My stay here in Baltimore is more than half over. I spend every second weekend here with her while in town. Megan is pretending that she’s not just going to have me here twice more. All day and half the night the train whistles in the back ground by day and haunts the fore ground by night. Rats are the big issue.

The dirty Mexicans to the left with seven kids and a cat, have a garden, which feeds the rats, who do not want to live with the cat.

The clean Mexican to the right is cementing his yard to keep the rats away. Georgia and Megan are caught in the middle, four rat holes burrowed just under the concrete pad of her porch. Three holes are within ten feet of the cherry tomatoes clinging to the fence, facing towards the feed.

The good Mexican comes over with a bowl of concrete and fills in the whole he can see, talking to me. He is the older, shorter brother of the other two that lived here, who called me Poppy. The middle brother had talked to me and ran off a buck gro I was concerned with a couple years back.

Clean Mex gets down low and looks at the wholes and says, “The concrete is only four inches thick, those wholes go up.”

“Then I’ll gas them, I say,” looking at Georgia up over the railing, “You have extra bleach and ammonia, that makes deadly gas. I’ll pour in the mix then plug the holes with beer bottles broken on the inside.”

“Okay,” she says, “on a mission I see. I called the County and the man said that I was fighting a losing battle and was on my own. He said if they are in your yard they are your pets! I’m calling the congressman!”

Once I did this and went inside, a half hour later, between the center and left hole, the rats within had dug two air holes. Another beer bottle was broken into the holes and 8 ounces each of bleach and ammonia poured in. I went out back in the alley and got chunks of concrete the right size to back up the bottles and jammed the tombs shut, hoping the little rodents die from the gas.

Here I sit, between checks, about ready to get the hammer and return to my post…

…More broken bricks and concrete chunks and a cinder block corner from the alley are hammered into the gap between soil and concrete. Well, the little bastards will have to work.

Last night, Missy, the wife next door of four children had walked the girls and the boy home from school. The youngest girl is so cute as she stands on the other side of the lattice railing, hanging onto the stays, asking me urgently, “Jjojjo? Jjojjo!”

Megan, Jojo being her local nickname, comes outside and says, “Hey, Baby!” and the little girl hops up and down triumphantly, “Jjojjjo!”

Megan, lights a cigarette and smiles and says, “Your mommy does your hair so nice, you are so well dressed—you are beautiful!”

The mother thanks her, telling Megan that she gave Georgia some chicken and rice dinners from her food bank box. The husband has made himself scarce. We hear him out back shopvaccing his car.

I ask Megan, “He finally talked to me today, was very nice and filled in that rat hole. What happened to his brother. I got on well with the big one.”

Megan takes a long drag from her cig as the BPD police chopper drones off overhead into the city, “That motherfucker hates me. They had this domestic thing, he hit her. I can’t kick his ass, so I told her to call the cops. The stupid cop has got them both on the porch and is asking her stupid fucking questions. So the Polish bitch in me comes to the roof and I say, “Hey, officer, what is a matter with you asking her questions in front of him? She will never answer you under his nose. Take her out in the street and question her.”

“The dumb fucking cop, a light goes off in his eyes, he was like twenty-five and he does as I say. The hitting stopped. Then she comes to me and tells me that the baby sitter told her that the oldest daughter told her that one of the brothers touched her, probably the skinny spic that got bossed around by the big one and fat daddy here. He says it couldn’t be, and she has me standing right here and tells him it is her and the girls or his brother. Well, I guess that pussy is still good, because he put his brothers out. Now we can park and don’t have to put up with spic polka every Friday night. If I had heard someone touched my granddaughter, I’d a been waiting in the bushes with a hammer and knife, that scalping knife you gave me.”

I look at her and say, “Now it makes sense that he has warmed up to me. He probably figures I disappear for long stretches after you have the cops work me over!”

“Shit, you’d never hit a woman,” she says, “look at me, cussing like all of my thirty year old coworkers. I have to stop that. This was my brother Bruce’s house. Once, a pig was up the street on the corner there yelling at Heather, his daughter, calling her a ‘punk.’ A man in uniform calling a twelve year old girl punk for playing hopscotch on the corner.

“Bruce went up there, six four, broad, back in his negro whooping days. I remember once when I was 8 and Bruce was the man of the house after Dad passed, some man in a big car and mustache pulled up to the stoop and said, “Tell your brother so and so is looking for him.” I just looked down. Well, Bruce found his ass and told me, ‘That motherfucker will never bother you again!’ and he was good for it.

That was how Bruce lit out after that cop, walked up there, thumped his finger in that pig’s chest and said, ‘Who are you calling a punk?!’

The pig was alone and about shit himself, couldn’t answer. Bruce answered for him, ‘She has a name, and it’s Heather. She has a mother and a father, so is not a punk. You have a problem with her, you come knock on my door—got it!”

The itty bitty little prick pig just stammered, ‘Yayayeyes sir,’ and that piece of shit is supposed to protect me? Sorry, Pumpkin, I just get carried away sometime. It so nice to have you around. A broke bitch likes her company. You’re getting skinny—I’m feeding you again, and if you know what’s good for you you’ll eat.”

The core context of this unlikely nonfiction story, is the same as I noted in my real time coverage of The Purge of Baltimore City in April 2015. My book War Drums and the rest of the 2015 Harm City books, chronicle the FACT that the Purge, downgraded in the false media mirror over two years to riots, then unrest and then rising, used racial/law enforcement unrest as cover for the Creep State steerage cults to release the first massive dosses of pharmaceutical opiates into the criminal underground and thence to every corner of the nation.

This was the final turning point of the phony Drug War, which was just a way to get public compliance in militarizing police. The looted pharmacy dope was an interim measure between Afghan heroin and Chinese/Mexican fentanyl, the ultimate enemy of USG, greatest macro parasite in recorded history, being its 350 million person host.

It is a fact that 35 pharmacies and some two dozen criminal stash houses of Jimmy Masters 25 year old drug fiefdom were knocked over on the last Monday and Tuesday of April 2015. This was done under cover of the Freddie Gray Riots and Mondawmin Purge by the students of Frederick Douglas High. I knew people on the inside in real time. I took the bus with the youths detailed as scouts and overheard their conversations as logistics were rerouted. This job was coordinated by the DOJ, BGF [gang], Crip 52 [gang], and a certain central mind agency. Military contractors were involved in keeping people locked down to facilitate the mission of looting the pharmacies. The resulting product glut was known locally as The Mother Load. This is not mentioned in the book.

The case that this award winning author makes is this:

That the entire city-wide caper that involved hundreds of violent actors was masterminded, created from whole cloth, on the fly, in two weeks, by two “honor roll students,” high school kids from the worst school district in America. They are touted as computer geniuses who invent and implement an uncrackable, encrypted national dark web drug network in only two weeks, from SCRATCH. They were also physically involved in looting and murder at the same time, not only writing better code than google keyboard jockeys and federal MENSA hires, but imposing their will for a few months on the most enduring African American criminal gang in the U.S., the gang that killed John Gotti, the gang that the FBI have been unable to take down on the RICO statute.

Does that pass the smell test?

Let’s look at assertions made and details overlooked.

Sniff #1

Q: Two weeks to conceptualize, invent and implement the most advanced dark web crime enterprise from an abandoned row home overrun with rats and roaches?

A: The author admits that he hardly met the two and that almost all of his communications with them were through encrypted emails. This tells me that these two boys, were mere front puppets for the Steerage Cult that has back door access to every online platform based in the U.S.

Sniff #2

Q: A black hero cop, the main law enforcement source, claims that white cops harassed him for having an Afro. This was presented as a symptom of massive white on black cop intimidation within the department.

A: I have worked with hundreds of men on mixed race crews and in boxing sessions, and have noted that job place teasing like that is always same race. White guys make fun of whites, and blacks of blacks. Additionally, most BPD cops were, and are, black.

Sniff #3

Q: The author focuses 2 of every 3 pages on the fact that everything in America favors whites over blacks and that there are no rehab resources for blacks and plenty for whites. The assertion is made through black advocates, with the author parroting long obsolete progressive talking points.

A: Yet, in the Baltimore job market, since 2002, black hires have been aggressively recruited in all levels of private and public employment.

As a bus user on the ground, I can see that rehab centers have tended to be placed just outside of high crime zones on major bus lines, as the danger of trying to get people off drugs right next door to the gun totting black drug dealers is a non starter. As I read this book, 24 drug addicts of both races offloaded from the #54 bus at an intersection with 5 rehab centers. These are the new government sanctioned drug dispensaries.

Also, later in the book, buried in the middle, the author writing in 2017, notes that addiction rates are the same across race with the only difference the rate of legal to illegal drugs consumed by race. Here, on page 67, the author demolishes his oppression model.

In 2016 white kids from rural and suburban areas began moving into Baltimore and pimping out their girlfriends for access to the new discount crime drugs. Despite the authors assertion throughout the book, the main theme of which was white over black oppression, in the context of all black on black violence, I, on the ground, never saw any racial component to the drug trade other than black violence.

Sniff #4

Q: The white on black Baltimore crime scape and massive social injustice is the main assertion of this book, the life blood of it.

A: 14% of Baltimoreans are white males, with zero serving as cops, all white cops living out of town. Yet 90%+ of homeless in Baltimore are white males! The most damming evidence is given in the middle of the book, buried by the author in newspaper fashion, on page 129. He describes two addicts in rehab, who are a married black couple with children, who both have excellent State of Maryland jobs, with the best medical benefits, and snort illegal drugs at work! These addicts held the type of jobs that people like me were not permitted to acquire since 1990, with 99.9% of bus drivers, that being the best government job available to high school graduates, are black in a city that is only 65% black, and 10% Latino, with not a single Latino bus driver. The author demonstrates no clue as to racial dynamics in Baltimore, nearly his every source giving him a distorted image. STEERAGE.

Sniff #5

Q: What are the crime details, the central focus of which should be how pharmacies were knocked over?

A: Although CVS and Rite Aid chains had much video evidence and made public complaints that the BPD REFUSED to investigate these crimes, and I personally saw how these places were broken into, the author only looks into the one atypical pharmacy looting, in which the business was burned down, the two masterminds, one with a distinctive sunken chest and pot belly, are caught masked on video. This level of laziness does not fit the author and suggests that he was ferried around by law enforcement charged with channeling his focus.

There is no mention of the 5 man crews, outfitted specifically to drive residence indoors, that took over the streets when the cops abandoned their posts. No mention of the 1 woman and 2 man crews that hit each chain pharmacy in a very thought out way, pharmacies that had the best inventories. There is no mention of the military contractors that pushed me and my friend off the street after dark and who somehow had no contact with the B&E crews?

There is no mention of the heroin shipments brought in, only those seized by the BGF from the Masters cartel.

Overall investigation of criminal acquisition methods are absent.

Sniff #6

Q: How authentic is the texture?

A: The author writes nothing but stereo types, gangster using 1990s movie firearms, rather than the 9MM and .45 APC that Baltimore shooters prefer. They wear only Nike sneakers and Timberland boots. They stand over their gunned down enemies and chant and boast and cuss like rappers and TV actors, rather than “move the fuck off” like they actually do to avoid the massive amount of cameras that the author admits are all over Baltimore, on some streets on every light pole. The two upscale, black urban nerds that the writer met once or twice, who then communicate with him exclusively by encrypted email, joke about rats and roaches being fitting office companions for them as they work on their massive array of computer hardware, to include private SERVERS delivered mysteriously to an abandoned row home, which would have had to be powered by an extension cord plugged in up to a block away! Look, black dudes, even thugs, are more freaked out by rats and roaches then poor white trash, by far. Across the board, in Baltimore, as a reaction to filthy public conditions, black men have higher personal hygiene standards than white guys.

What comes through here is that the book was textured to appeal to suburban, white, misconceptions about urban blacks, along lines seen on TV and in movies. The most galling oversight, is that two 17 year old skinnies are shown wielding power through the magic of computer wizardry over the U.S. Army Iraq veteran thugs and criminal psychopaths, that know that the one kid was raped by his step father. Black men who find out that you have been ass raped do not respect you. This was a story line lifted from the Wire HBO series.

Sniff #7

Q: How does the story end?

A: It ends just like The Wire and every TV show and movie glorifying the criminal that gets away back to the civilian life he reluctantly left for the necessity of crime. In The Wire it was the kid who went to work in a shoe store. In Pill City, the raped kid goes nuts and starts playing gangster, even executing women. He is killed by a gangster. This all probably happened, with law enforcement-based forensics and times and places of death, placing this actual meat person as a puppet for the Agency nerds who were actually encrypting emails to the author. This kid was supposedly a Bloomberg News junkie and stock market jockey, who went SO GANGSTER that the professionals cringed! This is lifted from the TV show Breaking Bad. Indeed, the story line is Breaking Bad placed in the setting of The Wire.

The good kid, who didn’t kill people and became increasingly estranged from his buddy, Brick, who was his same sex soul mate, which does not track, enjoys the opposite fate. He moves to Bay Area, California by himself, lands a job at Google, as their very first black programer, and his racist white coworkers harass him! This totally does not track, with Bay Area whites worshiping blacks as if they are all Morgan Freeman.

Seven for seven, Pill City takes an investigative reporter on a toddling Odyssey of Steerage Cult handling of a man who seems to be as honest in his investigation as his editor permits, and only as curious as the law enforcement and gang front men for his handlers admit. What he hangs his hat on is a fact, the fact denied by Baltimore Government, that the Purge and Riots were a ruse to take lethal drug addiction to a new high. He is either guided to or avoids the obvious evidence that the gangs and cops were a mob of USG puppets and dupes, some rewarded for playing along and other punished for hesitating one contact too long.

Pill City is a 26 page truth wrapped in a 260 page Hollywood spoof.

This one is working on The Son of God: Alexander's Expedition by Arrian

Arrian's Alexander's Anabasis has been translated as The Campaigns of Alexander and The Life of Alexander the Great. In my investigation of the most remarkable warlord in human history, i have chosen a mypoic view of the conqueror using the lens of Arrian, who attempted to sort out the many accounts of Alexander's life and offered for the reader to reserve judgment on his work until they had first read his predecessors' works.

I came upon this idea while crippled and needing to spend hours a day doing physical therapy and listening to audio books, the best among them being an expert reading of the 1958 translation by Aubrey de Selincourt. Listening to the life of this conqueror while suffering the fate of many of his veterans, to be left behind due to an inability to "keep up" and thus assigned to garrison duty or discharged with honors, as i was honored by fighting men I had worked with, the ambition to come to a better understanding of Alexander overtook me like a bad idea that would not be denied.

Having read all of the other extant sources twice, Arrian's thrice, and 14 general histories of his life, I have now listened to Arrian's entire account of Alexander's military and civic exploits thrice, and Book one, today, for the 48th time.

The Son of God, I am attempting to complete in 7 parts over the next two years. Book 1, the Advent of Alexander, which describes how a man learned how to conquer a world with a small army over the course of his 21st and 22nd years is key to understanding the next 6 segments of his life.

His younger life and afterlife will be treated in each volume as prologue and epilogue, from different authors of antiquity, while his activity will be viewed as much as possible thru the works of Homer, whose Iliad Alexander employed as his life guide, through Aristotle, who was Alexander's teacher, and thru Xenophon whose own expedition as a captain and then colonel, and the martial reforms he experimented with, formed the basis for Alexander's operational attitude.

Two nights ago Adam and Hans of The Myth of the 20th Century discussed Alexander with this old tramp.

Below is a copy of Adam's email.

Thank you both, and thank you all.

james

Really enjoyed talking with you, James:

It finally occurred to me, yesterday, that a new age has dawned; not a new political age, but a new metaphysical age.

First, in case some do not remember what society was once like, let me recall.

In 1977, I was standing before the defensive coach at Trinity Middle School after scrimmage, having asked him how I could deal with the offensive linemen as a defensive end. Rick and I were leaving together. He came and listened alongside me to the sage advice, showing respect.

Likewise, the coach, understanding that Rick’s mother was probably waiting outside the school in an idling car, said just enough to get us thinking about our play reading retardation and promised to address things in detail next practice.

In this day and age, east of the Appalachians, in the Mid-Atlantic, hub of this evil world, this civility, this respect, is absolutely gone. I have paid attention as I came east, and have also looked carefully as I have lived in these parts that were once my home.

Yes, we have seen for a decade now, families at table for dinner ignoring each other, hypnotized by the sacred siren call of their smartphone. I have taken into consideration that this evolving situation began with TV. In my family, I can recall sitting at the kitchen table, discussing with a family member the last words of her sister, when the announcer of the Orioles game on the TV, in the next room, could be heard proclaiming a home run. The woman then got up from the reverent table, walked into the TV room to worship her millionaire avatars, and utterly forgot the subject of our conversation.

Many a time a man in my family did the same, asked me a question he seemed honestly concerned with about work, finance, news, loved ones, crime—then a first down was announced on the TV and the conversation ended, the man no longer able to even recall what we had been speaking of. In the east, with my family and hosts, as they are distracted every few minutes, I have been assigned the task of recalling what we had been discussing, what they had been doing, what they had been saying. For their memories are wiped clean.

People in the west, I know, do not suffer from this affliction.

I do not know why. Perhaps it is simply the people I know in the west. But when I am in Portland at a bar, or at an eatery, or in a house, few people are shirking their fellows and family for the sacred light of their phone: hipsters, Mexicans, tweakers, drunks most of them will set the phone aside for Sunday breakfast. In the east, no one even looks at each other as they stare languidly into the eternity beckoning from the palm of their hand.

I spoke of this to Nero the Pict, as he drove me from Harford County, Maryland to Lancaster Pennsylvania, two days ago, concerning this transformation of humans into autoclones. Nero is one of the few eastern men who, along with The Operator and Big Ron, [1] do not suffer from this autoclone impulse to enter the swirling vortex of distraction on automated command. He has noted in his frequent travels in scores of workplaces as a workspace maintenance man, that the staggering increase in speaker phone use in public has shattered all previous norms of privacy and of courtesy.

I will now recount the most egregious examples of this thing that I once thought was targeted invalidation of me, but now believe is a systemic capture and taking away from me, of friends, associates and family:

Thursday at the Dojo

Saturday at Breakfast

Monday During an Amish Country Drive

Thursday at the Dojo

A man who has waited for me to return to Baltimore for three months, to train him in boxing at his karate school, who is paying me to spar with him, called a halt to our sparring after 40 minutes. He then asked me what he could do to avoid having my slow, ancient ass hit him. I gave him three fights to watch, Haggler Mugabi, Duran Barkley, Haggler Duran, to search on his phone. I thought he was searching these on his phone, for I could not see, and was reeling off the technical lessons to be gleaned from each as he sat beneath me, head looking down into his phone, thumbs working.

Enter The Operator, “What!, Brutha! Mister [instructor’s name redacted] if this wasn’t your house I’d break that phone over your head. You have The Man, that you have hired to teach you how not to get your ass kicked, giving you the keys, and you are making ebay trades on your phone!”

The instructor, who had been sparring with me 20 minutes earlier, admitted, “I’m sorry. It was a lot to digest—I guess I just checked out.”

After my session with The Operator, who also uses a flip phone, he had much to say on this, including, “Mister James, imagine if my Battalion Commander, arranged to have an SAS operator advise me on surviving an enfilade ambush, and I just turn away to check my fantasy football status and even forget the subject. I guarantee you that if he was here now, I would hit him with the exact punch you were coaching him against. Mister James, these people, him, this entire world, they are not human. They are just puppets in a window; they are mere THINGS I use to mark range, keep time, and, if necessary, present with the question that THEY are not capable of answering.”

Saturday at Breakfast

I sat at table with three loved ones. The elder, the matriarch, with tears welling in her eyes, dearly wanted me to outline my winter travel plans, city by city, a verbal map. This takes 2 minutes, as I have done it often for the curious.

30 seconds in the other man’s smart phone rings.

In an age of respect, he would have excused himself and taken this urgent call. In this age of rude, hypnotic negation he answered on speaker phone, talking over me. She, our mother, silenced me, “Shush, don’t talk while he is on the phone!”

I was astonished.

He spoke briefly then signed off. Her inquiry, which was writ with urgency on her face, erased all knowledge of our iced conversation which, forty second earlier, had her near to tears, “What was that? Why did you hang up so soon? Is it an emergency?”

He said, “A telemarketer. They wanted to know if my car needed detailing.”

She never asked me again where I was going, forgot the conversation. Numerous other conversations, between the family were totally iced over facebook video advertisements, Nigerian scam artist calls, ball game scores on the TV in the other room, weather forecasts on the TV in the other room…

What is left of my family is not able to speak with each other due to TV, radio, smartphone activity trumping even our medical and mortuary discussions. Indeed, when my flip phone happens to be out on the table, always on silent, usually so I can check to see if my ride is on the way by text, and it lights up, they are all, always shocked and offended with my rudeness to the flip phone! They cannot fathom me valuing our rare conversation, perhaps the last of our lives an hour before I head out of state, over the probably spam caller on the phone.

“I will check it,” and they fume, almost angry that the conversation they initiated with a heartfelt question, was not being terminated in favor of a battery and a light.

Then, yesterday, being driven through Amish Country, by a man who is troubled by a particular social question as much as he hates high way traffic, and therefore took this scenic way past buggy and farm, he asks me to answer a heartache question for him, which he seems to think I might have the answer to.

I begin to answer, which is going to take some qualifying questions to help him out.

His phone is somehow wired into his car. The car begins to ring! Without asking if I mind, or saying excuse me, he answers the car phone round, knowing from the dash display, that it is a mutual friend who calls daily to chat about current events. Unlike most folks he at least lets our friend know that I am in the sound car.

The call is over in 15 minutes.

We have 15 minutes to home—we have time. I wonder, ‘Were his concerns erased?’

He begins speaking of the stupid, fake, distant, current events. He gets angry at these events. He argues down the anger. He looks around at Amish Country and gets angry at them for some undefined reason. We drive on and I ask, “Brother, is there anything you wanted to talk about, anything on your mind, anything I could help with?”

“Ah, uh, I don’t know. I’ve been forgetting stuff lately—it’s weird, one reason why I look forward to our time together. You don’t forget. You’re therapeutic.”

I let his concerns die in my mind.

I have decided that I will no longer bother recalling the concern of someone who is taken over mid conversation by Leviathan. Autoclones might be people we love. But, they are only people until the TV, the radio, the phone, the watch, the talking automobile! summons them to the Conclave of All Forget.

I hope now, to die in the west, rather than here in the evil east, where nearly all of us are alien and alone by phone.

…

Notes

-1. Interestingly, my webmaster, a real tech head, does not suffer from this and stands outside of the pervasive rudeness, auto invalidation, and autoclone alienation of this beastly east.

Charles was driving me across town, because he didn’t want me on the bus. He did ask me if it was getting better or worse in Baltimore.

By Baltimore, we mean the state-created urban blight population replacement zone where unwanted working class murkans have been hunted since 1965 by gawdly folks of a lustrous hue, in a bid to clear out the saltines to make way for the Ritz. The government does not want their cities to remain violent hunt zones, but want the hunters to drive the enemy of the State, the terrible saltine, far away into the suburbs, then to be driven further into the hills, his victorious hunters occupying the suburbs as Ritz kind are placed in the inner city. What we and our ancestors have lived is not results, but process.

On paper the only law enforcement records that can be trusted is the homicide rate. The cops, the creep state and the crooks, only seem to be able to disappear about 5% to 10% of us who they kill.

The pile of bodies are lied about: who, what, why and when. But they remain. Murder rates do go up and down as a visible symptom of the main threads of aggression, the bankings, muggings, pack attacks, rapes, robberies, assaults, beat downs and home invasions. Rapes, robberies and home invasions are often, usually and always reclassified as assaults, thefts and destruction of property or burglary, respectively. The government always lies to us about the activities of its client mob imported to attack us. That human stain that we Baltimoreans refer to as Baltimore, encompasses the entire City, about 12 by 12 miles and square on two sides and half of the east side.

In addition are a wagon wheel spoke of Xvasion routs, from west to east: Frederick Road, Edmonson Avenue, US Route 40, Liberty Heights, Riesterstown Road, York Road, Loch Raven Boulevard, Harford Road, Belair Road [US 1], Philadelphia Road [US 7], Pulaski Highway [US 40 on the east side], Eastern Avenue, and out the ass east end of town, Hanover Street and Washington Boulevard. These crime fingers extrude as blight spears into suburbia, some even in to the rural highlands, where the invasion halts or stops for lack of affordably constructed mass transit.

When I lived in Baltimore, rather than visiting, my writing was dominated by ongoing research. I no longer do that and simply lead a personal life while visiting Baltimore, writing little more about it than to cite activities in my writing journal. So, the only metric I have is me. Unfortunately, I have changed a lot, ranging 44 years of residency and 100 pounds of weight. What has not changed is that I travel mostly by bus and foot. I will note to what extent the danger of a given year to me had to do with appearance or condition.

…

The Top 7 Shit Years of One Crumbled Cracker’s Life

The titles reflect articles or books or quotes from the same.

As I count the years in proofing this on 1/10/25, i come to the conclusion, that this half-baked potato negro cannot count.

-JL

#1 Thru 5

The Violence Project

1995-99:

Using a gun against 5 home invaders, running from the pigs after using a knife on two glorious kangs, this was life as a long haired, spry white trash grunt during the peake of the Drug War. Dealing with coked up joy stomping rednecks in pickups, predatory cops, sets of professional thugs, packs of teenage man-hunters, inspired the genre known as Harm City. That term derived from a Khaos Krew tag on the back of the wheel well seat of the #15 bus at Overlea station in 1999.

This is the world that was depicted in HBO’s The Wire. This life I hated gave rise to The Violence Project conducted from 1996 thru 2000. The events rise in my mind episodically now and are arranged chronologically as a violence memoir in the book 40,000 Years From Home. I was collateral damage in the War on Drugs, a pale pedestrian hated by dollar-chasing blacks and pension-chasing blues for my very existence outside the norm, as I simply tried to get back and fourth to low paying night stocking jobs at grocery stores.

#6

‘Psycho Santa Clause’

2017:

Attacked 20 times in one year, twice by pit bulls, partially because Baltimore had been hunted clear of pedestrians, and the final pedestrian was me, an old, fat gimp with a cane. Autumn in a Dying City [once banned by Amazon], Winter in a Dying City, White in the Savage Night, Harm City 2 Chicongo are books from that year, I think.

…

#7

When You’re Food

2011

Stalked and harassed by cops, a pair of red necks threatening me at night, and hood rats hunting me in my neighborhood, compelled me to finally finish writing When You’re Food, which had been discarded in 2001.

…

#8 & 9

‘Missah Jimmy’

2009 thru 2010

Being a grocery store manager saw me threatened and struck by employees, shop lifters and threatened with death and incarceration by police officers for not letting them come into the store after ours and loot. The occupational hazard of foiling mobs of flash looters and crackhead panhandlers on the parking lot came with a lot of occupational danger.

…

#10

‘Can You Dance for Me Brutha!’

2023

As an agonized cripple, a skinny old man hanging between two crutches, 6 young black men and one old negro tried to beat or mug me. But one, seeing me admiring the eye level breasts of his towering lady in a dollar tree in Pittsburgh, danced with me in the pork rind section. My redemption came when I chased a buck gro up the alley behind the Brickmouse House on crutches! Next to facing down Pave Man Jones and Company this is my proudest moment.

…

#11

2022

Pave Man Jones vs Cave Man Bones

My fitness and arrogance had me actually looking for trouble on a few occasions, to include my rain check duel with Pave Man Jones at 54th and Eastern, on August 4th, I think, in the wake of a tornado that gave the badge groes something to do other than prevent or punish me for the crime of saltine defense against sacred chocolate offense.

…

#12

‘What Up Wit Da Hat?!’

2020

As the myth that crackers breathed death made 2020 an easy time on the street for me with my traditional foes, cops began threatening me, a cracker crackhead hunted me in an alley by night, and the emptying of prisons had me dealing with prison thugs put on the street to drive me off of it. This was a very anxious year, with having to arm up for thugs at the same time that the cops were directed away from them and at us.

Since that time, I have felt more at ease as I walk armed between those who have been sent to drive me to extinction and those on station to punish any successful defense in the name of their great and evil god: USG.

The other 32 years had all of them threatening lows and highs, but do not stand out in my mind as any more miserable a pointless gutters of existence as the next year.

MURKHA!

My niece has published another one of her tramp uncle's books.

Please, help the girl out with her college tuition.

I really like the Toby's look on the cover.

Over four winters, the author, a stray human, has wintered under the watchful eye of Toby, the youngest of three dogs residing with their two houses full of humans at the foot of Cedar Mountain. The remarkable antics of Toby, which include his ability to open doors, have inspired his casting in the horror novel Uprising. Over this past winter, the author noted that Toby is remarkable, not just in his ability to understand human conversation and operate some human devices, but in his deep fears as well. Something lurks upon or under Cedar Mountain which terrifies Toby. The author here takes it upon himself to try and plumb the nature of this deep fear in a horror novel, written from a dog’s perspective.

Below are recent recollections of people close to my writing heart. We are getting old and at times forget. Often a friend of mine will be cued by conversation to tell me a tale, pause, and say, “Please, if I told you this before, tell me to stop.” I never do so. For the retelling helps me remember things I have not yet forgotten through writing and also helps me develop character cadence, tone and diction for novels. I want to hear the story again. The first of these below was told to me only once, the rest repeated to me recently, on its tail. Two of the stories were related by myself to two of these folks in response.

Jimmy Frederick

“It’s amazing that you coached at this school [we were driving past] for a decade and we never met until after you went on the road. Jimmy Frederick had a presence in this neighborhood. Once I saw him in his karate uniform, in his bare feet, holding up traffic with one hand and walking an old lady across the street [Loch Raven Boulevard] with the other hand. That is not the kind of thing you forget.”

-Jason, driving by midnight from the Esoteric Cafe

“I have enough on my plate. I sparred with Vince [1980s WBA Welterweight Titlist] down at Mister Max’s Gym. What do you think I used to drop those two jerks at the [Towson] Diner—left hook, to an overhand right. But I’m not a boxing coach. I teach Kenpo. People who want boxing, you coach and I take the fees. Your people train for free in the back. You teach weapons and help with kickboxing for my black belts. Any knuckleheads or idiots come in with that old karate challenge, that’s you and yours, got it. I’ll make sure you earn your keep.”

-James, recalling directions from Jimmy Frederick, as he stood behind his desk in his black gi

…

Mister Dee

[In a Northeast Baltimore grocery store.]

“James, you’re wearing a tie?”

[Yes sir, I’m managing this place]

“You’re fat!”

[Well, ah…]

“I saw you fight at Grosscup’s [tournament]. You looked great, welterweight! Now you’re fat!”

[Well, ah…]

“I want you to come train at the school. We need knife up there.”

[I work 7 days, evenings.]

“I have the keys. What time do you get off.”

[Ten, sir.]

“I’ll be here at 9:50. Be ready.”

-James, recalls as the ghetto grocer

…

“You were in the back, sparring with some giant guy and Mister Dee said to me, “Blake, you need to train knife with that man. He’s a professional.”

No offense, but you were kind of chunky at the time, should I say stout, and I said to myself, because I wouldn’t disrespect Mister Dee, ‘I will stab the shit out of that fat fuck!’ And here I am, still trying to stab you, even while you’re limping around on a bum leg. Mister Lee was—is, I hope to God still among us—a good man. I miss him so much. Him and Jimmy were such good men. In a way, I still come here to keep company with their ghosts.”

-Mister Blake

…

Mark [Duz, from the Harm City books]

“Mark was such a good man, cool as could be. I had a rough life at the time with a teenage girl to raise on my own. Of course, I’d close one night then drink too much to get to sleep because I opened the next day and that didn’t always workout. Mark, was always there seven minutes early, like a machine. I’d call and say, ‘Mark, I overslept…’ and he’d cut me off and say, ‘As long as you get in here, we are good. I need you. As long as you stay over to make up the work and I don’t have to, we’re good.’

“Nothing upset that man. Even when the two nigs in the Buick ran him over on the lot to get the Tuesday bank pickup, he just got up, brushed his pants off, and looked at them while they ran off like idiots.

“He would never speak to a female employee alone. No one ever had to worry about Mark putting his hands on you. He was a gentleman. Once, he calls me in the office because Takiesha brought up her till [1] before her shift was over. This was right after she came back in the building after her lunch break. She tells Mark, ‘I have to go. I can’t stay here.’

“Mark looks at her and says, ‘Whatever you need, Takiesha. May I ask why?’

‘I just shot my husband. I don’t want to get arrested on the job—juz be too embarrassin’

“He was unflappable, ‘In that case, thank you for not just walking away from your till, and good luck to you. We’ll count you out. You probably have things to do.’

“They shake hands, and the crazy bitch is out the door never to be seen again. Anybody else having a crazy bitch telling him she had just shot somebody, looking at him over a pile of money, might have blinked. Not Mark. The sisters loved him.”

-Megan

…

Notes

-1. A till is the money counting tray in the drawer underneath the cash register that the cashier uses to take payments and make change. The term till, an agricultural word for plowing up soil for planting, makes one wonder.

The Northern Hemisphere of this now decadent planet of the apes, is in the first stages of a climate cycle of the likes that crashed previous empires. The Bronze Age Collapse in 1151B.C., the coming of the Cimmerians and Scythians in 750 B.C., the Plague of Justinian in A.D. 524, the Little Ice Age from 1315 thru 1816 that saw the political world reshaped and the rise of an empire upon which the sun never set, were all periods in which a slight global cooling was attended by unusually high levels of volcanism, hurricane, flood, drought, blizzard and dearth.

Currently, as I write, I wonder if my friends in Tennessee are alright. The Creep State has prevented private aid from out of state, has sent the national guard overseas, and is killing as many indigenous Americans through hurricane exploitation as possible, even as millions of Machete Americans are being flown and bussed in to replace legacy Americans.

This may all be forgotten by the time this article posts. I do not have the courage to post these comments in a timely fashion. I would like to make two observations concerning the history of the future.

The thugs who used to be called Basketball Americans based on their adoption of an indoor university sport friendly to paved urban areas, are rapidly evolving into effeminate twerps, creatures of leisure and sloth. Less rude, less violent, less masculine, less athletic, even physically smaller, the 16 to 20 year old gro of today, is a mere shadow of his opaque forefather who was captured and robbed of his vital seed by the Mudshark that spawned him. He is atomized, less likely to pack up with other hyenadon manhunters, and is only recognizable as a legacy conqueror, the scion of the savage hordes that drove fifty million victors of WWII into suburbia, by his lack of trust.

As autumn dawns in Baltimore, I have noted this to two of my sparring partners who live here year round. As motorists, they had not taken note. Finally, today, after beating me with a stick for 40 minutes, Vaxx Zombie drove me from the Brickmouse House to Georgia’s place. I now sit upon her porch, smiling at something my driver said, “You’re right—you never saw that before!”

He nodded to a young man of gawdly hue, a slight fellow of 18 years, walking along carrying a skateboard, alone. As late as 2019, the only time one ever saw a buck of heavenly ebony carrying a skateboard, he was a 300 pound bull of surly demeanor, accompanied by two lesser lights, who had recently knocked some sissy cracker off his skateboard and bore this trophy as a makeshift war club, window breaker and door ram. These brutes never were seen riding a skateboard. Now, I routinely see young, willowy fellows of high yellow, off loading from buses and doing curb tricks, also skating away from larger exemplars of kingly Murkhan virtue. I have seen such Tony Hawk aspirants zoom away from groups of low browed indignitaries and otherwise locomote as the gods of old surely did upon their heavenly chariots. This is huge. The general herd of gawdly thugdom do not even run down prey but call it to them like rednecks luring in ducks with a carved whistle.

Three hundred years ago the Sons of Yakub were brought to these shores to replace us, as we had been to replace others, for population replacement is the best way for the Third Party to make money at the expense of the First Party, at the hands of the Second Party, who will be cycled out in his turn. Yes, more hordes are being brought to replace the 50 million who will die from the vaxx by 2040, to extinguish the most hated genetic line. But, most of us will be left behind as the conquered. For my entire life there has been no greater symbol of the submissive host race than the ghostly skateboarder, scooting along in imitation of his suburban bound daddy, who soon lost mommy’s approval in the wake of his urban removal. Now, as the dark steam has been spent from the raging urban hate vent and the sons of the warriors have been crossbred with the rabbit race, watered down to a sissy trace, machete kind have been called to these shores to cleans we the filth from mammy Murkha’s clogged pores.

For five years, many a prepper fellow has been telling me to hideout in East Tennessee or West North Carolina, the promised land. This was once the bulk of the State of Franklin, an all Appalachian runaway zone that wished to be recognized by Murkha as a sate to the extent that they adopted for its name that of the key signer of the Constitution, Benjamin Franklin, who hated their “runagate” kind with a passion. The United States would not tolerate an upstream, head-water state, that could not be invaded by sea, which controlled the headwaters of eastward and westward flowing rivers. These people would be chased down the Cumberland, Ohio and Mississippi to Arkansas, Northern California and Summit County Utah, where they are being rubbed out to this day, displaced by Mexican drug cartels, billionaire coastal Americans and the great leviathan, USG. The value of mountain springs, the hard rock and precious metal and rare earth to be found in mountains, along with the difficulty of rooting out hated hillbilly kind, once moved the English to persecute the Cornish, Welsh and Scottish for 500 years to get the ore and coal to be found there and then export the combative sons of the highlanders to fight overseas wars. Those sons are being exported again as their parents are rubbed out, just like the Nez Perce and Apache of the high deserts who were sent to moist lowlands to die of disease.

The Common Enemy of All Mankind knows what it is, even as we deny it exists. We are its crooked moral timber, its tasty melting pot of misery—we are HER food.

Tiamat is back, dressed appropriately, in black.

Bro,

I love the thumbnail of the crumbled-down one-eyed cracker writing!

For the readers. As much as possible my travel writing is being integrated into adjacent or pertinent history and fiction products. The Graphomaniac Archives are intended to provide an annual anthology of all fiction from the previous year along with the tramp writer's travel and composition notes.

Fiction in hard back will be limited to one edition a year.

Fiction in paper back from Casting Darts Publishing seems to be on pace for monthly releases.

Hello James!

I loved your latest piece, “Warrior Performance & Quality: Christian versus Muslim Musings Cormac MacArt, 10/12/24”!

You know that if you publish an article about Christians and Muslims in the Arуan Battlespace, I am going to throw in my two cents!

Long time readers may recall, I wrote and published my second book on this topic in 2015, “All Men Follow the Strongman: The Forgotten History of the Iraq War”.

As such, here are some thoughts of mine on the topic…

Within Islam, we have the concept of 3 Jihads:

Jihad of the Heart…Belief in the power and righteousness of the cause

Jihad of the Tongue…Verbal persuasion to effect above belief

Jihad of the Sword…Battlefield actions to kill the enemy

We see a 1:1 parallel here with Indo-European Arуan practices, the 3 Agons, as laid out by Marcus Auraelius:

Agon of Idea

Agon of Utterance

Agon of Action

However, while the framework looks the same on the surface, the similarities end there.

They end with one word:

Deception.

One of the big things that we see in the Middle East is a heavy emphasis on Deception. Any GWOT vet will tell you this from experience.

We see this veneration of Deception from the Spiritual Caste at the Jihad of the Heart and Jihad of the Tongue levels. An example of this comes from Quran 3:54:

“And they deceived and Allah deceived, and Allah (is) the best (of) the deceivers.”

Another example from extra-Quranic texts comes from Khalid Muhammad Khalid, Translated by Muhammad Mahdi al-Sharif. “Book One: Abu Bakr Has Come”

“By Allah! I would not rest assured and feel safe from the deception of Allah, even if I had one foot in paradise.”

Compare this Arab focus on Deception to its Arуan opposite, the Agon of Idea and the Agon of Utterance.

This comparison can be found in a footnote on pg. 79 of Julius Evola’s “Revolt Against the Modern World” Translated by Stucco, Guido. Rochester, VT: Inner Traditions International, 1995.

“Concerning the cult of truth, the [Medieval] knights’ oath was ‘In the name of God, who does not lie!’ which corresponds to the Arуan cult of truth.

“According to this cult, Mithras was the god of all oaths and the Iranian mystical ‘glory’ was believed to have departed from King Yima the first time he lied.

“In The Laws of Manu (4.237), we read: ‘By telling a lie, a sacrifice slips away.’”

Christian readers may recall the words of Jesus in John 8:32, NLT:

“And you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.”

We likewise see this veneration of Deception from the Warrior Caste at the Jihad of the Sword level. Essentially, the Arabs fight in a Predatory mode of combat known as “Raizzas” and “Ghazus”.

These guerrilla-type of operations are from the shadows, sneaky, stab-in-the-back, shooting fish in a barrel type of affairs.

These are not mano-a-mano, up-front, straight-shooting Confrontational modes of combat as in the Arуan Ethos venerated in the Agon of Action.

The Jihad and Agon may look similar on the surface, but Deception is the key that separates the substance from the veneer.

Sincerely,

Richard Barrett

01-08-2025

Written at 11:37 PM, somewhere in the USA…

“Charleroi, PA—a town of just 4,000 people—has been overwhelmed by thousands of Haitian immigrants.

But nobody seems to know where they're coming from.

Steve works as a paramedic in Charleroi. He tells us that vans carrying the immigrants come and go "at all hours of the night."

The above was sent to me by Mo, a female reader concerned about America. I know America to be a lie. What is happening is that USG has become so nigh and mighty that the veil is rent in places that even the media blinded normal person may see.

Across the nation I have seen Africans, all male, very polite, fit, military types for the most part.

Charleroi is mostly of interest to me, because I had my first boxing match in a gym there, the same gym that world champion Michael Moorer trained in as a youth. Such small Pennsylvania towns around Pittsburgh abound in the old railroad cuts. A place like McKee’s Rocks, Charleroi, Oakdale, these are creek and/or railroad crossings without much room to expand. That 4,000 folks must now accept a host that will swamp them, does make me sad. A bit sad, somewhat less sad than the fact I can’t really fight anymore.

In Baltimore County, at White Marsh, three years ago, six 120 unit condo plexes were built cheaply. I take the bus right by there. What I see now, as the many Africans or Haitians on the bus sit quietly, is that the parking lot is full of nice cars at morning and mid day, and that those people visible on their balconies are African or Haitian. Until they speak with their French accent, I cannot tell a Haitian from an African unless they are dressed for church, or if they have women.

At the end of the line, at the park & ride when I offloaded, I spent a half hour on Sunday and ten minutes on Monday this week. In that combined 40 minutes I witnesses three, that is 3, Peter Pan buses pull up and disgorge Africans. I could tell they were Africans, because the women and girls were dressed in beautiful colors, dresses and head scarfs showing off very fit and healthy figures, not a fatty in the bunch. Two men were picked up by a fellow African driving a 70K pickup.

In the late 1600s, Bacon’s Rebellion in Virginia, and revolts and revolutions in Maryland, New York and Boston, convinced slave owners that they must import a more obedient population. Four times the cost of a European was paid by a planter for an African. Rather than importing 95% male European slaves, the planter wanted mated or breeding Africans so he could, with this investment, breed his small farming American rival out of business. This was the strategy that won New England, a 7 to 1 breeding advantage.

Since Ebeneezer Cook cursed the “slaves” of Maryland to be beset by African cannibals for their poor treatment of him in 1707, Maryland was flooded by Africans until the 1790s. In the 1790s, Baltimore passed ordinances to do away with African slaves, as they were used for violence by slave owners against non slave owners, driving down housing values and driving out people not of the Master Class. After the importation of African slaves was stopped, Baltimore became a thriving city, The Monument City, greatest city of all the southern slave states.

In the 1830s and 40s manumission and shipment out of the state of any and all slaves, to include David Holiday, white slave for life, was pursued with more vigor in Maryland than in all other states combined. After 1865 Maryland became more productive, more peaceful, a leader of industry. Then, in the late 1800s to early 1900s, increasing numbers of southern African Americans were brought into Baltimore for domestic help and as a buffer against the lower class European immigrants working in industry.

After WWII, wages were too high, and home owners in Baltimore had developed communities with extended family living, in which houses were passed from generation to generation. Southern blacks were brought in to drive the working class and middle class from the city and into the suburbs.

Finally, as the dark thugs of Baltimore and other cities have been stretched out along long roads driving the crackers from the suburbs they were once driven to by these same people, USG ran out of foot soldiers. During the race riots of 2020, only a fraction of the rioters were black, it was mostly whites working for the cause. The ability to commit organized violence has always confounded the African. The unique hybrid Anglo-African criminal culture in America, which enabled senseless violence to clear real estate, has been much reduced in this population. Over the years since the defund the police program, blacks have become freshly docile, as they realize that when they attack a cracker and then call the police for backup, that the police won’t bother.

The pale bad guy is now able to walk the streets of his gro-ravaged city with impunity. Troons, sissies, tunes, women and money men, etc., still live in peril and must be safely transported by some machine. But homeless crackers may now live on the streets in Baltimore City, a play too dangerous for that since 1968. Additionally, since African American blood has recently been bred so thin with all of this ebony and ivory inter-humping, we now have a weak crop of what the ghetto sisters call “milk duds.” Additionally, this demographic is reducing that watered down breeding rate as they aspire to the ivory tower.

USG ran short of looters and rapists! They must now ship in raw talent. Africans tend to be much less criminally inclined than African Americans and Haitians. The exception is Liberians who come here. That American colony in Africa, is, along with Haiti, the best off-shore African American production center.

Haiti is one of the three small African nations who had their leader killed for not promoting jiveteen vaϲϲination. Of the dozen or so “Jamaicans” on the hit team, all but one had U.S. citizenship! In the supermarket business, it was well know that the two toughest types of team-based shoplifters, were Gypsies and Haitians. Haitians demonstrate much better organic organization than African Americans. Additionally, they have a history of slaughtering Europeans! Tribalism in Haitians is nearly as strong as in Africans. They do not, however, suffer from the White Daddy mythos that afflicts Africans due to colonial rule, which was much less nasty than Plantation rule. If the reader wonders at the Belgians in the Congo, read Search For An American Spartacus, available as an ebook on this site, and know that although Colonial Africa did exist, Colonial America did not, only Plantation America, where millions were broken, branded and slaughtered.

Haitians do not come from a place where government is naively regarded as a servant to the people, but rather a real world where the government is understood to be the strongest gang of looters. The Haitian mind has been prepared from infancy, to savagely thrive under USG.

If I was president I would hand a machete and a handle of cheap rum to every Haitian willing to swear fealty to USG.

Long Live Leviatroon

James Anderson has conducted a meditation on what it is to be a warrior and also a curation of earlier efforts by men from the past to define the ultimate masculine value.

I liked this very much.

Thank you, James.

Just uploaded a new article:

I've attached a large font version for you as well. Hope you enjoy.

Respectfully,

James R. Andersen

I would not rate a man worth mention or account either for speed of foot or wrestling skill, not even if he had a Cyclop's size and strength or could outrun the fierce north wind of Thrace; I would not care if he surpassed Tithonus's looks, or Cinyras's or Midas's famous wealth, or were more royal than Pelops son of Tantalus, or had Adrastus's smooth persuasive tongue, or fame for everything save only valor; no, no man is of high regard in time of war unless he can endure the sight of blood and death, and stand close to the enemy, and fight. This is the highest worth, the finest human prize and fairest for a bold young man to win.

-Trytaeus 

This is for men of the warrior class. 

Others may find it disturbing. 

Continue at:

“The Ottoman elite fighting force, the Janissaries, were originally 100% Balkan slaves. How did the Ottomans maintain peace and order in Europe? Find the baddest bandit leader in the area, now he's chief of cops, basically. There's a whole part of Africa with blue eyes and black skin because of Bosnian bashi-bazouks or whatever laying down the law for the Sultan.

“So, how did the European fighting men under Muslim rule - and sometimes faith - compare to their contemporaries outside of Rumelia?

-Cormac MacArt

…

In the 1600s and 1700s Dutch captains served in the North African and Ottoman fleets, one with a great red beard, whose name escapes me.

Since, in the Islamic word, ever person is a slave except for the Caliph, who is the personal slave of God, there is a problem with Islamic battle morale from about 900. Turkish invaders of Muslim faith did much to infuse new vigor into the warriors of Islam. Reading The Song of Roland, one finds descriptions of Germanic warriors of Visigothic stock, like Old Blankendrin battling the armies of Charlemagne. These men are side by side with Arabs, Berbers, black Africans. Islam made do with war slaves, such as the Mamelukes, in much the same way that Christian gunpowder armies of the 1700s switched to conscripting criminals for deadly duty. Recall that Columbus’ first voyage was framed as a crusade against Islam, and that his men were almost all criminals taken from prisons, just as George Washington would do in the 1790s to annex tribal territory.

Thomas Pellow, a Welshman, a slave to the Sultan of Morocco, served as a soldier, an officer. Entire ethnic corps of European Christian slaves made the firepower arm of the Sultan’s army. His masses of Black Muslim slaves served as spear men and executioners of Christians. He employed an English slave, a butcher, to execute Muslims!

A Spaniard who befriended William Moraley in New York in about 1730, had served as a soldier in this army, and as a tax collector for the Sultan.

Timur, one of the three greatest conquerors in world history, refused to take Islamic titles he was offered, described himself as The Servant of God, and was described by an Arab biographer, a slave of his who hated him, as “white.” Yet our looking glass denies this.

Chinese Gordon died against the Madi at Khartoum. But the extermination of these jihadists immortalized in a Winston Churchill poem in which he waxed ecstatic over “shooting fuzzy whuzzy in the head,” along with the reversal of the Kabul disaster in Afghanistan, all in the late 1800s, gave notice, that Christian Europeans were preeminent in war. As described in Lothrop Stoddard’s The New Flame of Islam, the long view adopted by Islamic war planners included employment of official government advisors to build, manage and train the fighting forces of Islamic states. Sir John Glubb was one such man.

Our history has been reshaped through omission, revision and plain lies, to such an extent, that one is better served reading fiction written in an age before.

Fictional treatment of this subject is much richer than factual, as the gaslit mind of modernity sees every Muslim as an Arab, when they are of many ken. I have a suspicion that Islam has yet to see its high tide and that Christian fighting men, having become slaves to the dollar, first and foremost, will continue to serve Islam.

My fictional character, Yusef of the Dusk and later of the Dark, is such an interloping warrior. There was something special about the Arуan fighting man that the lesser Caucasian races harnessed whenever they could.

I would suggest reading Robert E. Howard’s Desert Adventures collection, in which three heroes, foremost Xavier Gordon, or El Borak, operate as military interlopers in the Islamic world. Short novels and long stories include: Three Bladed Doom, The Lost Valley of Iskander, The Daughter of Erlik Khan, Son of White Wolf and Swords of Sharazzer.

A strong fictional impulse in the still Christian pulp literature, was of a Christian character such as Solomon Kane [1], or at least a European savage like Tarzan, should defend black Africans against Islamic slave raiders. The movie The Naked Prey, also explores this ideal.

Again, the thirst for a warlord of many races to have a champion of Arуan blood, is constantly expressed in actual combat sports: Filipino, Chines and Japanese martial arts masters have very often mentored Arуan fighting men. This was the case in the 1600s of a Dutch Captain being enslaved by the future Shogun as a warlord. We have a mojo of which we do not even know. When a man who defeated me in three stick fights as a Doce Paras/Sayoc fighter, walked into an event run by the preeminent FMA guru in the world, that guru took one look at the hero he wanted and gave him a black belt, making him his front man, because he knew, this guy was not going to lose a stick fight.

People of other races have often noted that we are crazy, we pale people torn from Europe ages ago, so inclined to back a counter culture hero as well as to perish in some other blood’s cause.

Is this a curse, a blessing, or both?

James,

You've probably been sent this quite a few times but in case you haven't:

Two soldiers get to grips with each other and the Russian (Siberian) manages to bite the knife out of the Ukrainian's hand.

They offer honorable words to each other at the end. What a waste.

Regards,

James the Innocent

Yes by all means post it. I extracted the video and attached it to this email, hopefully you can watch it:

The translation of what they say appears to be:

Ukrainian: “That's it, mom, goodbye,” let me die in peace, you opened me up. Let me breathe a little, it hurts a lot. Let me go quietly, don't touch me.”

Russian : "You fought great."

Ukrainian: “Thank you. You were the best fighter in the world. Better than me,”.

7min knife fight between a Ukrainian and a Russian

kiwifarms.st/threads/post-videos-of-people-dying.86179/page-399#post-20226208

-Guilo Girl

I am unable, with this computer and my idiot brain, to access google drives, you tube or bit chute or the other links above.

I don't know if this was an alley fight at a Thai resort or in military combat in Eastern Europe.

It is interesting, that as much as most American service men i know seem to despise Russians based on American news media, as idiot war pigs, that it is the American combatant and non-combatant of today who denies any credit or honor to the slain enemy, our entire USG mindset to piss on enemy graves instead of respect them for fighting against the massive odds we bring down on them. It is so very interesting that the story of these two enemies to the knife shows them closer in soul then American voters and media grogs are to the people sitting next to them on the light rail or living across the street.

I hope both of these knife fighters have a serene afterlife.

Perhaps i will view this with a tech competent friend one day.