A DISTANT THUNDER Read online

  What the neo-cons did in the Middle East was to wound the tiger, and then they didn’t finish the job. Israel simply had too many enemies. Even the mighty United States, the only remaining superpower, couldn’t destroy them all. They invaded Afghanistan in ‘01 and Iraq in ‘03 and from there it just went on and on and on, Iran and Syria and Lebanon and Egypt and Saudi Arabia, and eventually Pakistan and Libya and Malaysia, and when the Turks finally had enough of shilling for ZOG the Americans invaded Turkey as well, but it was always very half-assed and confused. The United States simply didn’t have the numerical manpower to occupy and crush the population of every Muslim country on earth. The result was constant guerrilla warfare in a dozen hotspots. Admitting American defeat at the hands of a people whom we officially held in contempt as “ragheads” was a long, slow and sullen process and there was terrible and unnecessary death and pain involved. That’s another way that the Jews could have stayed in power here in the Northwest, if they’d just had sense enough not to try to conquer the world. The Greeks called it hubris. Overweening pride that insults the gods. Yep, that was Yehudi all right.

  * * *

  I was involved in my first racial incident in the third grade, and was thereby marked forever as a bad kid.

  I was one of the budding young scholars at Martin Luther King Elementary School in Dundee. It’s still there as Fourth Street Elementary, although they rebuilt everything from the ground up after the revolution and I don’t recognize a damned thing when I go by there any more, except that the playground where I jacked Bobby Fernandez is more or less in the same place. But jeez, my time in elementary school was just a little short of a hundred years ago, so why shouldn’t it have changed? No, my racial incident was not with a nigger. We didn’t have any black kids, although the school board kept trying to beg, borrow or buy some whose parents would let them be bused down from Olympia. You have to bear in mind that outside the major cities, even up to 10/22, most of the Northwest was still almost all white, which was why this part of the world got chosen for our Homeland by the founding fathers back in the 1970s. But certain parts of the Northwest had labor intensive industries like forestry and logging and sawmilling and agriculture and fish processing, run by greedy capitalist bastards, and that drew Mexicans. A lot of Mexicans. Dundee was such a place, with our small fishing fleet and the Deep Harvest cannery, plus the logging and the plexiglass plant and that place that assembled cheap plastic furniture for mobile homes out of parts they imported from Indonesia. So we heard a lot of Spanish, and we also heard a lot of English telling us white boys that nobody was hiring.

  What happened at school was that I clobbered that fat slob Bobby Fernandez with a chunk of concrete. Fernandez was one of the few Mexicans in school at that time, since most of our illegales either sent their kids to Catholic schools, or these weird little Hispanic Pentecostal schools run in basement storefronts where they jumped for Haaaay-seuss in Spanish, or in most cases didn’t bother to send them at all. There were still a few occasional, faint flutterings of enforcement of the American immigration laws back in them days, although not many. By the time I was ten or so ZOG gave up the pretense and more or less just opened up the borders and said to hell with it. Oddly enough, I later came to learn that one of the reasons the Mex didn’t like sending their kids to public schools was that they didn’t want their children corrupted by the filthy, greedy, no-values American consumer society. Strange to think of Mexican parents, who were in the process of destroying America and turning the United

  States into Brazil, being afraid their kids would be corrupted by us, eh? But considering the cesspool that mainstream Amurrican culture was, in a way it makes sense. Ironic. They claimed they wanted to be Americans so bad they were willing to come here illegally and take everything we had, but when it came to their own children all of a sudden they didn’t want to be Americans that bad. I can’t blame them. Mexicans valued their own children in a way that white people back then never did. Mexicans knew that their children were their future. To most white adults, kids were just an annoyance. Something to be avoided and aborted if possible, and ignored while growing up, farmed out to day care centers and school and the television set, the great electronic babysitter. That was always one way the Mexicans were able to beat us out. They kept their traditional if somewhat primitive values, and they kept their nuclear family units intact. Their men worked like dray horses and their women had mucho bambinos and raised them. Simply through breeding like rabbits, those people damned near destroyed four centuries of civilization on an entire continent.

  Anyway, this Bobby Fernandez was a chunky mestizo brat whose father was the town’s first Hispanic city councilman, a labor contractor of course, the local jéfe who delivered the madrugadores to the construction sites and the warehouses every morning, and from there it was just a step to delivering the Latino bloc vote to whichever party paid most for it, usually the Democrats. Illegals weren’t supposed to vote, but hell, they weren’t even supposed to be there at all, and every few years they’d get amnestied and one or the other of the two parties would try to buy their votes by giving them citizenship in mass swearing-in ceremonies. Plus there was always plenty of fake ID around. One Rodriguez pretty much looks like another, so effectively they all voted, early and often. That’s how Clinton the First won the 1996 election, if you want to get into obscure historical trivia.

  Bobby was an overgrown, American junk-food-chubby fifth grader who should have been in sixth, but he’d already been held back one grade because he was so dumb that even the public school system of the time couldn’t pass him. He had a special class schedule with Spanish-speaking teachers and he still couldn’t pass. It wasn’t a language problem, it was the fact that he was just as bird-brained in Spanish as he was in English. Fernandez was eleven years old, and already that spic had a little moustache. Swear to God! Bobby was your typical schoolyard bully, swaggering around with his little clique of hangers-on and butt buddies, some Hispanic and some white. That was a common enough phenomenon back then, weak-willed and deracinated white boys gravitating to blacks and Mex and other non-Whites, in whom they sensed strength and some kind of identity. The kind of spiritual things that white kids didn’t have. A Mexican at least has a racial and national identity of sorts, just one that doesn’t belong anywhere north of the Rio Grande. White boys didn’t even have that when I was growing up. We were born and raised to buy things at the mall. Then there were the white girls, most of whom gravitated to niggers and Mexicans because they had all the good drugs, but we won’t get into that particular sickening topic for the moment.

  Back to Bobby and his little gang. Their specialty was picking on the smaller white children, robbing their milk money, eating their lunches, making them do bad and crazy stuff and getting them in trouble, so forth and so on. Eventually my turn came, but in my case it was worse. I was somewhat small for my age, and I was also blond and blue-eyed and I had nice, clear skin. I won’t get into all the details, but suffice it to say that Bobby was old enough to have discovered what his peter was for besides pissing, and having grown up in the migrant labor camps from Baja California on up, he knew all the variations. He called his dick his chupacabra, which means goat-killer, and I wouldn’t be surprised if. ..oh, sorry, ma’am. I know, we don’t talk about such things today. But unfortunately, when I was eight years old, that kind of filth was our daily fare. It was just something we lived with. Kids on the playground knew all the secrets of life by that age, and Bobby didn’t have to draw me a picture. He made it quite clear from the beginning what he wanted from me. About the third time he unzipped his pants and I was only just able to get away from him and his crew through a combination of fast talking, subterfuge, and just plain running, then even at eight years old I understood that something had to be done.

  I knew my parents were useless, but I tried reporting it to the teachers, which needless to say didn’t do me a damned bit of good. They told Bobby to be nice and that just pissed him off because I
’d informed on him. It made him more aggressive and increased the time and effort I had to spend avoiding him. For the first time, I ran into that massive disinterest always to be found in official places when it came to protecting smaller, weaker people with white skins from big bullies with dark skins. It wasn’t as bad as it got later on, but even back then when I was eight, political correctness had gotten so bad that the school authorities were scared to discipline an eleven year-old thug and sodomite because his name ended in “ez,” although a seven-year-old white boy in Longview who brought a Swiss Army knife to school later that year was permanently expelled and denied admission to any public school in Washington state. That kid’s family had to move away.

  I understood that I was completely on my own, that there was no one on earth who was going to lift a finger to help me. Let me tell you something, that is a terrible, an unspeakable burden for a child of eight to carry. No child should ever be alone like white kids were when the political correctness of Zion ruled this land. I didn’t have a father who was worth a bucket of warm spit, but we had a television, so I knew from watching pro wrestling what I had to do. One day I went out back to where the tarmac in the parking lot was breaking up. That crumbling infrastructure I mentioned before, crumbling literally in this case. I selected a good heavy chunk of broken-off concrete that I could heft in both hands, I got up on an embankment behind the playground and crept up on Bobby while he leaned against a wall smoking a cigarette, and before he knew it I was on him. I gave him a couple of good whacks with the piece of concrete. He went down screaming in Spanish, and I went down on top of him and kept on smashing at him clumsily with the concrete, red splattering blood slapping all over me. I was prepared for that from watching the wrestlers when they whupped on one another with chairs and brass knuckles and fire extinguishers. Fernandez was pretty much of a mess when a couple of teachers finally screwed their courage to the sticking point and pulled me off him. One of them asked me why I had done it. It was then I committed an error that made my life what it was to be. I yelled out, “That greaseball spic wanted me to suck his dick, so I smushed his fucking head! “

  Whooooa, baby! White trash city for life, here comes Shane Ryan!

  From that point on, the bottom fell out. I had done the unforgivable. I had said spic. Well, it could have been worse. I might have said nigger. Mmm.. .maybe not. I mean, nigger was of course the ultimate forbidden word, a kind of living death if you uttered it, and if you were over thirteen years old and on the grounds of a public school and you said it or you were caught with a copy of Huckleberry Finn then it would be prison under the Dees Act, but nigger is only one forbidden word, whereas I had actually used two, albeit of somewhat lesser value. But the two of them combined? Did a spic and a greaseball put together actually outweigh one nigger in terms of politically incorrect horror? I learned later that whole school board meetings were held about my case, in attempt to resolve just that very knotty spiritual problemo of political incorrectness. Kind of the liberal equivalent of how many lesbians can dance on the head of a pin.

  The hell of it was that I was not in fact what they called “prejudiced.” For God’s sake, I was a child! I knew that Mexicans were usually brown-colored, and they spoke a different language, but that was about it. All the Speedy Gonzalez cartoons had been pulled off TV by the time I was born, but we had the Bumblebee Man and the little talking chihuahua and I thought they were funny. When Mom was too drunk to make dinner, as she often was, Taco Bell was one of my favorite meals. I liked the big plate of tostitos with guacamole. At that age it wasn’t a race thing. It was a kid thing. I would have done the same to a white kid who waved his wang in my face and had his gang try to force me down on my knees in front of him. I’ve often wondered what would have happened if the teachers and school administrators had treated what happened as exactly what the hell it was, a schoolyard squabble between children, and made me and Bobby both write “I will play nice” two hundred times on the blackboard. But kids were very much a political commodity in those days. The grownups acted like I was engaging in some kind of violent insurrection against the established authorities. I wasn’t. Not yet, anyway. All I wanted was for that big greaseball to leave me alone and being eight years old, I could not understand why that was too much to ask.

  But it was. I was too young to comprehend that the one wish tyranny can never grant is simply to be left alone. The rule is that no one can stop the merry-go-round and get off. No one must be left outside the circle of misery. All must participate. All must sing hosannahs and all must burn the pinch of incense before the altar of the false gods of Zion.

  I was dragged into the principal’s office, my parents were called, I made the front page of the Dundee Advertiser as indubitably the next Grand Dragon of the Ku Klux Klan if we’d had one in Washington, my father lost his current job several months before he would have in the normal course of events through being drunk all the time, and we had several bricks thrown through the windows of our house by dumb-ass white teenagers who only knew that it was now socially acceptable and even encouraged to throw things at us. (Later on when I was with the NVA, we were the ones who told punk kids like that who it was okay to throw stuff at.) Normally I would have been expelled like the kid with the Swiss Army knife, but at that time there was a new solution being tried out in the Washington public schools to deal with hideous racists like me. It was called SOBOR, Social Behavioral and Outlook Reconditioning, and the state of Washington paid millions to a whole set of psychobabble wonks to come up with it. They decided to make me their lab rat, and so I ended up being “de-Nazified.” Swear to God! An eight-year-old!

  For the next three days I didn’t go to class. I was escorted everywhere by an adult faculty member like I had some kind of disease, forbidden to speak to any of the other children and they were forbidden to speak to me. I was an official pariah and made to feel it. I was taken off into an isolated room, surrounded by imposing psychobabbling adults, and made to watch a lot of videos about Hitler and the Ku Klux Klan, including all kinds of nasty photos of lynched niggers dangling on trees and skeletal inmates with numbers tattooed on their arms and burned skeletons and big pits full of bodies from alleged Nazi concentration camps. But the child psychologists the state sent down stopped that after they got what they referred to as “contraindications.” Fact was that I was enjoying it. I thought all the skeletons and dead bodies and such were neat, a lot more wonderfully gross and horrible than those stupid monsters Scooby-Doo and the gang chased and who always turned out to be villainous white guys wearing costumes. Well, what the hell did those educated idiots expect from a kid raised on American television who by age eight would have already seen fourteen thousand two hundred murders and acts of dismemberment on the boob tube, or whatever the statistic was?

  Plus that was my first sight and sound of the Führer Adolf Hitler, and I was completely fascinated. Scattered in with all the rest were a few clips from the Nuremberg rallies. I didn’t speak word one of German, but even in those grainy old films from the 1930s there was something. I knew the Führer was speaking to me, and that he was saying something vitally important, but I had no idea what it was. Leni Riefenstahl, thank you. From the bottom of my heart, kameradin.

  Anyway, the psych mooks from Olympia picked up that I wasn’t getting with the program and so they switched to something called “Learning Tolerance,” with videos of all kinds of little children of all races dancing around and throwing plant life at each other and grinning little niglet boys putting flowers in little blonde white girls’ hair and stroking them, and the little white girls going tee hee hee, you get the idea. For some reason I did not understand, I wanted to punch the niglets in the face. They just seemed dirty and horrible, ugly stupid monkeys, and I did not want them to be touching the little white girls. I did not want them to be, period. From somewhere in my gene pool, God knows where, I had inherited healthy racial instincts.

  The psychologists were always asking me stupid questions a
nd trying to make me sing songs about red and yellow, black and white, we are precious in His sight. I told them I couldn’t sing. Well, I couldn’t. They kept on and I just got really mulish about the whole thing and said I didn’t want to sing, and then they asked me why I didn’t want to sing and did daddy ever touch my peepee in a bad kind of way and that kind of crap. (The fact that a few years later they were teaching children that very behavior in class is a contradiction I’m sure always escaped them.) Somehow I was able to convince them that my parents weren’t perverts, just drunks. I made things worse by refusing to get up at an assembly in front of the entire school and apologize to that greasy little blot Fernandez. That really drove them nuts. I didn’t understand it then, but this was in fact the most important part of the “de-Nazification” process—the deliberate, public humiliation of the white male who has dared to question, who has dared to resist. I wouldn’t play the game. I refused to debase myself. I refused to be humiliated, and that scared them pea-green. I think in their own way they had some vague idea of the sleeping giant that was about to awake in the land, and I could sense that they were afraid. I was well on the way towards becoming an irredeemable case. I had them tearing their hair. Eight-year-olds were supposed to be pushovers.