They “drove the chief from the city with threats and curses,” warns the “unfortunate companion” of Conan, who seeks to warn the barbarian against the dangers of the city.
I have reviewed this story in audio form three times. I have read it at least a half dozen, and cannot keep but hearing the warnings of a nighted city in the voice that narrates the evils of civilization to the skeptical barbarian every time I take to the dark streets of my own ethnically compromised city, seeing some of the same sights—giant black slaves, vicious little sluts in place of sultry slave girls, predatory police in place of bully watchmen. I think it often enough that I sometimes wish I were a Conan-like figure, but then remind myself that such physical stature would get me shot in short order.
“The very beggars hunting a niche they can barricade before dark,” says Conan, as if describing Baltimore City under a summer moon.
If you haven’t read the story you need to. If you have read it, listen to Nathan’s rendition. This, in my opinion, is the most prophetic tale told by the suicide prophet of my waning race. The feeling imparted by Nathan’s reading is very near the feeling I get heading to work at night. In terms of characterization, this reading does the terse, brutal character of Conan justice, with sharp words savagery gnashed between impatient teeth.
Political Correct Note: Many moderns will listen to Howard describing a white man being able to determine he shared a dark room with a black man, by noting his distinctive smell. Well, I can tell you, that I can smell a black man in the dark, and have. Any urban hairdresser can explain to you the difference in the hair and its need for oil. In fact, black fighters often have to oil their skin to protect it from abrading on the canvas or mat and their hair retains chemical traces [this gotten from an analysis of hair-sampling drug testing] at 50 times the concentration as Caucasian hair, putting a black man with groomed hair in danger of testing positive for marijuana by merely walking buy someone smoking a joint on a street corner.
Enjoy a 1930s glimpse at 21st century anarcho-tyranny through the fantastical mirror of an antideluvian age.
A Fighter’s View of Predatory Aggression: The Forever Autumn Press Edition