Are you part of a pack or a herd?

Is your ‘tribe’ a pack or a herd?

I have called America ‘a sick tribal world’, with the operative world being sick. I don’t see anything wrong with a healthy state of tribalism. That of course is looking at it from a masculine perspective, not its opposite, which is the current dominant view. Most people don’t even have a true view of the masculine and the feminine due to the extreme skew of the current ethos. I will attempt to clarify this point here through a few examples from my life. First—although the history of emasculation will be addressed in a few more chapters—I would like to note that before the modern age civilization was shaped in the following ‘yin yang’ fashion:

In Herman Melville’s Moby Dick he devotes the entirety of Chapter V to a sketch of the character of the whale-men, “…a set of sea-dogs, many of whom without the slightest bashfulness had boarded great whales on the high seas—entire strangers to them—and duelled them dead without winking…”

Melville's point is that it is axiomatic that the lethal man [lethality being the root of masculinity] or “the man who has seen the world” is quiet, and reserved, and lives in his own mind. Just yesterday I had a few interactions with people that illustrate how far removed our society's view of masculinity is from this hunting root.

In considering this we cannot discount the role of movies and TV. In ancient masculine times epics extolled deeds, mostly the deeds of warriors. Modern literary commentators tend to dismiss this obsession with deeds as ‘adolescent’, indicating an immature society. If we consider the difference between epic poetry and movies as story-telling mediums we are confronted first with the commercial nature of the movie; that it must be funded, and therefore tends to been written and directed with an eye toward the male and female half of the ticket-buying audience, as opposed to ancient literature which was primarily written for men alone. Since the Silent Film Era of the 1920s our cultural narrative has therefore been tilted on a feminine axis, best indicated by the fact that virtually all movies, no matter the subject, have a male-female relationship as a significant aspect of the plot. Such movies that have no female love interest—such as Predator—can be regarded as closer to the tone of ancient hero tales.

Note: the fact that female characters are generally present as a temporary love interest in the ultra-masculine Conan tales of Robert E. Howard maintains the heroic masculine pattern for three reasons:

1. Conan either refuses permanent attachment with the woman or she is killed

2. No female character is in two stories

3. The female character is generally placed as a civilized viewpoint character through whose eyes Conan is seen as the barbarian

E-footnote: ‘Keep Your Bounty For Your City-Bred Dogs’

As a person who has been fighting and training fighters for 4 decades people usually assume I am a fan of martial arts movies, and fight movies, etc. I am not, for I like realism, and the only realistic acts of violence I have witnessed in film are listed below:

1. Bruce Willis’ character beating pimp with a phone in the movie 12 Monkeys

2. A low budget made-for-TV movie about a female race car driver in which her and her teenage son get in a fight with her boyfriend.

Over the course of viewing hundreds of movies that is it. If we look at what is wrong with the vast majority of film depictions of hand-to-hand combat we see the feminine influence:

1. Posing, such as the photogenic moments of Bruce Lee just before he kicks ass

2. The delivery of witty lines by the hero

3. The back and forth of phony combat as opposed to the momentum oriented reality

4. Overall, the gross visibility of all actions, as opposed to the actual minimal visual profile of most effective combat methods.

The recipe above is combat—the core of manliness—for the noncombatant. 3 and 4 are purely theatrical. 1 and 2 however play to the woman’s idea of the masculine, a beautifully posed and/or articulate hero. Do note that things have gotten more masculine in movies as they have become a refuge for masculine expression: Clint Eastwood characters are all much more masculine than John Wayne characters; Daniel Craig has given balls to the most feminine action character of all time, James Bond.

Even so, the affectation of the pose is still rampant, and has virtually rendered most Asian-based martial arts useless for the purpose of self-defense as practiced today. I will cover this in detail in Honor versus Hierarchy: Present. For now, suffice it to say that where karate was an art for hard men in the 1950s and 60s it is now recreation and confidence building for women and children. Indeed most karate instructors are licensed day care providers!

In his book The Way of Men Jack Donovan lays out 4 tactical virtues. Number 3 in this ascendant hierarchy of virtues is ‘mastery’. The modern mind tends to envision this as a reference to well developed skill sets. Feral nut jobs like myself tend to imagine the term as a perspective, as a commitment to a tactical worldview, which makes this the unifying virtue of the set.

In general the modern view of masculinity is emotional, an emotive investment in an image of the big, strong, moral, upright, brave man. This would be my friend Joe who has all of that going for him, and decided to walk women home from work in a high crime area and got his face caved in. You see, Joe’s image of masculinity was the result of his being raised by a single mother in a feminized society. He did the right thing and trusted to ‘being right’, or what our most prolific visitor Jeremy Bentham terms a ‘normalcy expectation’, to see him through.

There is a problem with this, a number of them:

1. Joe talks

2. Joe trusts

3. Joe’s a good guy

4. Joe’ not a tactical thinker

Let’s recall Melville’s silent ‘bashful’ whale killers.

The traditional image of the American frontiersman is of a man thundering along on a horse, when in reality he was skulking along on foot leading a horse that was trained to be quiet lest it get him killed.

The traditional image of the American military combatant is a John Wayne or Sly Stallone depiction of a tramping macho clutz, when in reality real U.S. infantry heroes behaved like—and were often—sneaky squirrel hunters!

We live in an increasingly post civil society. We have been conditioned to believe that we do not live in a hunting matrix. This conditioning is possible due to our vast numbers and the suburban location of most of us. If every suburbanite in America declines to take any safety precautions and just walks blissfully through life like my dear mother, than most of those people will never be mugged, raped, beaten or killed, for the very simple reason that violent criminals do not have the work ethic required to victimize us all. In a herd vast even the most rapacious predators do not make a demographic dent. This is indicated by the FBI using population as their statistical base for risk determination instead of the more tactically sound spatial model.

However, our urban centers have become tribal zones and the former ethically homogonous suburbs are being seeded by the federal government with minority populations with criminal/tribal worldviews. For more on this dynamic read Getting Out Of Dodge. So it might just be time to wake up.

Daniel is a wrestler who has occasionally come to me for stick, blade and fist training. Yesterday afternoon he was leaving after a visit and we stood in the front yard to chat as the local middle school was letting out. These kids are middle-class blacks who have never committed a crime on my street, but are very loud, pose a lot, and pretend to be hoodlums. Although most whites think blacks are primitive, they tend to be the most feminized Americans and are easily dealt with so long as you remain a quiet tactically minded man. Nearly all blacks have a deep fear of any man—of any race—who is silently strong. This is almost like a supernatural dread, and stems from them being raised by loudmouthed women in areas stalked by the silent apex predators who dominate the drug trade.

Four boys, two of them man-sized—where walking by his car and began discussing it. By the time three had passed the car one reached out as if pretending to try the door latch. Daniel and I were both watching them. He claims he saw the boy touch the door latch. I saw him touch the rear fender. I am going with my impression over Daniel’s, because when he saw them near his car he immediately got emotional and began flexing, posing, rocking from foot to foot. At this point, if you are a woman, or a feminized man, Daniel looks really dangerous and I look like I’m asleep.

Daniel’s heart rate is elevated, his blood vessels are constricting, his hearing is becoming dull, his peripheral eye-sight is reduced, and adrenaline is beginning to enter his system. If he does not act violently soon the adrenaline will poison his system. Daniel is more intelligent than me, much younger, and at least twice my strength. He has worked out the strength and courage aspects of masculinity and has some specific skills checked off in his mastery box. He could pick me up and throw me across the yard.

The situation with the kids never materialized. One of the fools wanted to look like a hoodlum and his friends kept walking. Then Daniel, simmering over his emotional attachment to his car [all emotion and all attachment is feminine in a tactical sense] said, “Away from the car. You all should not be looking into people’s cars.”

I’m thinking to myself, ‘They are already on their way. This is now a possible altercation with the innocent children of the News Nation.’

Sure enough the two smaller punks tried to get their large friends to return and fight. Daniel and the smallest punk continued the verbal exchange. I said to him, “If you lived here you would be in a fight every week. You cannot verbalize with these people, that is their world, all they have, they are creatures of the voice. They build cohesion and develop aggressive dynamics through bitch talk. You took nothing and almost made it into a law suit.”

He responded, ‘"It wouldn’t even be a fight. I’m ready. They can step to me.”

He was still thinking in terms of establishing courage and had only considered the situation tactically at the lowest level, his ability to toss these kids around and rack up criminal charges, invite law suits, and have his life ruined by Al Sharpton.

There are so many possible versions of how this could have gone wrong—including the ten kids following these kids serving as witnesses that this tattooed muscle guy just attacked these innocent unarmed teens out of nowhere—that I’m not even going to bother enumerating them, but leave this situation for Daniel and my other readers to consider as a scenario builder.

What these types of situations really represent is an everyday opportunity to hone your mind, to cultivate a tactical worldview in case you end up involved as one of the players in a situation from my upcoming novel God’s Picture Maker which involves very similar dynamics. This excerpt involves a location I have been to, in which two characters based on people I have interviewed for my violence project meet under circumstances not dissimilar to that described above, but in a predatory adult context. The weapon used in this fictional encounter was once used for real, and I held it in my hand, the dried blood and gore still coating it.

The trash trucks were long gone, with only the Saunders family pickup truck and some douche-bag’s 1987 Lincoln Town Car—that’s it, draw out the muscle—remaining in the driveway out back.

I am an artist. I’ll give myself that prop.

He was in the backyard where the driveway wrapped around the house, admiring the paintjob when the muscle-bound Italian meatball in the leather jacket came out to hassle him, with a mushy voice that sounded like he gargled with ricotta cheese, “Can I help you pal?”

Randy looked up into the big monstrosity’s eyes—this is one tall meatball, six-five maybe—sweet’

Another pause to piss his dumbass off.

“Sure Guido how much for your ride.”

The man’s sweet cologne made a pungent contrast with his fermentation-quality trench mouth as he leaned nose-to-nose with Randy, who, at 160 pounds, was giving away a hundred pounds to this meathead. The sound of the trunk unlatching caught his ear. The man then held up his keys, dangling them before Randy’s eyes with his left hand as he straightened up to tower over him and cracked the trunk with his right, “Tell you what skinhead-motherfucker, you take a ride in here, and I’ll think about it!”

Randy’s voice seemed distant somehow, even though his admiring diction was spot on, and his inflection soothing, “Quite a spacious arrangement for unwilling passengers you have here Sir. I am prepared to offer—y…”

His last word trailed off as he heard the pop of the skewer—the new custom forged one fabricated in the back of his Doomsday Van—entering the windpipe. The big idiot began to gasp but was cut short as the sixteen-inch long, quarter-inch thick rod of blued steel pinned his lantern jaw to his idiot face, and made a pleasing ‘shing’ sound as it drove up through the nasal structures into the braincase, ending with a pleasant yet hollow ‘pop’, as the point came out of the top of the inferior head.

He patted the meatball on the back and kissed his ear with a whisper, “You should fit brother. Now fall in easily. If I bust open this barely healed deltoid attachment I will not beseech Lord Krishna on behalf of your paltry soul.”

Amazing!

The power of suggestion apparently had no end to useful applications, as evidenced by the dying meathead easing himself down into the trunk even as he shook, shivered, and died, “There you go brother. Good boy.”

Lord Krishna, please welcome this honorable foe into your pitiless embrace…

As illustrated by the above story the real problem with getting too attached to your property is that it can be used to set you up. If I wanted to carjack Daniel I would wait for him to roll up at a 7-11, buy a piping hot coffee while he was entering, and then be found lurking by his driver’s side window when he came out. When he stepped up to me I would disarm him by asking for directions and then throw the coffee in his eyes. The value of some untouchable pre-martyred punk as he who paid rude attention to Daniel's vehicle is that you get to use him to practice not letting altercations develop unless they are developing based on your own considered calculation.

Less than a minute later, Megan, an ex-girlfriend, pulled up behind Daniel’s car. She had her 100 pound insane German Shepherd puppy hanging out the window and barking at the follow on group of kids who where barking back. I should have said something to Daniel then about being a silent wolf instead of a barking dog. He is still emotionally wedded to a just one-culture world where a man should raise his voice to tell misbehaving boys what is right and wrong. But in a sick tribal world whatever he says is wrong simply because of the color of his skin, and whatever they do or say is right by virtue of the fact that they have done it or said it. When humans regress to an unnatural state of tribalism, as opposed to living in a natural tribal order, they tend to think in absolute subjective terms, having lost the objective calculation of the primal hunter.

Until he sheds the stifling morality of a dead civilization Daniel—who in terms of morality and loyalty is perhaps the best man I know—will have the chance to become a primal man by thinking in a purely tactical context. Keep in mind that morality is already superseded at every step by amoral government law. If you must abide by a set of rules abide by the only set that can be applied to you—The Law.

Megan brought her giant puppy for me to walk so that this four-legged bodyguard her sugar daddy bought for her would not drag her down the street like she was Chevy Chase’s dog being dragged behind the family car in that dreadful movie about a thoroughly emasculated man.

As we walked through the park between me running laps with this four-legged knucklehead she was troubled that I was not speaking, as we had always had conversations. She said, “Are you feeling alright?”

“Fine.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“No.”

“Why aren’t you talking?”

“I don’t talk while I walk.”

“But you used to talk to me.”

“That was in bed.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You are not equipped to understand.”

I was simply walking in a tactical world, mainly looking out for glass and syringes that could damage the dog’s paws, kids walking home from school he might be tempted to scare to death, and homeboys who might be walking their pit bulls. Megan is a wonderful girl but she is not equipped to understand a man who does not share her cozy values. To her I am an enigma with certain rare uses to the modern woman.

An hour after Megan’s disastrous conversation and Thor’s romp in the park I was down at the diner having a bowl of chili. As I left so was Joan, a lady that works at the local drug store, where five people have recently been attacked and injured and robbed [with one blinded in one eye]. Big Jim was walking by. He asked me if I was walking Megan to work or should he. I indicated that I would and he stopped to chat.

“You can’t be too careful these days. We’re the only whites who have not been beaten in this neighborhood. Was a time I liked fighting them off with my hands. But these days my bones don’t heal so quickly so I carry a blade.”

Big Jim is 6’ 6”, 250 pounds, and is a retired fireman. People think he is strange for not talking much at the bar or on the street, and for always having this far away look. As we are talking he’s scanning the street behind me for anything that is wrong; smoke from a fire, a stalled car, a wallet someone just dropped, or a sketchy character that needs further observation. Big Jim stays until close at the bar where I met him. At midnight he stops drinking, makes sure that drunk patrons get home safely in a cab, that ladies are walked to their car, and that the barmaid does not have to lockup or go to her car parked in the back alley by herself. Big Jim is a tactical man without a price. He does this all out of a sense of masculine duty. He is a 70 year old hold over from a long dead age when every block in a city neighborhood had a self-appointed defender like him. Now he is regarded—even by those he silently protects—as strange.

Most people consider a lifetime of looking at the world in this tactical way as paranoid, for Jim might go years without seeing anything that needs addressed. In the Conan and Tarzan stories I grew up reading the authors referred to this as the ‘patience of the primitive’, another one of those reviled literary images that modern academics regard as adolescent. The fact is that primal man is a quiet observant stalker, just as primal woman is a busy chattering gatherer who needs to be able to yell or scream to spread alarm. Her 1 million years in the root-gathering occupation was been done cooperatively with other women through conversation. Her counterpart, the hunter, learned to communicate visually to avoid spooking his prey. There is a place for a vocal alpha male, and increasingly so in more advanced societies. But the cornerstone to being a man in primitive circumstances is to regard the world with a suspicious yet curious eye and address it with a cunning hand.

Tactical Adam and Eve survived and became us by complimenting each other, not by becoming more alike. Our centuries long flirtation with becoming one psychological gender is now even finding physical expression via surgery and medication and seems poised to usher in a denatured era unless men and women find a way to put the brakes on the one-gender drift that seems to serve the will of the elite.

Later on when Daniel called to apologize for causing a scene he asked me what he should do in other such situations. I evoked Big Jim, who has cultivated the habit of alertness and preparedness through his tactical worldview and said this, “You have to get rid of the emotions. I would say the number one rule after that is to never vocalize—especially with blacks. If the situation is so bad that it calls for action do not talk—attack! If you are dealing with guys who you think might attack that situation will become you attacking them as soon as the cops show up and the ones you did not manage to mark up morph into witnesses that saw you attack this innocent dude they do not even know from behind. If you are outnumbered, you are by definition guilty, so you might as well win. Believe me, it is no fun when two dudes try and kill you, and then when the cops show up they take down your name and address and give it to your primary attacker so he can press charges.”

First and foremost a man is a tactical being.