Mister Grey and I sat upon his deck after reviewing certain books on video and he said,

“James, I know that your interests have expanded and deepened since we met in 2001. [1] What I am really interested in, is what books helped set up your initial viewpoint? First you did a violence study because you knew that the martial arts magazines were bullshit. Then you rewrote the whole history of boxing because you knew that was bullshit. How did you know that things that other people believed were wrong?

“Some people might write it off as instinct or alienation—and those factors are there. But I have seen you look at the same book material as other people since 2011 and you see thru the veil and others do not: white Indians, slavery, crime, societal decline. Maybe two discussions, early books that influenced your viewpoint and later books that affected it?”

-Amish Country, Pennsylvania, Monday, April 15, 2024

…

Groan, I wanted to write two chapters in Nihil today. But this fine fellow is coming to town today and his interests, as a reader, trump mine as the writer. I should preface this with the fact that my two major history projects were the product of reader inquiries, not my own curiosity, and that my major journalism categories, Harm City and Travel were thrust upon me by the poverty inflicted by the infotech system that banned and now shadow ban [2] my most salable books. So keen the wicked Norns for our souls.

The books I read as a boy, youth, and young man in my 20s which influenced my worldview, in the order read:

-1. Sea Hunt, multiple short, graphic novels, about a four man crew of pearl and sponge divers in the Mediterranean, instilled in me the ideal that a handful of men could outwit evil doers and also resist oceanic forces. This really struck me as an alienated boy who was among four other retards consigned to the special education reading class. There were no girls in this class. The World Hates Boys! I knew that, which set me on the path to discovering why, and how I could stab Gaia in her all-drinking eye. These stories influenced me largely because these were the first books I could read.

-2. Guadelcanal Diaries, by a reporter with the troops, whose name I do not know. This was the second book I read and convinced me that the World’s hatred for boys was expressed in industrial extermination of men.

-3. The Marshal Cavendish Encyclopedia of WWII. I read these 25 volumes about five times. This basic information on WWII was utterly pro-American, but did include photos of German peasant girls working in rural fields far away from the front who had been machine gunned by American aviators. As the histories of WWII expressed in documentary, movie, TV, and American news media mythology became more and more cartoonish, I have often reflected back to this relatively deadpan account. It was not real history by the standards of Herodotus. However, in my dawning mind, it gained stature and towered over the increasingly emotive rewrites of that titanic war of extermination. All other wars I studied were covered with decreasing emotion over time. Only this war, was and is, viewed with increasing emotion over time. This realization has grown over time as WWII history has continued on this course. This has convinced me that the leaders of all of the warring nations were cooperating in a great cull of the best and brightest lower order men and that the only disagreement, the contest if you will, was over what version of the mass mind ideology would use that global attempt to eradicate men of agency, as a veil behind which the thousands years conspiracy against mankind would be hidden in service to the emotional farming of the surviving masses. This is my deepest and least popular view, that the greatest war ever fought had no good guys, has a pre historic ancient analogue, and that whatever world leader you think served your cause, merely sought to cull your kind in favor of the fervor in his mind.

-4. Mastermind of Mars by Edgar Rice Burroughs. This old time pulp novel attracted my youthful desire to fight enemies, and to mate with a dark haired woman with the stunning cover. Upon reading it, I found that the answer to dealing with the constant mind control attacks of adults, and the frustrated insanity of my fellow youths, was to escape, like the hero John Carter, to other realms, if in mind only. While my friends all through teenage years drank, smoked and did drugs, I read. I have since discovered, that by not doing what all but myself and two other students in Trinity High School did [drink, smoke and get high] as a teenager, and retreating into books instead, that I emerged into adulthood with an ability to remember events, actions, books etc, that eludes most people, despite dozen of concussions of a brain that had been sub standard in boyhood. Indeed, as I live with numerous folks in various states, half of these families assign me the ask of remembering what they did, what they said, where they laid their hammer, etc. Edgar Rice Burroughs saved me from the stupid juice while my brain was growing and forming in its most vulnerable stage of becoming the brain of a man… who, if he becomes and remains a man, is Enemy of All the Civilized World.

-5. Conan the Wanderer, an Ace paperback by Robert E. Howard, edited by L. Sprague de Camp, I found in a Walden’s book store in the Washington, PA mall, at age 13. My hand was broken from a fight with a 17 year old. I had become enemy of the neighborhood. Seeing the Boris Valejo painting of a small barbarian with a knife standing up to a giant of iron, brought instant identification between the author and my yutish self. The headline story, The Devil in Iron was a brutal piece of social commentary against civil society, that our rulers on earth MUST be evil and that defiance must be informed by wits or we are merely meat that complains before it is placed smoking upon the God’s altar.

I shall continue with the rest of this odd literary memoir in #2.

…

Notes

-1. Yesterday, here, at the Brickmouse House, the Webmaster told my host, “When I met this guy he wasn’t interested in any of this conspiracy theory stuff. It was just better ways of fighting, history of fighting and weird fiction. Now, this guy is as deep into the rabbit hole as any of us.

-2. Try searching my books and you will be given mostly used listings, not the books I get paid for; and expanded distribution retailers whose cut comes directly from my royalties and not the publisher who makes the same either way.

We have established that rolling low is good, and high is bad. The rules for play will cover:

Actions

Equipment

Counsel of War

Parlay

Poetry [hurling insults as well]

Dueling [including boxing and other sports]

Shooting, loosing, hurling, throwing

Hunting [including skirmishing and manhunting]

Battle

Running away!

Pursuing broken foes

Rapine

Recruitment

Death’s Door

Sacrifices

Crippled Yore

Divination

and more…

But first, to complete Character Transformation, an historical, rather than mythic prehistoric character. Alexander will be used in one episode provided at the end of the game, designed for 4 players, one being Alexander, the maniacal hero king.

Alexander

Son of Phillip of Macedon

Body = 15

Strength: 4 [Killed 5 warriors at Taxilla in seconds]

Stamina: 6 [The fittest general in history.]

Agility: 5

Discord = 9 at the Granicus [6 plus 3 of 6 battles], at Issus 15, Tyre 16, Arbella 17, Oxus, Hydapsis & Taxilla 18, gave him a point here for every battle that went sideways.

Mind = 16

Knit: 4

Kit: 6 [Innovative siege craft and developed engineering fixes.]

Wit: 6

Fear = 7 [plus 3 thru 11 depending on same experiences above, both representing 20s or potential disasters turned around. The base mania represents him at 16 in Illyria. He will be an 18 at 32 in India.]

Spirit = 18

Animistic: 6 [His taming of Bucephalus and his fearlessness.]

Social: 6 [Perhaps the best customized management of conquered enemies ever.]

Esoteric: 6 [A devoutly religious believer in heaven and blood who was honestly trying to earn a place in Heaven. This obsession, together with his extreme and growing pathos caused him to awe people to the point where it befuddled some of his ambitions and, it seems, got him murdered by the Chaldeans for treating their looting of temples like Jesus would treat the money lenders 300 and some years later.]

Panic = 9 + 1 at 16, +2 at 18, +3 at 21 at Thebes, +4 at 22 The Granicus, +5 at 23 at Issus, +6 at Tyre, +7 at Gaza, +8 at Arbella, and +9 getting him to 18 by 25 at Arbella, where the power of his name had a vast army panicking and running as soon as things went against them, where earlier, up until Gaza, they often fought to the death.

Actions + 1 to 10, depending on the point in his career, by the time of his invasion of India. Actions include forced marches, over 20 sieges, decisions concerning the fate of each conquered people, place, army and captive dignitary, as well as diplomatic negotiations, speeches to the army, visits to the tents of the wounded, etc. Actions are added up, divided by ten, with any fraction retained as a whole number, such 1 action still counting as 1.]

Stamina + 6

Animism + 6

PATHOS = 13 on his ascension to the throne at about 21 years and a score of 22, near his death 12 years later.]

Mania

Discord, Fear and Rout will factor heavily in the play sessions. These are interactive or reflective. A character might use his discord mania in a battle to gain an advantage or even before a battle to panic the enemy into retreating rather than fighting, hesitating until reinforcement come etc. However, in a parlay or counsel of war, the GM might decide that the player needs to make a discord check, just like an ability check, to determine if the jealousy for this hero harbored in other men’s hearts splits the assembled men into factions.

Do note, that in GRUNT, die rolls are never modified, ever. [Determining abilities of some beasts and monsters in Chapter 8 does employ modified die rolls, such as 13-18, or 12+1d6.] These are real results, results that may only be overturned by other results, not modified by some molesting hand. When War makes a judgment, a man’s ability may not twist it. But, Apollo’s jealous arrow might avert War’s spiteful sword stroke.

Checks

All abilities, including manias, are used for checks.

An advantage check is to re-roll an unsuccessful check.

A disadvantage check is to re-roll a successful check.

During this phase of Character Transformation the GM should test each player in his strongest area with an overall ability check [1d20], and one specific ability check [1d6]. Let’s say, Eteus, the Agriane, through practice, and a check of his 13 Body Ability, seeks to begin play with an advantage, a re-roll in his back pocket. The GM might also have Eteus check his esoteric score to determine if he is in disfavor or favor with the god of the mountain he has been assigned to climb by night.

Doing these two checks prior to play, ignites some back story [training, piety—did this guy sight in his rifle or pray?] and also demonstrates two very common play mechanics.

13 abilities are split into overall and simple.

7 Over all, aggregate abilities, being: Body, Mind, Spirit, Pathos, and the three manias, Discord, Fear and Panic, are checked using 1d20, with 1 a great stroke of “luck” or miraculous happening, and a 20 a terrible smite of fate or even an accursed imposition, an actual misfortune.

A godlike hero like Achilles at Troy or Alexander at Taxilla, with a pathos in excess of the normal limit of 18, will still not succeed on a 19, this number always being a simple failure, and will undergo the normal mania process if rolling a 20 on pathos or in action.

An overreaching failure, let’s say rolling a 17 against a 13 ability, might result in 4 disadvantages or the taking of 4 points of damage, depending on the GMs sense of play. Or, that 4 points might be added to the enemy’s overall ability for the very next action, perhaps imbuing a foe with a 14 body with a temporary 18 for his clash with Alexander. The GM and players are encouraged to do something interesting with that overreach, just as successful rolls under an ability are often used in play. These will be discussed later under interactive play.

10 Simple, or specific abilities, which range from 1 to 6 [1] include: Strength, Stamina, Agility, Knit, Kit, Wit, Animistic, Social and Esoteric are checked with a roll of 1d6. A roll equal to or less than that score results in success. A roll in excess is a failure. As with over all ability checks, the difference between the ability and the roll is retained for various uses, as demonstrated below.

The 10th simple ability, is madness, discussed at the bottom of this section.

Outlined at the Swissotel on Sunday, March 31

Written in Pittsburgh on Sunday, April 7

“I just watched a video on InTheseGoingsDown (icepick knife). I didn’t know you stayed at the Swissotel. I worked there for a few weeks. It was nice. But we would park on the lower level dock area and there was a large crack in the wall going into the loading area right by the kitchen and these huge rats would go back and forth between the building and the dumpster nonstop in the mornings. That probably happens at literally every place that serves food in Chicago. That’s why I always bring my own lunch. I don’t trust eating anywhere downtown. Not to mention cockroaches in the drop ceilings.”

-Electric Dan, an April 5th text

…

In Chicago we did see rats from the bus and trains.

The final leg to Chicago was sparse on the train, the two coaches only half full. Leaving California, Denver is the endpoint of travel for most folks. The Rockies and the Great Basin split the nation in many ways. Half of the folks that board in California are only going to Reno, Nevada. The eastbound Zephyr will always be half full headed to Salt Lake City. Then, many folks board at SLC, enough to fill half a car. The stops in Colorado at various resort towns drain the train, with Glenwood Springs a key destination.

Denver, whether one is traveling east or west, is where half the train empties. Rarely do as many folks board in Denver as offload. Some folks switch to air travel or rental car. I get the idea, that a certain number are relocating to what is certainly the nicest city I have ever been to. It was not until after midnight that the final busload of passengers, in which Chris the Conductor rode, to make certain we all made it, arrived at Denver Union Station. It was strange to be seated with the same folks in different order.

Throughout the trip Northeast across the Great Plains the engineer did what he could to make up time. Trains creep through the mountains, outpaced by vehicles except in heavy snow. But on the plains, the train can hit a governor speed of what I think is 82 MPH, though it may be 80 or 84. it has been three [79 MPH] years since this was described to me. However, freight trains sidelined and slowed us. If the freight train and passenger train—as light as paper by compare—pass each other at high speed going opposite ways the passenger train might blow over! There are also many bottle necks at stations, at the small hubs of the rail network, where trains coming and going must share the same track, taking turns. In America, freight ALWAYS takes priority over people: things over lives, the American Way.

Once daylight came, I shared breakfast with a young fellow named Hamilton in the dining car. He works in securing bonds and bid bonds for construction projects in Southern California. He was a very nice fellow, one of those men who could be 24 or 44. I asked him, “Are you attending college or teaching?”

He laughed, getting that comment often.

Seated in the dinning car, which she uses as her head quarters, is my favorite Amtrak conductor, I forget her name. She is a woman in late middle years for whom English is a second language. As a young broad, that must have been very sexy. These days, she sounds like a female Bond villain. She does not walk the cars casting her shadow of authority like the usually tall and athletic male conductors. She dispatches her underlings, the coach attendants and assistant and invites, by intercom, the passengers to visit her in the dinning car. If I write a Planetary Romance, this lady will be cast as the Queen of the World.

As the train fell further behind, in a race to make connecting trains in Chicago, where the entire net is hubed together, we were given updates. The crew dispensed free food from the cafe car, brought cases of water bottles to us in our seats and cases of prepackaged cracker and cookie and trail mix samples, kept on board for such eventualities. We would eat for free on Saturday on the train and Easter Sunday at Union Station Chicago. There, increasing numbers of aging, injured and crippled passengers, such as this hoary gimp, are accommodated in what used to be an exclusive business sleeper class boarding lounge. There, we are advised and attended by ticket agents and ferried to the trains by “Red Cap” baggage handlers, who stand on a kind of tow motor that pushes the passengers and baggage.

The old black fellow, who has the pigeon farm, where other critters are attended, was constantly on the phone with his irritating younger family members, who were all at each others’ throats since he had been gone to California from Carolina to lay his dear mother to rest. He loved the train, having taken the bus cross country westward. A chicken hawk had taken a pigeon, but his son had rescued the still living bird from the raptor’s nest, having scared off the carnivore. He traveled with a great bag of food and began dispensing what was left to the handful of children traveling with their parents, Saying, “I’m old—gotta lightin’ my load.” The boys were thrilled at the supply of Poptarts.

Zen Mountain had gotten off at Denver, an impressive physical specimen of about 35, with beard, who sat in the Lotus Pose for days. Ashcan Sam, when threatening white folk who were on his train, scooched along the stairway housing to avoid having to pass through Zen Mountain’s aura, fearing to look or speak in that serene direction.

A father traveling with wife and two sons, dad wearing a carpenter’s union’s hoody, he and wife about 30, and their boys about 11 and 12, made friends with Pigeon Farm, whose boys asked all manner of questions about farm animals, hounds and pigeons. The old fellow even went forward and got a box of free snacks to shower onto the boys.

Two old fellows in their 70s, Midwestern men with interesting family histories and a knowledge of the various state histories, held an interesting conversation with each other across the aisle to my left.

The people headed to Pittsburgh and points southeast of there, knew by this time that we were screwed as we sailed into Chicago.

Things were being sorted out, people headed to the northeast offloading onto waiting busses at Galesburg, Illinois. The sultry voice of the conductor, proclaimed, “Galesburg, if Galesburg is you stop—now is the time!”

I could not tell if this was an Eastern European or Southern South American accent. The remaining folks were really bonding, a couple even smiling and speaking to me who had offered no conversation. Then came Her announcement:

“Paul, Paul from Sacramento, who is going to Plano, Texas. Paul, please come forward to the dinning car. We care about, you, Paul… there is an unforeseen problem with your connection. Please, Paul… Paul from Sacramento, Paul in coach, come forward to the dinning car… WE, HAVE, A, PLAN, FOR, YOU!” Please, Paul, come to us—we have plans for You…”

The announcement sounded so sweetly sinister, that everybody, especially the Amish, started laughing and a few young guys up front started yelling, “No, Paul, don’t do it! Paul—don’t go!”

Thank You all, a week later, all I recall is the good times.

Dyno Maxim

Tue, Oct 8, 8:04 PM (2 days ago)

to me

I love the idea of the training post/crucifix, but I'm not gonna be a semi-nomadic Jesus-slash-Django, carrying/dragging it with me as I make my way in this world and from town to town... What would be your recommendations for a young guy, who'd be regularly pretty foot-mobile, and wanted to get some post and bag work in on the road (and maybe while out in the bush, trying to learn to trap game...)? I saw your video on the double-end bag, which I've been sold on carrying for months anyway, and that's about it, so far. And don't worry, I'm taking your advice of "shadow-everything, it's literally everybody's weak spot!"

Unrelated - whatever happened to the Training Snake? What even is it?

...

I have made 6 snakes now. Check out Severe/Knox Agonistics channel for a snake I made in May.

For mobile training, a snake to hang from a tree branch, clothes pole, garage joice would be ideal.

Go to Harbor Freight and buy your training tools, from dead blows, wrecking bars, ax handles—no need to ruin rattan in solo training.

Use the sand hammer and wrecking bar for training on stumps and snags while in the bush.

For you ax handle, rattan rod, training knife, etc, you want a snake.

The Snake is a coil of rope that hangs from a loop and has a weight at the bottom to act as the hip. The snake that you hit with bare knuckle or weapon acts more like a human spine and face than anything I have hit, partially due to the big knot of rope ends and duct tape, towels and pool noodles at the bottom, which gives it action and a place to post off of with your checking hand.

You already have that with the paper towel/shirt double end bag.

Buy two coils of rope from harbor freight.

Cut one into 8 ft lengths. Loop these at the top and tape together. You now have an eye-loop above to hang from something. At the bottom tie the double ended bag, which you can make another of, by two central lengths and drape the rest over the bag.

[Electric Dan, i think we need to improve your snake with a third coil of rope after training on it with your boy who loves the tomahawk so much.]

Take the second coil of rope and wind it down from the loop, where it should be tied off, back up, and down again, where it can be tied off/or taped at the bag coil attachment. Now take a roll of duct tape and cover the coil-draped bag at the bottom, making it one padded sinker, which you can use as the hip for checking and for practicing leg and knee stokes. Don't tape the rope.

The rope snake part is great for bare knuckle and weapon training.

3/4 inch heavy arbor rope is the best for a home unit. But on the road the light harbor freight rope coils will do.

Oh yes, related, post work.

Stump tops are great for conditioning with dead blows and bars.

Using any wood on a post, like the stick you like and want to depend on, will endanger that stick.

[As a policy, jameslafond.com does not endorse wood on wood activity.]

I recommend using a tree, post, snag to place a stuffed boxing head gear/coat dummy. Hang the head gear stuffed [with a towel, clothes or your bag gloves] and attached to the coat [with a belt or jump rope] from whatever tree has offended you and strike the head and the arms and body, perhaps tying the arms of the coat behind the tree. If the coat is thick enough it should save your stick from cracking. It will be a good meditation on how much loose heavy clothing interferers with blunt extension weapon use. Also, in case it is a live tree, any tree huggers that catch you in the act might not be moved to attack once they realize you are abusing the vile human effigy hanging before the sacred tree. Hockey gloves can be hung for hand targeting. Again stuff them with socks or rags.

I will see if the web master can video a small snake i made here at the Brickmouse House and append that video to this article.

Good training and wide travels, Dyno.

Nick

commented on

Welcome to Our Site

Oct-6-2024

9:41 AM EDT

Hey man just wanted to ask if you thought I was too old to box amateur at 27. Ive been training for 5 years now but haven't competed yet. Any input is appreciated. I know it's too late to go pro but to do a regional tournament like golden gloves is something I've been thinking about. Thanks.

Nick, that is actually perfect.

Boxers begin peaking at 27 and fade at about 32. Golden Gloves closes to you at age 36. When i was 40 I was advised not to fight in the "masters" because it was catch weight and the medicals were more strict then professional medicals.

You are a sleeper if you have been training for 5 years. Many coaches push for boxers to fight ASAP.

Some tips:

Train in the headgear and gloves that work best for you.

But, once a week, at the time of day you expect to compete, train with the same weight and brand of head and hands you will compete in, the regulation shirt and trunks as well. Any fight you win that you could buy the gloves after the event from the promoter you should and keep those gloves for training.

You should be more relaxed and have better stamina then other amateurs in their first fight.

You will probably be slower than men in their late teens at you same weight, but stronger.

I train a man who i met at a gym 22 years ago when he was 15 and he wants a pro fight before 40. He will be regarded as shark food for up and comers. You, especially if strongly built for your weight, will be suspected of being a crossover from weights, wrestling, boxing or MMA. Knowing his prejudice can help weigh in your mind how the other corner will regarded you before round 1. After round 1, you are, to them, that guy, whatever you made of the fight that round. This process could put you in the lead if you can stay one ahead of your perceived type each round.

It is not too late to go pro, though you will make more money in Amateur MMA than in pro boxing. It is too late for you to be a contender. Unless you have the best trainers because you are rich, to be a top pro you have to start before it is advisable, before puberty. But on a local level, with the thin talent today, you might well be able to amass a single digit winning pro record, unless you are in Vegs or Mexico, in which case don't.

I wish you the best, Nick.

james

Outlined in Chicago at the Swissotel: 3/31

Written in Pittsburgh, 4/6/24

The track either east or west of the famous Moffit’s Tunnel, towering over 9,000 feet, had been buried in a rock slide. It would be three days or more to clear. We would not be put up in hotels for a half week, but rather shuttled on buses that had to drive out from Denver empty, and then back with us.

Chris the Conductor, who takes over the eastbound train and works out of Denver, is a fine figure of ebony solicitude, strong of voice and body and mild of temper. As we offloaded, some patrons staying on the train so that Rod could serve them food rather than eating out of vending machines, Chris grinned at Ashcan Sam. I noted that two hard looking, stout Grand Junction Police, stood right outside the back of the jail that was next to the station.

In the station the train cattle were jabbering. Big Dad, nice mom and perky kids, a great family, whose father encouraged son and daughter to do foot races on the platform to burn off energy, were concerned for us lesser plebes. For Dad was just renting a car, my extant lifesavings a mere twinkle in his daughter’s eye, knowing Daddy got things done. Before wishing us well, and me specifically, he noted: “It’s nice to see the country by train and go places. You watch the news, and everything is going to hell. But we spent a week in San Francisco and had a great time. It’s good to see for yourself what the world brings. Sir, safe travels.”

There were three young couples that had been traveling together on some adventure, drinking at Rod’s cafe on the train. They also rented a vehicle. Others used Uber. The rest stewed in the station. I decided to explore the town. I would have rather stayed in the station, But, I pretend to be a travel writer.

I did not intend to go far, especially as I passed the police station and looked up at what had once been a clay pipe tiled desert saloon. Yes, stumbling distance!

[Only need crutches for the backpack.]

I walk over to this place, step up on the wooden walk and see a sign, a circle with a pointer in the middle, colored green that says, “180” Welcome.

‘Is this a trap?’

I was listening for signs of life, thinking of knocking, and a pretty lady in late 30s walked up from the east, “Welcome, would you like to come in?”

I appraised her fair figure as she blushed in the cold wind and I said, “Yes, Miss, I would, if you were not so obviously out of my league.”

She smiled, “Oh, just for a friendly visit.”

“I was hoping to find a bar.”

“Oh, this is a recovery center, for addiction. We cover alcohol too!”

“Oh, I’m going the other way. Do you know where a bar is?”

“You can get beer at the gas station.”

“Oh, drinking on the street with these king kong cops, I’m not that guy. Thank you miss.”

“Sir, sir, please, come in and talk for a while.”

“Have a nice day, Miss.”

I walked north, then east, then north then west:

Catholic Charity Recovery Center

A vacant business for lease.

A gated recovery community, where painfully sober people dwelt in gray box like condos.

A rehab house.

A gas station, with big, young crackers drinking beer on the lot in heavy clothes.

A vacant house, boarded up.

An alley full of big crackers smoking and drinking.

United Way Resource center, the biggest free coffee dispensary I ever saw, with homeless crackers all around, the little ones a head taller than I, mixing with two bikers, a couple hookers… oh no.

I circled back to Chris, “Hey, Chris, after a tour of the ass end of this wonderful town, I see why those cops had no problem with your knucklehead.”

“Oh, this is knucklehead central here—there is no shortage of knuckleheads along the rails.”

“Is there even a bar in this town?”

“Yes, sir. Walk past the hotels there [the backs of which are gated to deter] and then you will get to Main Street. There is a great pub over there.

I walked past the rehab center, where the pretty girl stood and waved as if seeing a soldier off to certain death, and headed to Main Street.

Hipster Recreation Central.

But there, on the north side of Main Street, embedded in some kind of tiny strip mall was The Goat and Clover Tavern. The hostess was, well, what they are supposed to be, young and pretty and nice. Usually nice is an afterthought, as the prettiest young thing in the house is kept working the door so that she doesn’t get all the tips that the older broads working tables need to support their fatherless son playing video games in what should be the guest room. This girl was Irish-Asian—I kid you not. Irasian is now my new favorite babe race!

So, I get to the bar, in a place were most people eat. There is a mսlatto nervously drinking a soda. He leaves as soon as I sit next to him. The crowd is all upper middle stripe guilt bright, mostly families eating really great looking Irish cuisine. A huge wide screen TV was on in the back, which was faced by a long bar bench for fantasy football folks.

The bar itself had only ten chairs. Over the time I was there, people seated at the bar seemed to be mostly meeting up for online dates, having one drink and leaving. The rail drinks were really nice and I was moved to ask Jesse, the tall, Gaelic barmaid with tattoo sleeves, “Miss, the drinks look so nice I’m wondering if I can afford a beer.”

She came over and smiled, handing me a menu, “Happy hour is a dollar off everything from 2 to 7, which means our domestic drafts [she must have been psychic, pegged my cheap ass right off] which are normally $4.25 are $3.25.

I grinned, no way was I leaving sober.

I drank until Chris texted me to return to the station to board the bus and bring any other booze hounds with me.

My receipt, minus the final round, which was a Highland IPA, used to wash down some Bushmills, reads:

Coors Light $4.50

3 Coors Light $9.75

Beer Flight $9.99 [4 4 ounce samples of fine beers]

Six pints and a shot and I was pretty well hammered and recall little of the harrowing bus trip over the Rockies in a blizzard, other than the two young men who put on the chains for the driver, who was my age. Snoozed for 3.75 hours of the 4 hour ride. These kids were 2 of 4 skateboard tourist in their mid to late teens that ended up thrilled to be stuck in Chicongo for the coming Sunday night.

Thank you, Chris.

Concluded in We Have a Plan For You.

Outlined in Chicongo at the Swissotel: 3/31

Written in Pittsburgh, 4/5/24.

At Salt Lake City a 6’ 6” inch, 60 year old, corn-row haired, homeless man of ashy aspect, wearing a yellow safety vest boarded. He sat and griped, “Where da food—I needz to get mah eats on!”

The sweet as can be jelly-butted Chicongoese coach attendant, who smiled at these old, blue, posterior appraising eyes often, put her hands to his shoulders and “shushed” the giant hood rat as if he were a toddler.

AFTER she left, he muttered, mumbled and cursed under his breath, “Fuggin’ Whitefolk!” and nodded off.

He sat at the very front of the car to the right of a boomer nerd wearing a Miskatonic jacket and the still pretty, dark-skinned Asian lady about my age who had failed to befriend me and had won for herself a less worthy protector, Mister Miskatonic!

He, Ashcan Sam, seems to have been given a train ticket by the well meaning Mormons of SLC—but he had, “No monay! Muvafugga, where I gonna ged my monay! Hows I’s gonna feed?” grumbled the reprobate.

There was a big man of successful character in middle age, large as this old ashcan, who took his obedient wife and two worried children forward to spend the morning in the viewing car. Whenever this man was not in the front of the car, Ashcan acted up.

Behind me, sat a black man my age, who raised pigeons and ran a farm back in North Carolina, returning from California where “I laid my mother to rest.” His trip was spent in ways described in “We Have a Plan For You.” Ashcan Sam, brought this old fella to declare to us crackers, “Sorry y’all—ain’ one a mine, less I’d go up side ‘is head fo y’all.”

As this reprobated groe acted up, Mister Miskatonic went forward, as narrated by Ashcan Sam, “to ged yo white daddy!” He then turned on the Asian chick who I had failed to befriend when she waved to me, batted her eyes, and made nice. As an extraterrestrial zoologist, I try to only observe and not involve my self with the subjects of study. I was curious about the level of menace though, as Ashcan leered across the aisle at her and she shrank and peeped in her seat, back against the window.

I walked forward with an empty coffee cup, stopped in front of him, so he sat back, placed the can in the trash, turned and looked at him, to which he grumbled low, “So it like dat—all KKKay en shid?”

I ignored him, gave no look of disapproval to my errant metaphysical chattel, nor one of hopeful protection and comfort to my discarded slave girl. Ashcan Sam waited respectfully for HIS MASTER to re-seat myself, then looked back to me, and I gave a knowing wink, and he continued, I opening up my scrap paper and applying pen to it to record the song of an ailing Gawd…

…

Ashcan Sam’s Theophony

Quotation marks dispensed with:

Mah feed is off—I needz ta eat.

White muvafugga give me no food—heh, dare food on da train, take dis ticket nigga! Heh—but ain’ no food fo a broke ass nigga!

What I doin’ on dis whitefolk train?

Heh, heh.

[Leers hard, leaning across aisle at cringing Asian woman, who seemed a cross between Korean and Filipino.]

I’s rapin’ Chink bitchez! Mide even eat me ones, iffin’ she fat enough!

Hey bitch, Chink bitch, you gotz a fat friend! Or do I gotta pick you bones?

Heh, heh—muva fucka, I’s killin’ all da white folk on dis train!

Kill you what!

Pow!

Pow! Pow!

Heh.

Ka-pow!

Ka-pow-pow-pow!

I kill you—gonna kill you!

Ka-pow-pow-pow!

I’ll show you my shid!

Look bitch, look!

Pow! Pow!! POW!!!

[Mister Miskatonic returns]

Whatch you gonna do, punk ass white beard-faggot-suck mah dick nigga! White nigga, suck mah dick—pow-pow-pow!

[Latino coach attendant returns and tries to calm down the Gawd.]

You, you, you too pretty ta listen to. Ged back on da porch Uncle Tom! I’m gonna kill you what, gonna kill all dese white folk on my train—datz right dis mah train, fuck y’all—

[Mister Miskatonic cringes back against the window in horror as the hero coach Attendant evacuates the darling old Asian babe and her things and takes her to the back of the car with apologies.]

You, with you faɡɡot ways—no, I ain’ gonna fuck you—done even wan you suckin’ mah dick wit dat bristle hound snout! I’m gonna kill you—Kapow!

Pow-pow-pow-ka-pow-pow-pow.pow.pow—powey!

[When a mere scribe attempts to record the song of a god science gives way to art…]

Kaw-pow-pow-pah, pah, pap-pap-pap…

[Ashcan Sam runs out of oral ammunition as the large pale conductor walks in, looks at him and continues to the back of the car to comfort the Asian babe. If I had handled this differently I might have had company in the bathtub at the Swissotel in Chicongo. This chick even tried to help me with my bags and I callously turned away. The conductor leaves and the theophony continues.]

Datz right, mah train, stay away—my train white folk—you all ‘bout ta die—tink yah can fucks mit me, heh, heh!?”

[Mister Miskatonic is the target now, suffering mouth gun murder and insults. The attendant comes through and assures us that we will not have this to worry about after we hit the station at Grand Junction.]

[Ashcan Sam turns on the honeymooning Brazilian couple behind him, who are very nice and “have no English.”]

Whad kine a weird ass nigga dis—y’all bread out ta near white—y’all can die wit dese whitefolk fo infestin’ mah train, mah fuggin’ train—kapow!

[Announcement comes on that the train will not continue past Grand Junction as we pull in and I rise to pull down my gear. Ashcan Sam then rises to break bad with me.]

Skinhead muvafucka! Tought we was ta baddle to a reckonin’! White supremacist somebody—ged off mah train! No white folks allowed!

[I laughed openly and saluted him.]

I’m kickin’ all dese white folk from mah train!

[He made certain not to make eye contact with Big Dad, me, Pigeon Farm or Zen Mountain, who will be described in the next part, and otherwise said his intimidating farewells as the joke played on us all by the Latter Day Saints.]

Ged off mah train—I’m gonna miss you chink Bitch—you fine enough—lucky you moved—daddy were gonna tax dat ass!

No whitefolk allowed! Heh, pow-pow-pow-ka-pow! Gonna kill y’all!

Thus ended the Theophony of Ashcan Sam.

To be continued in God Works in Articulate Ways.

Zup you old hobo,

saw you were on youtube again and watched "Hold the Dark".

Very nihilistic movie. Savage your Kid, kill the Crone, kill the Hunter, kill the Traitor. Burn it all for crazy GF?

Anyway here is something for you to watch that you would find entertaining,

Overanalyzing Ravenous

A leftist vegan queer feminist analysis of Ravenous (no this is not a joke). Support Atun-Shei Films on Patreon Leave a Tip via Paypal Buy Merch Official Website ...

www.youtube.com

I think you already saw Ravenous since the movie came out 25 years ago. When i saw it i recognized ofcourse that its not a horror movie.

And female directors are often very good working in metaphors. American Psycho, Barbie and so on.

I like to watch leftist critiques because i rather live in the horror world they live in.

I rather make a friend of Horror than whatever this Nursing Home show of a country is.

Take care!

Attachments area

Preview YouTube video Overanalyzing Ravenous

I have not seen this movie. Most of what came out between 1980 and 2010 I missed as i was working. I will be too busy to do any viewing until about December 20, then I will hopefully see some movies. Of the 4 people I know who saw Hold the Dark, only Nick Mason of myth 20 liked it. i liked it mostly because of the cop killing scenes and was put off by the nihilism. I've been coaching to offset inflation and it is eating the time i need for the 3 histories and 3 novels i am writing this month.

thank you for the large print email!

Take care over there.

j

Ares, Mars to you Latins and War to you souls brought into the later sunken world, has had his three agents in attendance at the planting of your soul in the field of your slave mother’s woe. These fiends pay attention, and harbor jealousy for the best of men. They were there, plotting, when Silver-footed Thesis, dipped her son Achilles in the water of invulnerability, and again to remind Paris where to aim his arrow.

Exceptional warriors are punished by ancestry, Fate, the meddling angels of War, the demons of yore for approaching the peak of human prowess, which narrows the gap between heaven and earth and threatens admittance for the hero, such as Herakles, if this warrior comes so favorably to the attention of The Almighty.

This paragon of a warrior is thence afflicted with one of three manias:

Discord

Fear

Rout

This depends on how out of balance he is with man’s intended low ability. A 4 ability gains a mania point, a 5, 2 mania points, a 6 3 mania points.

Below is the character of Achilles, in Grunt terms.

Name: Achilles

Sire/People: Peleus of the Myrmidons

Body = 18

Strength: 6

Stamina: 6

Agility: 6

Discord = 18 [3 for each 6 as his great superiority makes him the center of jealousy from lesser men like Agamemnon, and of gods even, such as Apollo. In addition he has survived combats in which he was unlucky (rolled a 20, which had to happen as he has been at constant war for some 10 years, taking cities before the 9 year siege of Troy.] at least 10 times. But, there Is a ceiling on mania of 18, just as there is on overall abilities. This person is clinically insane by modern standards. Rolling a 20 and surviving always grants a mania.]

Mind = 14

Knit: 6

Kit: 4

Wit: 4 [See the final chapter of the Iliad. He had taken cities, so had a better than average wit.]

Fear: = 15 [5 + 10 unlucky strokes to equal his 10 lucky ones. For men fear his mental arete, though less than his physical arete, causing them to scheme the more, and also causing Achilles to have a deep fear of losing honor. Alexander was afflicted by this worse, his wit of 6 driving him to commit to battles simply because others thought the operation impossible. He will be sketched at the bottom of this chapter.]

Spirit = 14

Animistic: 6 [Talks to horses and argues with a river.]

Social: 4 [He made a good case before the army.]

Esoteric: 4 [He distrusts the gods.]

Rout = 5 [This quality is the magic of the war LEADER of superior type, that his very presence, his animal magnetism, causes enemies to panic.]

Actions + 10, [100+, the ceiling, divided by 10]

Stamina + 6

Animism + 6

PATHOS = 22

At any point in play, a player of a GM may decide that a hero makes a mania check, Failure, rolling a 20 or simply higher than his mania on 1d20 is punished by heaven. Success, including the miraculous ‘1’ is conversely rewarded. During the career of such men as Achilles, Alexander, Hadratta, Blackbeard, them taking to the front of the battle line brought a mania check, which generally cheered their fellows [granting advantages in game play] and shook their foes [inflicting disadvantages in game play.] Failure of such an action might shake his own men.

Pathos

Pathos is the advantage or initiative enjoyed at the start of a battle, a duel, a council of war, a negotiation for the surrender of a city, a siege, the throwing of a ladder upon a fortress wall by a file of soldiers, etc. Pathos will be present at all times, and is the primary quality of the apex warrior: his presence, his mystique, “the power of his name,” that causes competent enemies to pause in doubt, to squander an action initiative or an advantage. The Game Master decides if there will be initiative, or if the action is simultaneous. If it is not simultaneous, then one pathos roll is made by the most pathological warrior on each side.

[Note, in battles, one side usually goes first, their efforts tested before the other counter attacks. But, in dueling, boxing and other ritual combats, as well as in single fight between men in battle, the action is resolved simultaneously, with a chance that both might slay one another at the same instant. The idea of “a turn’ is more applicable to a mass combat than single combat.]

1D20 is rolled.

The low roll is best in this system.

The result is subtracted from the leader’s pathos with the difference granting the initiative/advantage.

In this system a 1 always succeeds, and with a special consideration or impact, best left up to the GM.

A 20, by contrast, always fails. A 20 fail is not just a failure to achieve something, but brings a doomful penalty, again, left to the creative license of the GM, and discussed further at the bottom of this section.

An advantage is a re-roll of a die result, rolled by the GM or the player. If Sarpedon rolls a 2, subtracted from his 6 pathos, for a 4, against Achilles’ roll of a 14, subtracted from his 22 pathos for a 7, the difference between the results of 4 and 7, in favor of Achilles, is 3. This grants 3 initiative actions or 3 advantage re-rolls, depending on the GMs episodic sense. Perhaps the GM decides that Achilles and his driver each have an initiative action before Sarpedon and his driver do anything, and then Achilles gets a re-roll.

In a duel, I suggest the Pathos player get re-rolls. Other ideas will be presented under dueling in the next chapter.

In a battle situation, perhaps the Pathos leader is granted an initiating action and a re-roll and one re-roll is assigned to his shield bearer, or NCO?

Rolling over one’s pathos score in an interactive check does not bring a penalty, unless a 20 is rolled, triggering mania below. Pathos will be used often, and not just for initiative, or initial advantage determinations.

In firearms combats, such as The Shootout at the OK Corral, the pathos roll might decide the whole thing and turn it into a slaughter. This is how many actions initiated under extreme pathos, especially with modern firearms at close range, unfolded.

Mania & Pathos

Mania, is not just an acquired ability that may be used as described above, it is a quality that goes into pathos and may set the extent to which pathos is effective. Mania will also be used to determine post action state of being in Chapter 8.

The players and GM are encouraged to get creative with mania and pathos. Indeed, in the case of supernatural adventures, such as Orpheus’ or Odysseus’ venture into Hades, Dante’s journey through Hell, or of Bran Mak Morn’s dealings with the Worms of the Earth or Conan’s Phoenix on the Sword dream adventure [Robert E. Howard], then mania and pathos may be the ONLY abilities a player has. These abilities provide the basis for an entire field of supra-physical adventure that have not been fully detailed in Grunt.

Not being a player or belonging to a gaming group, being myself a loser hobo, I have no means of developing Grunt and hence leave that to you, the play-testers and developers.

In action: dueling or battle, skirmishing or hunting, A roll of a 20 triggers a negative manifestation of one of the three manias. A 1 result brings a favorable effect of that power. These apply with pathos and action rolls. The mania score indicates the duration and/or intensity of the effect. This roll result of 20, if survived, will increase that mania—yes, hero, the Furies are out to get you!

So, if, using our example from The Iliad above, Sarpedon, being the lower pathos character, rolls a 1, he gains advantage for a number of rounds equal to his [spirit] Rout mania, +1—this is a blessing, and increases his Rout mania by 1, now. If he has no Rout mania, he gains 1-3 rout mania now, and it is applied in play, now, and kept until his death.

If, however, he rolls a 20, he will suffer a disadvantage for a number of rounds equal to his [mind] Fear mania, +1 laid as a curse/test upon him, increasing that score now and until Death takes him. If he has no Fear mania, he gains 1-3 of insight into his doomed plight, suffers those disadvantages, and, if he survives this misfortune he will be that much more feared by people.

[Note: The mind/fear penalty here afflicts those who overthink combat in progress instead of trusting their powers.]

Any character who survives a mortal combat in which he rolled a 20, gains a point of [body] Discord mania. This adds up.

Surviving a combat in which a character rolled a 1 gains nothing to the body and does not increase Discord mania, as this 1 actual depleted one’s stock of luck!

But, the roll of a 20, was a test, and a warrior who passes War’s test, gains. These are cumulative. If Sarpedon rolls 2 20s during the course of his chariot duel with Achilles, and survives that disaster, he gains 2 Discord mania. Achilles, maxed out on Discord at 18, can gain nothing, for the gods are weary of his rage.

So, when pathos or combat rolls trigger a mania check, a character who rolled a 1: gains 1 [spirit] Rout mania, or, if he had none, gained 1-3

A character who rolled a 20 gains 1, or 1-3 if he had none, [mind] Fear mania

This unlucky character, as the gods show their balancing hand, also gains, a 1 [body] Discord mania, as he learns from the hard school of misfortune more about delaying his inevitable demise. Such survival recommends him for fame and perhaps even immortality.

Grunt is intended to move fast and to permit characters to improve on the field, to be better fighters at the end of a battle than at the beginning, to learn fighting, or perhaps climbing, as they fight or climb, so long as they are not killed in the process. In such hazardous undertakings the thing that almost does you in teaches you the most. That is the reason for the 20 disaster roll increasing mania ability more than the lucky roll.

The mechanics of the various warrior actions, in so far as they may result in character transformation and development in play, have been addressed according to pathos and mania. Pathos and mania will also have uses and effects in various actions, discussed in Chapters 4 & 5.

Hi James (and Lynn and Charles),

We got the first proof copy this week, did some re-edits and then had a last push with the cover art last night and are really happy to tell you that SPQR is now published.

Here's the Amazon US link:

Thanks also for the mention and kind words on your site.

Warm regards,

Jeth

Last night, after a few beers at an old Baltimore City dive bar, Charles pulled up the amazon link above and magically magnified the text, as if he were some camera obscurist working for the Manhattan Daily. Somewhat thrilled, he said, as he enlarged the dust cover text and zeroed in on the word honour, "The cover is boss—red is perfect. They turned your os into ous!"

It is an honor to have my North Pannonia dialect corrected into proper Romano-British.

I much prefer Jeth's dust cover to mine.

SPQR: A Novel of Rome 2031 Paperback – October 3, 2024

by James LaFond (Author), Jeth Randolph (Editor)

See all formats and editions

POWER. DEATH. HONOUR. LOVE.

2031: Amid the pipes and steam of New York, the third seat of the Roman empire - the elite, the mob and those that would struggle for freedom:

A gladiator prepares to face his fate with honour in the final hours before certain death...

Two runaway slaves, twin brother and sister seeking the secret Catacombs of Elysium. Unable to bear the separation of being sold off to various owners, they make a desperate bid for that rare thing called liberty. He to the glory of the arena, she to the love of a gladiator…

A faded empire, now mired in a swamp of decadence, intrigue, corruption and endless foreign wars...

From cult author James LaFond comes S.P.Q.R: a savage alternate future with echoes of our own.

I am thrilled that the Casting Darts Team, three smart Brits, chose the classic art work depicting a myrmillo [Fishman] victorious over a retiarius [Netman], who was the gladiator type designed to defeat him. In SPQR, the netmen serve also the civic function of slave catching, which is a logical application of their skill set in an industrial Rome. All i ever wanted if I made it to old age, as a young man, were two things, a place to sit and read, and a novel in print for some younger knucklehead to enjoy. Thanks to many of my readers for the sitting chair and lamp, and to Jeth for this nice looking novel.

I was a ticketed Amtrak passenger, the mysterious “Mister LaFano,” lame and alone, from Sunday March 24 thru Monday, April 1. The following are my observations of the world through which we traveled. [1]

The Trains

“Rod” Rodney Pascal is the Cafe Car Attendant who should serve ale and mead in Valhalla. He made the trip fun. We compared notes on Portland, where he used to like to bar hop. When I grabbed three goodnight beers, he said, “Sir, according to policy, I have to ask, are you sleeping car or coach?”

“Coach.”

“Then I am sorry to inform you that the limit is two, unless you are buying for two.”

I returned one of the Ultralights and paid up, always tipping.

He then, as I am drinking at my seat, is on the com, “Rod Pascal here, with his infamous and soon to be world famous bloody marys, and… ICE COLD BEER!”

“Prick!”

I drank the two beers and returned to Ron, who grinned, “You see, Sir, haling as you are from the brooding Northwest, I knew, that three beers would not be adequate, so have, through my nefarious means, guided you to a fourth appointment with Bachus.”

Amtrak employees have retired in large numbers. New employees are all eager and happy to have these unique jobs. The numbers of engineers have exploded, something that was at crisis lows the past few years. The trains are running on time to early, except when the numerous weather events intervene. The roughest ride is in the Ohio Valley where the freight traffic has destroyed the tracks.

The Pacific Northwest

I took the #17 bus too far, past the station. Asking the pretty driver if she looped back, she was nice enough to drop me just over the Willamette River on the wrong side of the bridge. It took me a full half hour to cross the bridge on crutches. It is a draw bridge. It was cold in the misty rain as I looked at the ‘safe to walk’ light. Passing onto the part that you can see though, 300 feet down to the cold gray water and crutching along, I realized, that it would take me a good ten minutes to get to the solid part of the bridge and wondered, ‘was the light still right?’

This high vantage on Union Station showed an expansion of homeless all around, in increasingly neat and semi-permanent shelters. The tents I passed around on the side walk, seemed to have been pitched by highly competent occupants. As the train pulled out of Portland, the same impression, had all around the city by car, on foot and by train, expanded: there are more homeless then in 2023, the population expanding steadily every year since it tripled in 2020. These homeless are twice as likely to have automobiles as in 2023, are thrice as likely to be living in campers, about ten times more likely to be keeping a clean camp, and are roughly twenty times more likely to be living in scrap built shacks rather than tents.

Vacancies are expanding.

…

California:

In Sacramento, Davis, Martinez, Richmond, Emmeryville, Oakland, the homeless situation is identical to the Pacific Northwest, has expanded and altered in the same way. Vacancies are expanding.

Hayward, Fremont, Santa Clara and San Jose have not worsened, with some homeless that are trying to disguise their condition or use stealth camping. However, ominously, massive units of cheap rentals are being constructed. California does have the best graffiti. The town of Colefax in the Sierras seems a lovely place to live. The snow above around Donner’s Pass and down to Truckee was deep, and it was snowing on across all four states to Colorado during the passage.

…

Nevada

Reno’s homeless population has doubled since 2023, returning to its 2022 levels. There are more semi permanent shelters. The desert was green and the wild horses throve. In the desert there were also numerous camps of automobile gypsies, never before seen by these eyes, a total new demographic. It was cold.

By night we were delayed by a freight train, headed west, with 45 Abrahms Main Battle Tanks. There were no US markings. These were painted tan and were numbered. The snowy desert sunsets were beautiful.

…

Utah & Colorado

The trains board heading east in Salt Lake City at 4 a.m. the events in these two states have their own articles: ‘Kill You What’ and God Works in Articulate Ways. From March 29 thru 30, it was still winter, the desert frosted and the grass green as the rivers rushed with mountain mud.

…

Nebraska and Iowa

The Northeast Plains of Colorado and the Northwest corner of Kansas were lost to the night as usual. But due to the five hour delay in the Rockies I was able to appreciate the poverty of small town Nebraska and Iowa. Here, I saw zero homeless. Yet the homed were often revealed to have no reason to leave their digs in search of poverty, it having found them where they sprung.

…

Chicongo

Illinois seems well off in the rural farming sector and Chicongo as frightening as ever with its inhuman architecture. Thanks to some improvement in Amtrak policy, which seems to be related to the massive renovations at all of the busy stations, this asphalt ape’s stay was quite pleasant.

Two years ago, when this happened, I was refused help finding my hotel and wondered around in the rainy night with rucksack on fending off muggers. This last time, we were all loaded on a shuttle bus and taken to a nice hotel, called the Swissotel, with no H, where I bet that Brandrew Pate, utube stud, was hatched. This was mսlatto paradise, hot bitches wearing almost nothing and covered in bling, parading for fat golden skin princes brushed shoulders with upper middle class college athletes touring with their parents on Spring Break. This place screamed money, soulless, seething money!

We scum got our own line, as the Eastern European managers and security segregated the shimmering vampire class from us lowly livestock in our backpacks—we even had Amish men tramping in work boots in our party. The nicest bathrooms ever, a bed that an NBA player could have used as a yoga mat! Our food vouchers were not accepted. On crutches, the manager gave me a room right next to an elevator on the 4th of some 30 floors.

Returning to the hotel lobby in the morning, the bus driver, a black fella my age said, “Mah Man! Nice to see you again.”

We shook hands and he hunted for the rest of the passengers until we were all aboard. He gave us a nice monologue about not setting our luggage down as it might blow away. He also circled the Union Station and advised us on the safest access and egress for future events. People, including him, who held my head once so I didn’t crack it on the baggage panel while retrieving my pack, had been looking out for me, trying to keep up on the various bus and train parades on my crutches, staff and passengers.

Armed with my $40 food voucher, I made my way, with 7 hours to kill, in the great maze of construction hive cages, as this Gilded Age monstrosity is re anointed with splendor. The great hall is done and it soars as if from a Roman Dream. Half the shops either refused the vouchers or were closed, leaving McDonalds and a local barbecue joint—to the latter I went.

Taxes on food in Chicago are 35%! Edible meat and vegetables that I was able to glean from under the mass of bread and potatoes for $30 amounted to 6 ounces of pork and 4 ounces of slaw. I gave my last $10 voucher to a beggar. The staff at Union Station, are 80% local Chicongoese and as sweet as can be.

The place was all a bustle, reminding me not to travel during spring break again. Looking for a place to sit with my food there were two small tables with three unoccupied chairs: one occupied by a slim woman of 65 and the other of a stout, dyke of 25. I chose the latter as to be less afraid of me, and went to sit diagonally from her, passing the old narrow-assed broad by. As I pulled out the chair, the older lady said, “Sir, you can sit with me.”

I said, “That’s, okay miss.”

“No, I insist, sit right across from me, please.”

Noting that this would place me between them, I turned to sit across from Granny, nodding to the dyke, who burst out, “Do I look that bad!”

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean that at all,” said Granny.

I raised my hands, “Ladies, my shattered self esteem has received a great boost, please, continue to fight over me—I’ll take it.”

They laughed and we all ended up in a three way conversation with me as the moderator. Women reveal themselves as so fragile as they travel increasingly alone. The old broad was a tough fourth generation western Montana woman traveling to New Orleans. The young dyke was a college student from Harrisburg, PA moving to Billings to live with her fem sugar mommy girlfriend. She is working on her masters in psychology. The old broad had some kind of degree as well. She asked me about my university and I laughed, “I’m too old and lame to snatch purses anymore, so I clean houses and pawn the jewelry.”

“Oh, well you have a very nice trip, sir,” she said as they held hands and walked off looking askance.

The Ohio Valley roared with lightning and thunder, gushing rain as the train raced through the night. The trains actually move faster in the hurried Midwest and congested East than they do in the wide West. Arriving in Pittsburgh at five and waiting for Rick, again, staff and passengers offered me help and kind words as I crutched along. When Rick arrived at 5:45, on Monday, April 1, I noticed that the old Amish guy, about my size, who had been on the same busses and trains for four days and five nights, was wondering about my fortune and who would pick me up, as he had seen me wander off alone in Grand Junction. He seemed concerned, and Rick noticed as we hugged and waved to him, the old guy waved and smiled, walking back inside.

This made me think of San Jose, of us two passengers and two conductors on one 6:18 train on Thursday. The lead man was six and a half feet and did warms ups and stretches on the platform, and made sure I understood the train layout and that there was a seat reserved for me downstairs. I asked him, “You played ball, right,” appraising his frame and figuring he was a pitcher or first baseman, these conductor jobs going to college graduates only.

He winced enough that I know he was once good at his game, looked far away into a past that was blind to me and said, “Yes, back in the day… my friend—you have a good day.”

Something positive lit the very air across this increasingly scary country for eight days and seemed to escort we some hundred misfits among you across it. When we 20 gained Pittsburgh, half headed to eastern Pennsylvania on the 7:30 train, leaving about five bound for D.C. aboard from among the 200 that came aboard in Emmeryville. I recalled the engineer, a new hire, who the ticket station lady said waved “like superman,” and was happy for his new job.

Half of the passengers had never taken the train, among them vacationing children. People snapped pictures, including a handsome Chinese kid constantly taking pictures of his pretty girlfriend, who posed like a model, batting her eyes comically. The lead of the two hissing engines rang into towering view some 15 feet above us like a mechanical monster, and a big, bearded man, built like an engine himself with a thick beard, hung from one bar with his left hand and saluted us like a Roman Centurian, smiling thinly, his blue eyes twinkling, like a young Santa as a psychotic gear head. To him some forty voices cheered and as many pairs of hands clapped.

…

Notes

-1. “We,” becomes a word that joins even the most diverse persons together once humans who would never choose the company of one another have been herded together by those mirthless sisters Fate, Folly and Fortune.

I am thrilled that Jeth Randolph and two of his British fellows have volunteered to publish fiction and nonfiction works that have languished some time in my techtarded author's proof files.

These 9 works of nonfiction include the last of the Harm City books from the late teens, a combat book and some shamdemic journalism:

A Wrong Time Ago

Baltimore Requiem

Bend Time

Fire and Vice

Harm City 2 Chicongo

Meat-Puppet Masquerade

On Combat

Randy Bracken Goes To Hell

Vagabond Mind

The 17 novels are:

SPQR

Beyond the Pale

Can

Confessor

Ghost Snatcher

Holiday Blue

Motherboard

Nihil

Prentice Dolphin

Seeker Cain

Seven Moons Deep

The Last Good Cop

Timejacker

Uprising

Wake Christopher

Wonderfall

Writ Hate

It's an honor to work with Jeth and his Crew, who have the rights to paperback editions of these above works. This will free me to publish the other 48 books yet to see print before spring of 2025, which is a rampant goal. My editions will look like garbage and have typos, and will simply be author's proofs, waiting for Lynn to put them in hardback. Lynn is currently working on a fiction trilogy: Gallows Born, and the crackpot omnibus Masculine Autonomy.

The Casting Darts Crew have taken two entire monkeys off of this hackled back.

Thank you.

-James, Baltimore City, 9/18/24

Casting darts publishing is proud to announce the print release of several forthcoming novels and non-fiction works by James LaFond.

Releases will be edited by Jeth Randolph

Assisted by Bran M Morn

Artwork by Sonja Rogatino

Our first print release will be “SPQR: A Novel of Rome 2031” with other titles to follow.

All Casting Darts print books will be available to purchase on Amazon.

Original E-Book versions are available from the digital bookstore at www.jameslafond.com

Visit Jeth Randolph’s survival fighting “One In One Journal” here:

Jeth’s Amazon author page is found here:

US:

UK:

Titles include:

Self defence volume two (With James LaFond)

Blunt weapon tactics

“Every friend made—especially friends made across ideological and religious and political lines—is a dart cast into the evil eye atop the Pyramid of Got, in whose all-seeking shadow we live.”

- James LaFond / From the book “Orphan Nation - Child Bondage in the Anglo- American Experience”

The Claim Cabin

“My father had a mining claim out on BLM land. He and his partner built a cabin, a shack really, with old grayed, worn boards. It was no bigger than our shed there. It was disguised in brush in the South Desert [Utah] near Delta. You could walk right bye it and not see it. It was no eye sore. There was a little wood stove to keep warm and a mattress tilted up on its side foe staying over. It was hard working a mining claim without shelter, and the cabin was convenient. We would have some picnics out there. They built a picnic table out front. Nothing on the outside was brought in but the wood stove, everything was salvaged from the surroundings. Nothing was cut down or killed. We always took out trash with us.

We left canned goods and a note to use whatever was needed and please leave something for the next person. People did, and it worked, a nice place to work and relax on public land for us, our friends and people we didn’t even know. It was up for years, ten, fifteen maybe? Then, we returned and found a notice from the BLM [Federal Land Management Tyrants] that the cabin would be burned in 60 days, and we had that long to remove our goods.

Well, we were Down Winders [1], knew there was no fighting the Government, so we brought off the food. It was a shame really. But that is the Government. And that was then, when we were young, decades ago. Imagine what the Government gets away with now!

-Deb, a Mormon matriarch, Kamas, Utah, 7/29/24, as she considered her neat blue shed, that had reminded her of her father’s old mining claim shack

…

Above is a western perspective. People here in the east, who I told this story to, even an outdoorsman who has been out west, assured me, against all logic implicit in the lineal growth ethics of Modernity, that surely, laws have been cleaned up, that the Feds would not be so heavy handed today. The fact is that western people have very much more interaction with USG than do the people who live in the seat of USG power, beneath the grinning mirror towers in the east. Out west, USG land is everywhere and its agents patrol. One sees Feds more than local cops in many remote places.

The story of the shack above is at root a tale about the instinctive collective DRIVE, the inner emotion, to control that infects USG functionaries and any member of a large scale police apparatus. Control is not, as most of us believe, for our own good, for the greater good, misguided good will, an expression of hate, or for a higher purpose. No, most control has but one logic: CONTROL. The means of control is the ends; the healing balm of dominance momentarily experienced by the soul-eaten slave of a mind control system, who has been robbed of his own soul, which has been devoured, and shares now at the meager feast of the spirit dumb, infected with the mania to harrow the uninfected, to feast in its twisted turn upon some juicy human light yet to by snuffed out as its own gone soul once was.

…

Compliance & Defiance

Defiance is the portion of heroes.

Such heroes are slain.

If a defiant soul takes the hero path and is not willing to be killed, alone, while family, friends and colleagues denouncing his lifeless form, be warned. For standing against the Evil Over Mind, its millions strong legions of news beasts, influencers, gaslight priests and law goons, and the mega horde of NPCs that swarm to feast upon the not yet extinct INDIVIDUAL [a pariah on left and right], one will be terminated and defamed or turned and enchained. To be colonized: bitten by the zombie or vampire, is the fate of the dissenter of half measure.

I have no stake in this world, and write for a few readers not yet born. I am content… other than the 30 jabbering monkey books upon my harrowed back. This process will hopefully result in some good advice or inner escape for at least one little fellow not yet among us.

In the meantime, I note most of the people I know buying big lies. That is okay. It is less painful for them. If I try and wake them from their sold state of mind I will not only upset all of them and convert none to my painful view of the world as a field of sorrow. But some of these people will be forced by my ranting to denounce, defame and ostracize, perhaps becoming fanatics that will persecute unnamed others of my disturbed turn of mind. I would rather slink along and perhaps meet others of a common view, rather then become the odd turnip embittering the delusional stew.

Critical thought was the greatest lie we were ever told, that it is a normal human function of the human mind to question the assertions of our betters, to test the Holy Writ of Sciencelaw. For almost all humans I have met, to even approach the precipice of critical thinking is to flirt with madness, insanity, terminal depression and fanatical hysterical, HATE. It is my suspicion that critical thinking as doctrine, taught in the waning days of traditional religious faith, and since utterly abolished from public life despite some pretenses, was bait. This bait, in the form of an implanted urge to discuss good and bad and right and wrong in common cause, was merely a lure, for the brighter minded, more creative and least duplicitous among you to “speak truth to power” and other such insane notions. The critical thinker is merely a heretic who has been implanted with the socially suicidal urge to CONFESS to his SINS!

The confessional is all around you, at billions of portals, wall mounted, hand held, on the wrist and eventually on the chip in your brain. I have friends who cannot wait for their chip from Eloi Mush.

Beware Your Confessor.

He is the leash of the beast used to drag you before MASTER, the fetters of adamant that enchained Prometheus.

There is an alternative to being burned or turned. We have more than the TWO polar choices that our masters have always pronounced lay before us. Each of us can, if we want to, chart a course less than martyr and more than zombie. Most will not. Humans were born and bread to slavery and yearn mostly for a better master. For those of us who are defective in lacking this urge to be owned, branded, scolded and herded, there is no need getting trampled trying to warn your idiot fellows what awaits, for they yearn for servitude.

Enjoy the show, which in this world, often closes with Snow.

…

Notes

-1. Poisoned by radiation from USG nuclear tests in the 1940s and 50s.

Boxer shot

Inbox

Tue, Oct 1, 6:23 PM (20 hours ago)

to me

James,

This is story similar to one you've told in the past.

Don Quotays

Trophy hunting is of old date.

Ares blanketed his bed with the flayed skins and scalps of slain foes.

Scythians and Incas drank from cups made of enemy skulls.

Soy boys will serve only for food in the future Haitian America.

But a fighter, he may serve for sport.

If we devolve along a proper course, Tyrone and Jerome in the near future should be saving the sneakers of slain trophy animals, boxers for instance, and using them to slap their baby mamma.

Hello James!

I hope you are doing good!

I wanted to share with you and your readers an article I’ve written that I believe is of the utmost importance to anyone on the Combat Sports Journey.

Let’s be honest…there’s a lot of people that get left in the dust in the Combat Sports, and it’s usually the people that need them the most!

This article and the many links within rectifies that situation…get ready to learn your ABCs!

Sincerely,

Richard Barrett

Written on 4/4/24, Pittsburgh.

Boarding the Coastal Starlight in Portland, off the baggage cart that the kind handler insisted I ride, I was handed a boarding slip. This is a colored strip of paper that had SJ for San Jose stamped on it, which had been given out at the desk. Bigger stations are more organized with this. At small stops the conductors and attendants carry blank slips and put destination initials on it. These are then slipped under the aluminum strip below the baggage rack, either the aisle number or window number. From 10 PM to 7 AM there are no stop announcements. The boarding slips permit the wranglers of we USG chattel to find us in our stalls and usher us down the meat chute of souls into America’s rancid maw.

I am assigned the window seat four rows forward of the lead coach car—everything behind us, as the door to the fore shows us the back of the baggage car. This is good for not being subjected to other passengers passing you in the quest for feed. Usually, the lead coach car is coupled to the back of the viewing car, which is linked to the dining car, thence to the sleepers. Sleeper cars have increased from 2 to 3 since Covid. Coach cars have decreased from 3 to 2 since Covid. The dining car has been opened back up to coach.

The lone passengers are now mostly visiting sick relatives or relocating for loss of housing or jobs. Couples tend to me granddaughter grandmother or other young person escorting an elderly relative, and sometimes gays and trannies and even some traditionally vacationing breeders. Lone male passengers are on the increase. I fit better than I used to. Lone women seem always to have the support animal dog child, or like the old Korean babe who smiles up to me and says, “Hello,” trying to befriend lone crackers for protection.

It has been over a week now. Even a few days ago I think I could have done a brief abridged monologue of some of Inigo’s interesting life. He had the aisle seat and was gracious. We exchanged addresses to send letters. I cannot reconstruct his monologues as I only spoke with him on one train trip and do not have his diction imprinted. Below is my best abridged history of this very entertaining and informative man who befriended me.

Inigo’s father, of the same name, was a Mexican screen writer, born in 1905. In middle age, in about 1951, he met Inigo’s mother and their happy union produced my latest friend, who is now 71 years of age. Inigo has a daughter who works in aerospace who he is very proud of. He smiles, his mouth creased with a light worry, when he speaks of her. He has a look for each woman he speaks of. He recalled one lost lover, in words, and paused, as if being grabbed by the temples by a great invisible hand and having his eyes squeezed shut to recall the fondest moment. Six full seconds were required to restore his composure.

Once, in his youth, Inigo and his Mexican cousins journeyed by motorcycle down into Mexico from his Texas home to sell some electronic equipment. He ran his cycle, on a bend, head on into a woman in a Volkswagon. He described himself as being a competent, but not very skilled biker, who was not experienced enough to bank around the cut in the road. He had a broken ankle and a bad cut to his knee. He was thankfully wearing thick wool under knee high leather boots which concealed his bleeding, his boot half full of blood.

The Federalies showed up. His cousins knew that if they saw blood that the wreck would become a federal case and he’d be in big trouble. He sold the wrecked bike to compensate the woman, who was uninjured, for the damage to her car. His cousins then made up a fake Mexican I.D. for him and got him into surgery. He said the hospital was packed.

Inigo was into smoking weed. He received his education in Mexico City and gained an art degree. His father had finished his career writing in Cuba, as Mexican corruption had soured him on working there. Senior had also been soured on the Catholic church. Hence, Inigo became and remains, a staunch Protestant American Constitutionalist. He served on aircraft carriers during the Vietnam War and qualified for the GI Bill that permitted his university education in Mexico. He takes the train due to terror of flying stemming from working on carriers. He says with subdued amazement, “I was a radio operator, a job that no longer exists.”

Working as an artist caused distress. Inigo described himself as a bad person who became consumed by his muse and had a brain that did not agree well with alcohol. For peace of mind, he gave up the agitating art work and booze.

Inigo landed a job working as a laborer for a photographer, making good money, largely in Mexican resorts, hauling and setting up equipment for the photographer. He described the utter banality of the beautiful and handsome models, idiots one and all. Also, was the stupidity of cocaine invading the workspace and people earning serious injuries on photo shoots while flying high on the superman drug.

Inigo settled for work on being a mechanic. He currently lives on very little rent in a cabin in Washington State, not far from where I winter. He gains this cheap rent by his ability to watch pets and fix the moving parts of human storage facilities for a terrible, soulless woman who gained these properties by defrauding her former husband.

Inigo was traveling to visit his brother who retired from the LAPD and is suffering illness. Inigo did make the mistake of befriending a large Gawd behind us and then asking him if he could crack a mild racial joke. This gave the bully pulpit to the disciple of Kanglyness.

Most importantly, and Inigo has already chaffed over this article I am sure—I see it in your rapid eye slide—he is a witness for Jesus Christ, a non denominational student of salvation who helped me a great deal with Dual Seedline clarity. On his recommendation I am seeking Strong’s Concordia, Smith’s Bible Dictionary and an online resource Shepherd’s Chapel as well as a reminder to reread Psalm 22.

Inigo aided me in my decrepitude and befriended me when I was down in the soul over abandoning my Eskimo bride to the gray vagaries of this evil world’s Apollonian tide.

Thank you, Inigo.

Written in Chicago at the Swissotel: 3/31/24

I sit on the fourth floor of this resplendent tower of mսlatto decadence, more wicked towers rising in the soft morning light, where last night I limped past many a golden hued Ishtar, ignoring the withering corpse among them even as it wondered what Shamahat would think of their Easter Eve’s revel…

I do not suppose I will ever be here again. I outline a half dozen travel articles and think of Randy…

The Land Lady and I had taken Dad to the hospital the night before. She, Mom and Son had returned early morn. I squared away my clothes and stacked them in the garage, watered the dogs, and left a text that I had done so and was “gone.”

…

10:00 A.M., Sunday

The five block crutch uphill to Holgate and 104th took a half hour in the soft rain. I was sad, marriage having eluded me a second and final time. The driver was young, pretty and kind, a big golden-hued girl wearing her Sunday smile.

The #17 takes one down through the Foster-Powell area where I had spent four previous winters as Baldy Locks with the Three Bears. I missed them too, recalling the looks of accusatory abandonment that both of the Injun dogs had sent my way as I left them for good. They are telepathic, you know.

The back was holding up… okay, barely, the small pack overloaded by the techtarded writer that needs a backup laptop. My mother in law of a mere 5 months had told me the night before, as her daughter slept out in the cold car rather than with a creature born the pallor of evil, “You are so busy—a good cook—I think we’ll starve without you!” and we laughed across a generation, a continent and the ever yawning racial abyss.

She is a lovely old girl. The slave in me will miss her ready approval.

How much of life is simply trying on a leash, feeling for a tolerable fit, wondering when our owner will yank upon our collar?

As the bus stopped behind the 7-11 where, two Thanksgivings ago, I stood up to a ghost-taxing Kang and drove him from the door to the applause of the two homeless girls from the shelter next door, I sat now lame in the first forward facing seat, propping up the collapsing frame.

Up stepped one of those frightening Caucasians of the west, wind burned, six feet four in his socks—if he had them, torn clothes, a fit 200 pounds of raw sixty-something bone, and asked, a black tool bag in one hand and a cup of noodles covered by a napkin in the other, “Miss, I do not have bus fare. May I board?”

“Yes sir, of course,” she said and he sat in the first eastward facing seat as the street graded down to the river. I observed him:

-His hands had recently, and long ago, done heavy manual work.

-Perhaps 58 years, maybe as young as 50, his Gaelic/Nordic skin burned a ruddy pink.

-He was not hung over.

-He was not a tweaker or a junky, something Portland taught me how to divine.

-He sat in humility, spooned some noodles, checked his hunger, recovered the bowl, it being against the rules, and rested.

I recalled Omar, a man of 39, who had come over to the U.S. with his parents from Afghanistan in the 1990s, who helped me when I was first a crutch in utter agony, last June, shaking like a leaf on the train from Lancaster to Pittsburgh. He was selling off his ruined trucking business and going to Pittsburgh from Connecticut for work. He told me his story and spent money pouring whiskey down my throat at $11 a shot and helped me off the train, even guarding me against being bumped as I crutched off the platform.

At the Elders Powwow in Northeast Portland I had been given a stack of mass transit day passes. I was using my last one. This was the guy. I had taken a lot of disrespect over 8 weeks because I feared living like him, could not, I knew survive on the wet streets among his giant kind [1], and was too proud to phone one of my benefactors for financial help escaping the wedding bed.

I skittered crab like across the isle and handed him the stack, “Sir, I’m not returning to Portland. Here, I used to get these from a community center for living with a native family.”

He looked at the tickets, then looked at me, then looked over at my rig and crutches [the a latter strapped together] and said, as he took them between two big digits, “Thank you, where are you going?”

“Back to Baltimore.”

“Is it cold there?”

“Warmer and wetter in the summer, colder and drier in the winter. Too dangerous to live on the street. But I have people there. I turn the corner down in San Jose—lovely place, but can’t even afford food there.”

“Randy, name is Randy,” as he extended his large hand gently.

“James.”

“Thank you James. This, this is a real big help—helps a lot, really does. I live in a tent down there under the bridge [he nodded as we approached the river]. Unemployment barely covers food. I grew up in the Bay Area [names town, forgotten by author]. A hay farming area. Beautiful, nice weather. Got too expensive to pay rent and my family is gone. Came up here for work…”

Shrugged shoulders in resignation. Looked wonderingly ahead, at nothing visible to my eye.

“I want to save up for a one way ticket to some place warm, maybe in Mexico. I’ve been researching it at the library, trying to learn Spanish. That would be it, someplace warm, if I could speak the language, get some work that pays the rent…”

Returns from his reverie and looks me in the eyes, down over his big shoulder.

“My stop is coming. James, thank you. I will say a prayer for you.”

We shook hands and I rejoined, “I will pray for you, Randy, I will.”

I skittered back to my place as the bus came to a stop.

Randy did not pocket all the tickets. He took one out and hit the touch screen with it, paying before getting off, stopped, looked down at the driver and said, “Thank you, Miss. And I am sorry for the food. Have a blessed day.”

She waved, and would help me in my turn…

It is time to pack this lap top up again and continue this eight day return.

Please, say a prayer for Randy.

…

Notes

-1. So called “white men” are so big in the west, it still astonishes me, and terrifies the honorary African American within.