A DISTANT THUNDER Read online

  The Party-The fighting revolutionary Party of Northwest independence founded by the Old Man, once a sufficient number of racially aware migrants had arrived in the Homeland to effect a significant socio-political demographic change sufficient to make such a Party feasible. Although the Party was comprised in the majority of people who were native-born in the Northwest, it was made possible by the influx of racially aware migrants who listened to the Old Man’s call and heeded it. Based upon the principles of National Socialism as expressed in the Cotswolds Declaration of 1962 and the Ten Principles of National Socialist Thought, yet offering a broad program of tolerance and participation for all Aryan religious and political tendencies, the Party provided the political leadership for the revolution, while the NVA provided the military capability.

  Resurrection Shuffle-NVA slang term for being on the run, escaping and evading the Federal forces.

  Rockwell, Commander George Lincoln (1918-1967)-American National Socialist leader. Founder of the American Nazi Party and the World Union of National Socialists.

  Shock and Awe-A customary tactic for NVA partisans lying in wait to ambush Federal troops, police, news media, or other enemy personnel. The concealed Volunteers would suddenly explode in a precisely aimed, concentrated hail of gunfire on full automatic or other rapid fire technique, using armor piercing bullets, rocket propelled grenades (RPGs) etc. The object was to inflict as much damage as possible in the opening seconds of an encounter, disorienting and disabling enemy reaction, before a rapid withdrawal under cover of smoke grenades or other stratagems. Also known as the Mad Minute.

  Spuckies-Derogatory and defamatory term used by local white people in the Northwest to denote racially conscious white settlers who came into the Homeland during pre-revolutionary times. Origin of this term unknown.

  SS-Special Service. The NAR and the Party’s élite military formation. Drawn from the top achievers of all the NDF branches, with naval, air, and space mobile wings. Highly trained and equipped with the most advanced equipment, the S S deliberately follows the traditions of its historic namesake of the Third Reich. The corps seeks to erase all differences and divisions of class, religion, and nationality, creating a true Aryan band of brothers. For this purpose, extensive political and racial education based on the principles of National Socialism is part and parcel of SS training and qualification.

  Stukach-A Russian term meaning informer, dating from the time of Stalin and the hideous purges of the 1930s. How exactly this term entered the lexicon of the Northwest American Republic is not certain. When applied to the family or person of a citizen, it is considered the ultimate insult, along with the words “whigger” and “attorney.” All three are considered to be killing words, i.e. prima facie casus belli under the law of the Republic for a duel to the death if the parties involved cannot be reconciled by formal procedures under the Code Duello.

  Take The Gap-Broadly speaking, to Come Home. To immigrate to the Northwest American Republic. In practice, to “take the gap” generally connotes an illegal entry into the Homeland from the United States, Aztlan, Canada, or sometimes by air. “Taking the gap” often involves physically running the border under gunfire and pursuit.

  Tickle-An operation of the Northwest Volunteer Army against a Federal or Zionist target.

  Third Section (Threesec)-Intelligence, counterintelligence, security and special operations department of the Party prior to 10/22. Created by Matt Redmond, who served as Threesec’s first director until his death. Organizational ancestor of both BOSS (q.v.) and War Prevention Bureau (q.v.)

  Volunteer-A male or female soldier of the Northwest Volunteer Army.

  Whigger-”White nigger.” A defamatory term for whites during the pre-revolutionary time who aped the mannerisms and subculture of blacks. Considered to be a killing word in the NAR, i.e. sufficient casus belli for a duel to the death if no compromise can be reached between the parties involved.

  Woodchuck-Originally a term with defamatory and derogatory connotations used by Aryan settlers in the Homeland to denote those who were born in the Northwest, especially rural areas. Now transmuted and claimed as a proud and honorable designation by those born in the Homeland.

  WPB-The NAR’s War Prevention Bureau. A covert agency designed to prevent the necessary military, political, and psychological conditions from developing within the United States, Aztlan, or anywhere else that might lead to an existential military threat to the existence of the Northwest Republic, through the use of targeted assassination and other black ops. The WPB is also responsible for tracking down and liquidating spies and traitors to the Northwest Republic, including informers and traitors from the time of the War of the Independence. Their motto in German is “Alles bekennings wird abgerechnet”-”All accounts will be settled.”

  ZOG-Zionist Occupation Government. Term originally created by the obscure National Socialist writer Eric Thomson in the 1970s. Strictly construed, ZOG means the Federal government of the United

  States. In actual usage it is a much more all-embracing term meaning the System, the Establishment, the generic “them” used by oppressed peoples to denote the Federal tyrant.

  The Turning Wheels

  The Turning Wheels

  At the end of the twentieth century, there was a Japanese college professor named Francis Fukuyama. He wrote a long, intellectual, and très chic essay called The End of History that became quite famous.

  Francis Fukuyama was an intellectual whore who sold his mind for money. He was a tame academic who sucked up to the wealthy and powerful of his era, big time. He told them what they wanted to hear and he reaped their largesse. When the blank-faced white men in the silk suits said jump, Francis Fukuyama asked “How high?” When the suits said run, Francis Fukuyama asked “How far?” He politely avoided the mildly disturbing term plutocracy, and substituted a much more fashionable practice of publicly referring to the wealthy, corrupt, amoral, incompetent, discreetly homosexual Anglo-Zionist corporate ruling élite of the late twentieth century by the grotesque name of liberal democracy. It was, of course, neither liberal nor democratic, but truth didn’t matter in those days.

  Fukuyama argued that liberal democracy was the final form of human government for all time to come. He claimed that the allegedly irresistible combination of liberal democracy and multinational capitalism had triumphed over all other competing systems such as monarchy, fascism, communism, National Socialism, welfare state socialism, and of course that nasty Islamic theocracy of the ignorant Arab peasants that persecuted poor little helpless Israel so. History was now at an end, Professor Fukuyama told the world. All that remained was to formalize that fact by taking care of a few little details and getting everybody on board and whipped into shape. Then once we got rid of all those picky little odds and ends like race, and religion, and culture, and morality, and the traditional nuclear family—in other words, once we destroyed all that makes humanity truly diverse in the non-politically correct sense of the term—then all the nations of the earth would boogie down in one great conga line onto the great worldwide Euro-American consumer plantation. There mankind would graze in the grass, dancing and singing and blowing dope and fucking anything with a pulse, bathed in the warm soothing glow from the television. The very flow of history itself would cease and the Garden of Eden would be reborn, but instead of a serpent in our new paradise we’d have only Ronald McDonald. The world would henceforth and forever be benevolently ruled from the corporate boardroom by pale, unseen beings in expensive suits, while at their shoulder for spiritual guidance whispered the holy rabbi Hyman Heeblebaum from Temple Schmuck-El, wearing his little blue and white knitted beanie, his heart filled with the brotherhood of man and confident in his ancient Talmudic knowledge of what is best for us all.

  Wrong, asshole.

  Dead wrong.

  The United States of America into which I was born was all a lie. A cheap, shoddy, vicious, evil lie that deserved nothing but bloody death at the point of the sword. In the Un
ited States of America, if you had a white skin and a dick on you, if you had no money, then you were nothing. Get back, redneck! No one cared about you. No one would lift a finger to help you, and all you were good for was to fix the rich people’s appliances and toys. You were raw material for biped swine in suits to make money for themselves off your sweat and your pain. You lived your whole life like a dog, you were beaten like a dog, and you died like a dog. Well, by God, we showed those rich sons of bitches and their smart Jew lawyers and their pet monkeys that dogs have teeth! Oh, yeah. Amazing what a few well-placed bullets and a dab or two of Semtex under some rabbi’s kosher tuchis can do to get the wheels of history jump-started and turning back on track.

  My name is Shane Ryan. I was one of those little details Fukuyama and his kind could never quite take care of. I was a Northwest Volunteer.

  This is how we started the wheels of history turning again.

  Bringing Down Burger King

  Bringing Down Burger King

  Turn, hell-hound!...I have no words.

  My voice is in my sword, thou bloodier villain than terms can give thee out!

  -Macbeth, Act V, Scene 8

  No, that doesn’t mean the NVA held up a hamburger joint.

  Back in the old days when we gave it to the bastards hot, us domestic terrorist-type dudes had our own rap just like any other self-respecting American subculture, from punk rockers to nigger gang-bangers to Trekkies to skateboarders. Most white kids of my generation were raised damned near from birth by the boob tube, instead of by our parents, so we got a lot of our spiel off TV and whatever mindless pollution of the soul the Hollywood dream machine chose to spoon into all the skulls of mush. That was why sometimes we sounded like movie gangsters when we talked about hits and whacking guys out and going strapped. Other words we picked up from the foreign Volunteers who flocked to the Northwest during the later stages of the revolution, a highly politically incorrect form of diversity. There was the Russian word stukach for informer, and the South African term kaffir to denote our fellow citizens ob de Affikin-Amurkin persuasion.

  Did you know that the English language contains over a hundred words for nigger? ZOG tried to ban them all. Thought control. If you forbid people to speak certain words out loud for fear of persecution and prison, eventually they’ll self-censor themselves even in their own minds. They’ll refuse to think the forbidden thoughts lest they accidentally utter the forbidden word and destroy their lives. On more than one occasion, at the early Party meetings I went to when I was in high school, we’d get newbies who’d never been among racially aware white people before. Suddenly they’d burst out, cursing and shouting and screaming out loud over and over again “Nigger! Nigger! Niggerniggerniggerniggernigger....” like they had Tourette’s syndrome. For the first time in years, the first time ever for some of them, they were someplace where they could speak freely and without fear of retaliation from politically correct society, without looking over their shoulder to see who was listening. They were saying out loud what they had always felt in their hearts. Some of them wept while they hollered nigger. It was like the weight of a timber truck had been lifted off their souls. Freedom is being able to call a spade a spade. Literally.

  NVA shop talk was unique to our situation, a kind of code we used due to the frequent need for us evildoers to conduct a conversation on our phones or computers without ZOG’s eavesdroppers figuring out whatever evening’s worth of anti-social activities we were contemplating. A lot of our terminology revolved around junk food. It was an obvious cover. The American consumer state stuffed its citizens full of grease, cholesterol, refined carbohydrates, white sugar, and chemicals at a two hundred percent profit until everybody over age twelve was at least thirty pounds overweight. You never see any fat people in the Northwest Republic today, since the Ministry of Health regulates things like refined sugar and refined carbs, and the government has banned that damned high fructose corn syrup American food processors used to dump into everything. The Japanese invented that crap. Yellow man’s revenge for Hiroshima. Might as well have been feeding people strychnine. But in those days every other person of any race you saw on the street was really gross and jiggling, men with bellies like hams hanging over their belts, women whose truly mighty butts had their own gravitational field. There was some kind of starch and cholesterol trough on every corner, and in between the corners, like brightly colored poisonous mushrooms, were all these damned little convenience stores run by wogs. Garish neon pimples on the face of the world, with racks full of nachos and sugar and pure grease. That toxic waste was what most people spent their lives stuffing into their gobs. All the multifarious agencies of ZOG that monitored the phone lines and air waves and computer chat rooms in the name of freedom and democracy inevitably heard a lot of chatter from the peasantry about whatever putrid crap everyone had for lunch or was having for dinner. Us evildoers played to that when we were nattering to one another.

  Guns were cheeseburgers, didn’t matter what brand name, but if they had onions they were full auto. Ammunition was French fries. When we needed to be more specific, a shotgun was a taco and a handgun was a chili dog. A proper military-manufactured hand grenade, whether American or Russian or a Chinese stick, was a beer of any brand. Grenades were just about our favorite toys. We paid top dollar and we were always interested in anyone who had any to sell, be they white or black or brown. I once bought a case of grenades from a Sikh master sergeant at Fort Lewis who knew damned well who I was and what I wanted them for. Hell, he didn’t care. For all he knew he himself might get blown up one night by one of those pieces, but ten grand was ten grand. We had a lot of fun with those little darlings. On the phone and online at least, we must have sounded like real drunks, always talking about booze, even though Volunteers weren’t allowed to touch alcohol. How tight was that enforced, ma’am? Well, tight enough so The Beast knew about it and we took to keeping crushed empty beer cans in our back seats or on the beds of our pickups as a kind of camouflage. I once was able to get past a Fattie checkpoint by dousing myself with Miller High Life and pretending to be drunk. They knew the NVA didn’t tolerate drunks and so they figured I couldn’t be NVA. The nigger lieutenant just punched me in the face a couple of times on general principles and let me go.

  Where was I? Right, funny names we had for hardware and operational matters. A black powder pipe bomb was a Twinkie. A home-made satchel charge was a pizza; pepperoni was high explosive plastic and anchovies meant the bomb was packed with roofing nails or other shrapnel for maximum splatter effect. Some of these NVA terms, I’ve no idea where they came from, although a few of them showed a definite warped sense of humor. Any attack our guys made on an enemy target was called a tickle. When you shot somebody in the gut and watched him kick and scramble you tickled his liver. Whacking out a television reporter or a newscaster whose reportage was especially hostile towards the revolution was called dropping anchor. When we whacked a politician, he was recalled. Machine-gunning the CEO of a major multi-national corporation, usually outside the apartment of the secretary he was screwing, was referred to as downsizing. Six sticks of dynamite wired to somebody’s ignition was called the Rapture, because he flew up in the sky to be with Jesus. A home invasion in the wee hours of the morning was called the five o’clock knock. Putting a ladder up against a target’s bedroom window, creeping up it and then shooting them in bed was called a window-washing job. Executing a racially mixed black and white couple was giving them their jungle fever shots, and whacking some white degenerate like my brother with his Asian sunshine girl was a Chinese take-out. ZOG had terms like that on their side as well, of course. They called us goots, which sounds like some kind of holdover from Vietnam when the enemy were gooks, but in this case was their term of contempt and meant Daryl and his other brother Daryl, in other words guys like me who were born here. At one stage the Federals developed a habit of hurling NVA people, real or suspected, out of a tenth floor window at the Federal building in Seattle. They ca
lled these victims “paratroopers.” One humorist from the FBI put up a sign on the street below that said “Watch for falling bodies.”

  Anyway, you asked me about Burger King. Burger King was our slang term for what the Germans used to call a Hofjüde, a major-league, powerful Jewish politician or millionaire, someone high in the American media, the intelligentsia, the political or social or economic establishment.

  Burger King. B. K. Big Kike. Get it?

  Yeah, I know I’m rambling. For the information of whoever is listening, the little girl from the university says she just wants me to sit here and babble into the microphone and try not to pick my nose while I’m on video. No disrespect, honey, I know you’ve got kids of your own, but I’m ninety-one years old and to me your mother is a little girl. I am exercising the timeless prerogative of geezers who are no longer merely old but downright ancient to irritate the young, since we can’t do jack shit of anything else. Anyway, the little girl here says she wants to record “history as stream of consciousness.” Well, she’s going to find out that my stream of consciousness has a lot of dead fish in it, floating belly up.

  The reason why I mentioned that particular term is that I figure I’ll start my stream of consciousness flowing by telling you the story of the heaviest tickle I was ever on back in my Volunteer days. The biggest, juiciest Burger King our crew ever took out. That would be the Right Honorable Samuel L. Rothstein, Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court and one of the most blood-soaked monsters in human history. The man who in one bang of his gavel swept away the last remaining state and Federal restrictions against abortion on demand, so that to this day in the Jewnited States of Amurrica women of all races, creeds, and colors can drop by the corner clinic and flush their rainbow-colored babies down the toilet with no more thought or hindrance than if they were having their nails done. I hear they call that getting a scrape.