On the second Saturday of August, in the dying year of 2019, I accompanied a friend to the mountain above Reading Pennsylvania, a shithole city of the state which has become a refugee camp for criminals from New York and Philadelphia, and for those fleeing criminals from New York, Philadelphia and Maryland. Most Pennsylvania towns east of the Continental Divide have what appears to be a section of the Baltimore ghetto parachuted into the forested hills along a muddy river, making for some congruence. Such towns were once homes to the captains of industry and are festooned with weird and heavy-handed architecture, which interests my friend, who enjoys perusing the ruins of this dying civilization.

We had been told by locals that a visit near dusk would be like visiting the scene of a vampire apocalypse just before nightfall. One mutual friend, who recently managed a halfway house for male dopefiend drones, in which every one of the thirty men under his care have recently graduated to fates such as death, incarceration, rehab and relapse, told us that some of these zombies had confided that the “Pagoda” on the mountain above Reading was where they used to go at night and “do stupid shit.” Not wanting to be involved in what stupid people called stupid shit, we went by day.

The mountain overlook, a Pagoda intended to be a hotel which never got the financing it needed and ended up owned by the municipality as an odd museum, is accessed by an easily driven road. We parked behind a wall where one could employ viewing machines to inspect the civic ruins of the atrocious ostentation below and noted that we were about the only palefaces and that pairs and trios of prime enemy bucks prowled this place even by day.

Some fat cat ladies took pictures of one another.

A couple young couples hugged above their mendacious town.

A fat, bearded Gen-X nerd and his plump bride and their pudgy child, leaned on the wall.

Down we went to the tier below the top wall of stone block to stand above low battlements and look down upon a concrete stair cutting down to a concrete walk which winded into the overgrown mountain face to see a wire exclusion fence and a sign that passing below to the once bucolic and now post-apocalyptic walkway below was a crime, I noted to Mister Grey, “You know some bad shit has happened down there!”

To this, he added, “It would be great to take an urban safari down there.”

Then a third voice, a slight, soy-infused vice intruded, “Yeah, it looks sketchy.”

The voice came from a tall, blond youth—a freshly baked man he seemed, of a once great Nordic race, fully blonde, but with narrowed shoulders where once they would have been broad, who extended a soft hand to me as he introduced himself nervously, “Hi, I’m William.”

Mister Grey, scenting the soy and bristling at the presence of a metaphysic boy, skulked off to avoid the socially-borne affliction of emasculation and I conversed for some 15 minutes with William. I cannot recall the conversation well enough to quote William, it being three weeks old and me unfamiliar with his speech patterns.

After taking leave of William and rejoining my fellow urban blight investigator, Mister Grey said, “What was his problem? What did he want? He looks like a faɡɡot. This generation of guys, it’s not even like their men anymore, like something got sucked out of them, His voice was so soft. Just being around them makes me angry.”

I responded, “His name is William. He attends college in Harrisburg and plans on transferring to a university in Phoenix, which seems to him to be some promised land. He’s from [I forget] and wanted to do some sightseeing but all his friends stay inside. He knows the crime ratings of each city in the state and researched this, that it was dangerous. He’s afraid of the prowling buck POCs and wanted our protection. He’s highly intelligent—only 19-years-old.”

To this, Mister Grey, shrugged his big shoulders and said, “I guess I shouldn’t have dismissed him. Maybe it’s the return of instinct. Maybe he knows that he’s slated for extinction.”

Maybe so.

One thing that is certain, is that this latest and most emasculated crop of paleface Americans, though they might be low-T poster boys, seem to know instinctively, that their parents and their parents before them and America in all its glory have cast them internally adrift like floating islands—appallingly passive anti-JFKs—at the untender mercies of more numerous immigrants who have been weaned on at least three generations of intense racial hatred towards their fading kind.

Maybe this is where things turn around in the Euro-American mind enough to prevent a clean genetic sweep.

Yesterday, three weeks after this encounter with William, Mister Grey called me with an urban blight safari report:

“I was walking around Lancaster—kind of a shitty place but packed with enough hipsters to give it that patina of civilization. But I saw three different groups of mystery meat and Latino bucks prowling around in menacing postures. They didn’t bother me, just out doing the bull parade and intimidating the hipsters. But what was crazy, is I ran into two groups of mystery meat kids—I’m talkin’ four and five years old and they started threatening me! It was great. These little bastards were clapping and hooting at me, following me, trying to spook me like, “Hey, this is one of those evil people that it’s okay to hurt! If you think its bad now, wait until these kids are eighteen. Bro, the gloves are gonna come off!”

A resident of this city has since confirmed this activity as emerging.

The above is a very important point from the Refugee America trenches where the criminal class has been driven from gentrifying cities and is mixing with the sissy flight fleeing criminalized suburbs. The traffic in Lancaster and other small Pennsylvania cities bespeaks suburban bugout and urban colonization coalescing into an environment where flea markets and swap meets will have hip hop lifestyle stands right next to make America Great Again booths selling Confederate flags. This emerging future is going to be populated by the first generation of Americans raised on pure hatred of “whites” as a uniquely evil, passive and guilt-saddled slave race ripe for exploitation and oppression.

Jim Crow is ancient history.

Enter the Age of Yo-Bro Crow.

Recognizing and Surviving the Condition of Anarcho-Tyranny