Four Confederates

I was honored, in the second week of November 2019 to meet with four men at a [redacted] in Virginia. I know very little about any of these men, according to what matters under the God of Things, which is to say how they make their holy money and how they assent to it’s taking and doing by our owners through the ballot box and other approved forms of controlled social expression within the negation matrix.

Embarrassingly, I think I did half of the talking out of us five. In pure masculine terms, two of the men were clearly my physical superiors, looking to be in the top 10% of men their age in terms of size and fitness, with me wallowing in the shallow quarter of my own age group. So, it was kind of intimidating that these men expressed that they were honored to meet me and that they admired my work.

The facilitator was a fascinating figure whose real name snuck out of the mouth of one of the high-t specimens. I declined to remember it.

The man to my left had the look of the intellectual, the voice of a businessman and the same impressive hand strength of the other three. It turns out, he is a charitable curator and publisher of my work, who simply decided to promote my efforts. I found out that he picked up the tab for the meal and had missed the chance to thank him by the time I came down off of my cloud.

I believe that these men are “Southern Nationalists” though we did not discuss this. I was in Pennsylvania two days later, exactly 52 hours later, training with four fighters of various races in a gym, when two of the men confided that their women had discovered something about my infamy and were bothered and perplexed. Then the Jamaican-American fighter confessed that he had let his lady read Your Trojan Whorse and that she hated it, but that she liked A Hoodrat Halloween and the question came up as to how to explain me…and I answered, “Insane, by current social norms I am insane.”

I then went on to tell them that my loyal Negress, Ajay, had brought me south to meet these men, had facilitated the entire get together of those who her education and media exposure have told her are 100% evil by birth and by deed—only she did not believe, but went with her experience, that men of action are the only kind of men that merit a lady’s attraction.

Two men, one brown, one beige, asked me what kind of guys these Confederate men were and I answered, “Polite, strong, smart—just guys who don’t want to be replaced by cheap labor from other countries and want to be able to defend themselves and their families against criminals—those kind of guys.”

It then occurred to me as both these guys shrugged their shoulders that these sounded like the kind of men they’d like to train with, that they would not be able to explain my evil associations away and have to let my thoughtcrimes and toxic tolerance lay mute, that those four men seated around that round table gave off all the same signals of positive quality that these four men in that gym did two days later. And, that our society sees the pursuit of the four gym men as frivolous and useless, even detrimental, and that the four men at the table, due to their desire to preserve their culture and way of life, are regarded as the Great Erasure’s enemies.

It further occurred to me, that once those fellows with their desire to have a representative society that respects their cultural piety are rounded up or hounded down, that the next target would be these men, half of them still culturally asleep, but through their masculine pursuits representing the seeds for a return to the world where a man is measured not by his eagerness to submit to sacred socioeconomics but by his deeds. Once every thoughtcriminal has been put down, the man-criminals, men who train to be able to express and defend, will be the next enemy of the state to be slated for extinction.

I’m quite lucky to have met so many good strong men in one weekend, when, during the course of my working life, it was rare for me to meet a single soul who combined the qualities of strength and grace in a working week. In the end, the system hates all of these men because they represent the resource pool of humans who would keep the frail and the young alive if the Sacred System ever floundered and failed. A counterfeit person or social organism fears nothing more than the genuine article, the men who can get things done—anything—if their invisible and palpable bonds are ever shed.