted, could not be reformed from within, could not be penetrated and turned. After decades of murders, incarcerations and character assassinations of white resisters it was learned, almost as if by rote, that only blood organization has the character to resist. this worked only in the countryside, the only environment the best whites could stand to live.

Jack hit Grossman after his speech. the little poison capsule was walking back to his car, across a darkened lot. He really didn't want to hang around with all those stupid goyim, and had broken away from the party as soon as he discreetly could. Jack clamped a gloved hand over his face, pulled him down and back onto the point of the shiv. Jack shoved five inches of cheap Chink steel into his brain. The filthy shmuel jerked like a lab frog, then went limp. For Julia Hoy.

He dragged the corpse into the woods next to the lot and down into the ravine. He left the shiv in his skull. Jack took his wallet and his keys, drove the kike's car back to his apartment, took the few things he needed, and set off for his new dimension. He knew the surveillance cameras had caught him in the lot. But he knew something about each of the campus cops. Half were niggers, the rest overweight white men thinking more about 19-year-old skin and their next hamburger. He was sure he had not been observed in the act. The kike would be missed, the surveillance tapes reviewed. When the corpse of the kike was discovered Jack would be long gone. The whole affair, brief and mundane and sordid, was an old story, old as humankind. Thus it had really been simple. The enemy is sometimes without redeeming qualities. Jack had applied the elementary solution to this phenomenon of the "confusionary": no jews.

J.J. ARCHER

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