On this, the last day of a dastard year, I am considering a conversation had last night with a man whose spoken ideas have sparked hundreds of articles and a few books, among them Reverent Chandler, in which I predicted in 2015 that during a climatic cooling event the waning imperial system would muster hordes of color to drive Arуan Native Americans to extinction.
We then discussed the spreading of Baltimore style blight to the rest of the nation, which I predicted, and transgender surgery as a means of social control in Organa and The Sunset Saga written in 2011 now come to pass.
He began to cackle:
“Murica! Fuck this place!”
Finally, we discussed how happy I am about the fact that NFL stadiums are now voting poling stations and how this confirms my novel Cube written over a year before the fact.
He then tells me, “You predicted a few years ago in a dialogue with Richard Barrett—the kid in the tie—that military contractors were going to be policing in America. Well, of course we saw that, you and me, when them goons rolled up on us during the riots in Baltimore. But now, in Philly Homo Erectus is running wild—no matter how watered down the African DNA is it must attack, rape, rob and kill. They might not be able to fight with their hands, but they got guns. Now, they are hosing down Habib behind the counter and towing away ATMs at gas stations. So all over North Philly you now have pairs of military contractors with ARs on patrol. Whatever company this is has crossed ARs on the logo.”
“Yes,” gleefully replied I.
He says, “If you were well known people would be saying, ‘Hey, bro, could we get this nigga ta stop makin’ predictions?’
“So here is one for you, back when you were stocking grocery shelves, feeding this world that hates you that threw you to Homo Erectus, if some time traveler came to you in 1998 and said, ‘Mister LaFond, your science-fiction predictions and social commentary were absorbed into the self aware system consciousness and actually caused all kinds of horrible social decay, the extermination of the white race, a spic future minus the only thing good about spics, that they can’t stand blacks and don’t put up with your shit. Mister LaFond, if you decline to write and keep stocking shelves you will save the white race and prevent Homo Erectus from sweeping across the planet and that part of the initial process would make you homeless.’
“In other words, what if you could have saved the world by declining to write and going quietly into the night!”
“Well, I would reply, ‘In that case, I’m quitting work, abandoning my family, and becoming a weird fiction and wrong nonfiction hobo writer—now!’
[laughter]
I then confided, roughly:
I’ve been wanting to write a novel titled Timejacker. I got the idea when two conductors on the California Zephyr westbound out of Denver, moved a mսlatto couple to better seats so that they would not have to be offended by my proximity. Furthermore, the conductors, one of whom eye fucked me extensively and boasted about law enforcement connections, both spouting woke pretensions, were then called out to break rocks on the tracks.
It occurred to me then, that the series The Sunset Saga, about time travel to salvage lost races and individuals for the future, would not be completed as originally envisioned and that I had two criminal time travelers who had stolen time travel devices for their own purposes. One of these is Randy Sterling Bracken, best character of the cast, who is a wanna be old west gun slinger and train robber and also half-Korean white supremacist.
Its done, when I’m done writing Can, the novel about the black crackhead urban super hero, I will write Timejacker, in which this sinister time traveler abducts me, to use as an historical advisor.
The plot is this. The ice age future North America is overrun by hordes of Iron Age negro cannibals. Bracken, last white man of this future, steals a time machine and brings it back to 1937, so that the device might be used to turn the entire Hindenburg Zeppelin, stolen from the scene of the May 6, 1937, Manchester Township, New Jersey airship disaster into a time machine—crewed by Krauts no less!
The Timejacker, knowing only how many men can be carried by the air ship, then abducts the dissident historian and science-fiction writer, Jamie LaFranc, to plot a scheme by which Arуan fighting men in North America might be rescued in their hour of need, when they are being wiped out, boarded upon the ship, and taken into the Bantu future to cruise across Murica wiping out the teaming invaders!
The crew of Arуan Air Marines for the Hindenburg that comes to mind is:
-Braddock’s Scottish Highlanders at Three Rivers, 1740s
-Tecumseh’s pale Indians at the Thames, 1813
-Crockett and Bowie from the Alamo, 1837
-Fetterman from Crazy Horse’s Massacre, 1870s
-George Armstrong Custer and Miles Keough from the Little Bighorn, 1870s
-And the James Younger Gang at Northfield, 1870s
-And in case we run across litigious negroes, we need to abduct Captain Richard Francis Burton during his tour of America, 1860s
We can’t rescue any Confederates from Civil War battles due to massed minieball technology and modernizing artillery. But evacuating higher tech U.S. Cavalry under threat from tribesmen is doable. To appease Randy’s Confederate sympathies, the James-Younger gang will have to suffice.
The Hindenburg had an unfortunate ratio of only 36 passengers to 61 crew. It will be a tough job, a tall order worthy of aspiring gods.
Crackers away!
…
Addendum
The Randy Bracken Character from The Sunset Saga, is based on Charles Wallace, 40%, Rick Wayne 40% and my darkest inner self, 20%. Due to my dream, which has provided the backstory, I will eliminate Rick and Charles from the character, and make this Major Bracken the best version of me I could have been if I had been recruited by time travelers in the early 1990s as a negro wrangler, which was my only social skill at the time.
The name Randy Bracken was the name I had always stored in my mind as a young fellow, in case I got arrested without I.D. and had to give an alias, it was my dissident criminal inner alter ego. That is what I would have used in a situation presented by the dream that sparked the overture of this novel.
To the back matter with you, overt outline.
It is time to craft a story.
