“What I possess far, far away appears,

And only what has vanished now seems real.”

-Faust, Dedication by Goethe

This poet of minor note, composing curiosities among the shadows of an utterly fallen world, has been recently afflicted by greatness. In my search into the rise and fall of the people simply known as the warriors [Aryans], whose women held the most relative moral sway and civic regard among the many folk of antiquity, I have returned to the reading of my youth. Then, as a 15-year-old punk, I read 14 books on Alexander the Great. Later, in about my 50th year, I began to wonder, how is it that the entirely masculine art of war, in which women have NEVER taken a deciding role and rarely acted as meaningful participants, does excellence in the men of war, the Arуans, Sons of Ares, and cousins such as the Mongols, Polynesians, Iroquois, Crow and Blackfeet, so often spring from a society where women have more influence then the far less successful warrior cultures of Africa, most of Asia—near and nether—and Mexico south to Peru?

For a short answer, I appeal to the NFL playoff games a few weeks ago, in which the combative player’s agency continues to reduce, and he is surrounded and out numbered by busy-body non-combatants, to include beautiful women stocking the ever increasing ranks of opinionated commentators? A simpler answer is the cheerleader, a relic of a more sensible time when metaphor was a masculine store, and not a wrist-wilting whip. As yet another bronze beauty comenst on the emrits of this slavish player or that, I blurted, “this would eb worthwhile if that doll was roped to the gold posts and the blond on the other end of the panel was fettered to the opposing goal post.”

My wife chuckled. But alas, brides our now one by the money amassed by a player, merely a muscular cog in an industrial time-management metaphor. The cheerleader offers a sidelined whisper of an honest time when the women of men bettered in combat became the battle brides of the conquerors. The entire Iliad and the Odyssey reflect this ancient truth, no reduced to an obliquely crass purchase of feminine toleration.

The roads of thought left to this struggling inquirer into lost and lie-entombed times have no begun to gather inextricably about the short bright life of the best warrior to ever live. The time I have left, passed January 2027—if any—shall be devoted to the Areid, a series of 8 novels about Alexander through the lens of his single most loyal band of warriors, and also the Seven Volume Son of God. Alexander’s stupendous drive is dragging this myopic inquirer from the Sons of Aryas and Plantation America projects, back to the life most written about in Antiquity, in The Middle Ages, and in Modernity. Even world-burning, cartoon Hitler gets less historical attention than Alexander.

Considering Alexander, one sees the most driven warrior, the most successful war leader and the most humane king in one person. More feared than Achilles, more brilliant than Genghis Khan, every bit as humane as Marcus Aurelius, Alexander also had a unique civil relationships with women. In an age of sexual license, as a youth, he refused to have sex with the most beautiful and talented woman in the world. He gave more respect to his mother than any known king—none of whom could match him in battle or war council. He was adopted as a son by two queens of Asia, adopted the wife of his slain enemy as a sister, decreed that his warriors might note displace their home wives with prettier darlings they won in Asia…

Alexander seems to have embodied the dichotomy of the Arуan tribes and clans; that the war races who conquered and/or oppressed every single nation on earth, for at least one lifetime each, are also prone to the weakest deference at home among womankind. This writer now intends to conduct the inventory of obscured warrior facts and the litany of twisted warrior truth upon a duality pole of history and fiction, of inquiry and story, in the shadow of Alexander.

As a guiding light I chose a reading of a master of the arts at which this less sure hand strives, in the seminal work of Goethe, Faust, the play. If only Goethe had sent his shade to me like Virgil did for Dante, than perhaps the Norns, or Fates of the Sons of Ares, the nations born of WAR, might have here successfully discharged his duty of finding out why the very best warriors have become money-questing, boot-licking, back-biting, father-shuning, sissies; the sons of Crone rather than of Strength, the whining heralds of death rather than the strident champions of life.

Goethe does offer a clue in his two prologues to Faust. Doctor Faust was said to have been a sorcerer, a wise man, an alchemical polymath of the early 1500s, a man similar in nature to Jon Dee and Isaac Newton, delvers into science and faith, men of the tarnished throne and of fallow faerie. In The Prologue In The Theatre, three figures discuss the upcoming event of story and money: Manager, Dramatic Poet, Comic Person.

Manager:

“I want to please the crowd we get,

Because it lives and lets us live; each seat

Is ready, our booth is up, the stage is set,

And everyone is waiting for a treat.”

Poet”

“Oh speak not of the motley throng!

One glance compels my spirit into flight!

Veil from me the crowd which whirls along

And sucks us in the vortex ‘gainst our will.”

Comic Person:

“Posterity? That word offends my ears!

Suppose I talked of further years,

Who would amuse the world to-day?

They want and ought to have their fun;”

In The Prologue In Heaven, Goethe engages the Book of Job as a launch for his play, as The Almighty, The Heavenly Host, Three Archangels and the devil Mephistopheles agree to permit the latter to test the mortal subject, Faust.

I leave off this investigation here, leaning as did Spengler, upon the shoulder of Goethe, in wonder. One thing is clear, the ancient fear of Infinite Number, of quality over quantity, is embodied by the woe-befallen Poet in the theatre, caught between the Manager dedicated to earning his bread in his narrow booth, and of the Comic blithely eager to compress Fate’s many threads into one gilded knot.

Thank you for following the downward trajectory of this vexing muse.

-James, Denver, Pennsylvania, Thursday, February 5, A.D. 2026

I have read a couple dozen military memoirs. Combat infantrymen have always fascinated me. Those foot soldiers who survived WWI and WWII are most amazing, as they demonstrate, in this reader’s mind, cases of supernatural intercession. I was honestly embarrassed, still am, that of all those stories of American and German, and even a Japanese service man [1] I had not read Audie’s. Perhaps this was because I saw the movie he starred in based on the book. I watched some of his westerns and thought he seemed a good soul.

My first job, as a man who has ghost written two books and written hundreds of others, perhaps half of which contained relations spoken to me by folks I interviewed, was to note the hand of the ghost writer. I find no indication of the ghost writer by name. It is inconceivable that a book this important to the U.S. Army and the nation was left to a man of action who had no writing experience. Someone was assigned by the publishing house, perhaps even the Army, to sit with Audie Murphy and get his story into writing. Quiet hurrah narrative was inserted in some places, but minimal. Audie made sure that the personality of his fallen fellows came through, to include their rude jokes, as a first principle. On page 273, I find what I believe were the last narrative words Audie spoke to the ghost writer:

“Have the years of blood and ruin stripped me of all decency? Of all belief?

[I bet my life that the writer asked him here, to qualify that. Then comes the voice of the quiet killer rising from the gory mud.]

“Not of all belief. I believe in the force of a hand grenade, the power of artillery, the accuracy of a Garand. I believe in hitting before you get hit, and that dead men do not look noble.”

What follows is USG company policy, three paragraphs of laconic patriotism, which it seems Audie only signed off on because his three best buddies were included at the top of his editorially expanded beliefs, against a faceless, nameless, anonymous enemy. The ghost writer inserts, “My country, America!” which fits with none of the depressing narrative in the previous 272 pages of slaughter. Audie respected the enemy as much as he did the invisible high command he served like a thinking bullet. He seemed bitter that, unlike the Germans, combat veterans were not rotated back to train new men, but that new men were simply fed piecemeal, like so many soft bullets, into depleted units, mostly to die, a few lucky ones to learn how to continue into death. One man, facing court martial for cowardice, was talked to by Audie, who felt bad for testifying against him. His soldier laughed at him, that he had at most 20 years to serve and would be alive at 38, not dead at 19 like Audie and the rest. It was he. From his cell, who pitied the men headed back to the front.

Command demonstrated zero concern for the life of the soldier or even the fate of a unit. The German “enemy” appeared as a living, reacting foe, human, even as the American Army behaved in regards to its men, as if it were a sausage-maker taking cuts of sub-prime meat and feeding it into a grinder. Audie’s every relation, especially his brief, verbal relationship with the nurse named Helen, who was apparently killed soon after they found each other, depicts a vast, uncaring industrial killing machine of which Audie and his buddies were mere treads.

That men died easily, very easily, like warriors stricken by gods, is the strongest impression. The most feared weapons were German machine guns and .88s. Mortars were a menace that Audie felt he was able to gauge until the two other sergeants who had just received battlefield promotions to officer jumped into the same shell whole next to him, followed by a mortar round that turned them both into shredded ruin. Over and over again nearly his entire company is wiped out. Eventually even the Captain gets it. The most feared weapon was the Mustang, the U.S. multipurpose fighter/ground attack plane, that slaughtered half of his platoon on an Italian road as they were directed to stay on top of the retreating enemy. U.S. friendly fire was second in fear to the German machine gun and .88. A rare, but feared German weapon was the grease gun. The German tanks were greatly feared, even in mountains and forest, but could be dealt with by calling in Artillery.

The weapons that Audie and his men valued, in order, was: the BAR, especially when manned by the Cherokee, who died in Italy. Along with Kerrigan, that Indian was their best soldier. Audie would be third—but he had the luck and the pluck to lead. The second most valued weapon was the hand grenade, of which there seemed an endless supply. The most valued firearm next to the BAR was the Tommy gun, by far. This was the only weapon that the men mentioned when they didn’t have it, in hopes they would find one. So many American soldiers were mowed down that there was no shortage of weapons to pick up. The weapon that Audie did most of his work with was the M1 Carbine, which had a lot of shortfalls. But, when you did not have a Tommy gun, the M1 Gave a soldier the ability to react quickly. Many times, Audie described running into a German and only surviving their mutual surprise, because his shorter carbine came on line quicker. Having joined the Army for adventure, the poor rural kid, who survived in part because of his shooting ability, but mostly by fate or fortune and the closeness he kept with the enemy, found his signature weapon: the radio.

Having their three open hatch tank destroyers knocked out and being overrun by well lead enemy infantry and flanked by panzers, Audie called in artillery on himself from the back of an armored vehicle stuck in a ditch. After this battle, Audie was promoted out of the front line to a job riding around in a jeep coordinating the actions of the various units in the battalion. He loaded up for combat, and when his platoon was pinned down and getting wiped out, he went in and rescued them by leading them forward.

The total physical and spiritual ruin of the men on both sides was astounding. Numerous times, wounded veterans came back to the lines and died quickly. One such man had a wound that got him back stateside, where he was part of various patriotic gathering in honor of visiting soldiers headed back to the front. He told Audie, after his visit to America, that in his opinion, the big winners at the end of the war, were going to be “the divorce lawyers.” He was soon killed after voicing this opinion that we have been conditioned was a 1960s and 70s issue, not a family fault line forming during the Great War of Arуan Extinction. Audie was not taken out of combat to save him. He was pulled to replace a man who ranked him and had been killed, to handle the all important artillery, which he had proved master of. Every officer except himself was killed in the action that earned him his amazing distinction.

The fronts in Italy, France and Germany where Audie Murphy fought on the front lines, were scenes of constant attack and defense actions by both sides, which were won, according to Audie’s testimony, by the vast resources at his disposal. He never had to worry about the US artillery running low on ammo. In fact, he and his front line bosses liked to bait the Germans into throwing away their limited artillery.

In the end, Audie Murphy walked like a dead man to an enemy position, telling his men to die on their feet rather than in a ditch, and was blessed to discover that the Germans ahead of them were dead, gone, or shell shocked. The story of Audie Murphy’s war is even more stark than secondary sources claim, for he and two men like him were sent right back into the meat-grinder, where his fellows were turned to pudding next to him, and he and his men continued to be used like ammunition to wear down the enemy. Some quotes of Audie and his fellows are selected below:

“They will then thrust through the middle of our defenses, split our forces, and drive us into the sea. We believe nothing; doubt nothing.”

“I’ve been fighting the whole war with this idiot’s spoon.” [entrenching tool]

“Loosely we cluster together, bound by a common memory and loneliness.”

“It is front line religion: God and the Garand.”

“He’s dead. You are now a full-fledged member of the Brotherhood of International Killers.”

“Lying there in the hospital, a man has too much time to think. And that’s bad. He gets in the mood to live again.”

Audie Murphy suffered malaria and gang green, shrapnel, concussion, bullets, and mostly mud, caked from head to toe in mud for nearly two years. Except for two men, the dozen or so he was close to died, mostly next to him. In ancient Arуan terms, WWII, as expressed by this front-line soldier, who would have had no name in the Iliad, had he fought there, was a struggle not between men, but between vast collective gods, for whom even armies of men were no more than bowling pins to be tumbled in cold affront to their rivals. In Homeric terms, Audie Murphy’s war was fought like Diomedes and Odysseus before Troy, including night hunts for prisoners.

No book has been better titled than To Hell And Back.

Notes

-1. Shelters For the Self, JL, 2017

Upon rereading books from my youth, it amazes me what a poor reader I once was. Perhaps, once one has written, then we conduct readings at a higher level? From age 21 to 26, roughly, I took one vacation week a year between Christmas and New Years, which was a dead week in retail food. For about five of those years, there was enough money for the wife, oldest son and I, to drive back to Washington, Pennsylvania and stay with her parents. My brother-in-law had read interesting material as a teenager. But, like most, as soon as he went to college, he stopped reading books. He owned Armies of the Ancien’ Regime, a history of French military affairs prior to 1700, Clausewitz, On War and A Genius For War by Dupuy. I read each of the three books annually for five years in a row. Finding a copy of this book in Rick’s closet two weeks ago, I took it with me to read on the train.

I had previously recalled in a podcast that the author related speaking to a Kraut officer about why he had been captured. That was misrecalled. That person was quoted on page 294 and was U.S. Army Colonel David H. Hackworth, who described himself as “a pimply faced kid,” a “punk” and the kraut as tough and speaking perfect English. In answer to Hackworth’s question as to German inferiority in combat, the man noted that he had fewer shells for his canon than the Americans had tanks. All studies accessed by Dupuy, by American military thinkers, came to the conclusion that the German officer and soldier, performed very well, and had a level of trust in each other lacking in Allied forces. Indeed, a reading of Audie Murphy’s To Hell And Back demonstrates a pointed lack of regard by American officers for their men. There was also a great lack in applied imagination by U.S. officers on the front. Audie depicts them as brave, but down right stupid, with U.S. performance often depending on the initiative of private soldiers, not that of officers.

Dupuy cites the fact that all commercial war games, such as Panzer Blitz and Squad Leader, that I played when I first read this book, had to assign higher values to German units to account for the actual results of battles and provide a realistic simulation game. I recall that in Panzer Blitz, this was solved by the German counters representing platoons and Russian counters companies. In Squad Leader, once the American weapon superiority was taken into account, with small arms so overwhelming in fire power, that the game had to be balanced by granting higher morale to German troops and better leadership modifiers to the all important squad leader.

Dupuy points out that the “half truth” is “the Great Enemy of History,” and provides, instead of a glossed projection, an investigation of German military development during the period relevant to its remarkable success. I recall from playing Napoleonic games that the Prussian army was average, with poor generals. Dupuy points out that German military successes, to include Prussia, in the 1700s were modest if one controlled for Frederick the Great, a military genius. The crisis faced by Prussia in the 1790s was the burden of a tradition of excellence of previous generations, combined with stupid and weak national leadership.

In 1807, Scharnhorst, lead a group of five national military reformers, to include Clauswitz in one mission, to find a way to institutionalize the brilliant qualities that had been embodied in Frederick the Great, and were currently demonstrated by Napoleon, who schooled every nation on the battlefield for a generation. Key to success was the invention of war games! This was done on tables for officers and in sand boxes for soldiers. A combination of national/warrior pride was instilled in the officers from the top down, with the goal of every officer embracing the men under him as a paternal charge. This created a great masculine handle for whoever ran the German government.

The subordinate aspect of the institution of fatherly war excellence constituted standards of ethical and academic achievement on the General Staff, an institution that was invented by Scharnhorst and copied by other nations. An idiot like George Armstrong Custer, an amateur like Freemont, dolts like Burnside, Hooker, Bragg and the entire crop of idiot British Empire generals who expended brave soldiers like so much red-hot lead, and often lost to stone age and iron age tribesmen were not possible under the German General Staff. The secret of The German General Staff was that it was designed to provide competent to genius level service at all levels, at all times and in all circumstances. This was important, as most national level German policy was either weak or incompetent or both. Under a genius like Bismarck, great things would be done by the German Army. Under a weak King, which was the German norm, the army provided stability and protection. And, even under the military idiocy of Hitler, who although a political genius, was a strictly emotional military decision maker and therefore retarded, the German General Staff and army would consistently outperform its foes on the offense and defense. For this reason American military thinkers studied their methods. Dupuy though, was politically blocked from presenting his finding by the very army that funded his research!

The history of the German General Staff, from its creation under the boot of the genius Napoleon down to its destruction by its final maniacal master, was a last glimmer of Arete, a last gasp of warrior excellence in the face of terminal social decline.

Some numbers provided by Dupuy, who also did an excellent gaming-oriented book with his son in the 1980s:

Significant Wars Between 1815-1945

-Prussia/Germany = 6

-France = 10

-Russia = 13

-Great Britain = 17

-America = 7

So, the least war-like, least-experienced nation, when it faced the more warlike, larger nations in war, outperformed them. This is an incredible achievement in a career of combat. This indicates that the empires of France, Russia and Britain did not improve their military decision making or even correct for past mistakes, but rather stood on the courage of their soldiers and superior material resources for what success they managed.

Also, in terms of the racial pride answer, that Germans make better soldiers, page 10 and 11 provides an example from the American Civil War, in which many Germans eagerly participated as Americans and as German nationals. A review of the XI Corps of German volunteers and General John Gibbon’s 2nd Division of the II Corps of German conscripts is hilarious. These units were notoriously cowardly and were regarded as the worst formations, with Grant disbanding the corps to “dilute” the German content!

Finally, how did the German army perform in WWI and WWII?

15 WWI Battles

Score effectiveness by Nation

French = 1.31

German = 2.01 or 1/1.54

British = 1.07

German = 1.56 or 1/1.45

Americans = 0.45

Germans = 0.46 or 1/1.02

Russian = 1.50

German = 13.26 or 1/8.84 this horrendous number EXCLUDED Russian POWs taken. We see here that 1 German soldier was worth almost 9 Russians.

The WWII Workload is Mind-Numbing, with 78 battles studied by HERO or the Historical Evaluation and Research Organization.

Western Allies = 1.45

Germans = 2.25

Average German Preponderance = 1.59, so a single Kraut was roughly one and a half Americans, controlled for offense and defense, and often executing idiotic grand strategies.

I intend to mail this book to Richard Barrett for further study. I would encourage others to read Dupuy’s book coauthored with his son in about 1986.

Thank you, Rick.

Much of the series was expressed in progress on our patreon site which shall be shutdown and archived into substack in January 2027. This series has evolved, as an unplanned and reluctant investigation. Most of the content was unknown to the author when he embarked on Volume 1.

Indexed in order of completion.

Paperback and kindle links to the first 11 books in this list may be found at

Those Who Could Not Change The World

2014, 176 pages, paperback and kindle e-book

The Plantation America content in this book is reprinted in America in Chains. This was the seed of the investigation, a seed planted by research into a time travel series, The Sunset Saga:

Caucasian Slavery in Plantation America: Part One

2016, 486 pages, paperback and kindle e-book

A History of Enslavement in North America: 1524-1868, Companion Volume to Stillbirth of A Nation

2016, 392 pages, paperback and kindle e-book

James Revel’s THE POOR UNHAPPY TRANSPORTED FELON

2016, 152 pages, paperback and kindle e-book

A Partial Exhumation of the American Dream

2016, 3016 pages, paperback and kindle e-book

Three Tragic Lives—Vain, Prodigal and Penitent

2016, 167 pages, paperback and site e-book, in FATE: Omnibus Short Novel Collection #3

A History of Runaway White Slaves in Plantation America: Part One

2017, 351 pages, paperback and kindle e-book

A History of Runaway White Slaves in Plantation America: Part Two

2017, 306 pages, paperback and kindle e-book

The Foundational Falsehoods of the American Dream

2017, 329 pages, paperback and kindle e-book

A History of Plantation America: 1607–1865

2018, 686 pages, paperback and site e-book

The Foundation of Our Misbegotten Nation

2019, 238 pages, paperback and site e-book

Child Bondage in the Anglo-American Experience: A Plantation America Report

2020, 38 pages, paperback and site e-book

Preconditions for Rebellion in Plantation America

2020, 669 pages, hardback and site e-book

A Survey of the Conditions, Revolts, Uprisings, Runaways, Resistance, Conspiracies, Rebellions and the Extant Legacy of Plantation America

2020, 581 pages, paperback and site e-book

Overture to The Thirteenth Tribe

2021, 539 pages, site e-book

This was the subject of the author’s Myth of the 20th Century interview The Proud Tower.

A History of the True Foundation of English America

2022, 351 pages, site e-book

Sons of an Udderless Whore: A Novel of Plantation America

2022, 2017 pages, hardback and site e-book included in FATE: Omnibus Short Novel Collection #3

The Infortunate—The Bondage of William Moraley: Servant, Slave, Apprentice & Runaway

2024, 165 pages, site e-book

These two volumes surveyed bondage and social manipulation down through history in order to better comprehend Plantation America and Ancient History as part of the same river of events.

A Brief on The Eternal Foe of Humanity

2025, 551 pages, site e-book

A Short History of Force, Fraud and Heroism: Prequel to Plantation America

2026, 400 pages, site e-book

In This New Isrаel is intended also as an index to the previous works, attempting a master chronology of the investigation.

Works in Progress As Of 4/15/26

In This New Isrаel: Book 1: Earliest Known European Contact to 1631

Committed to 2026 completion

In This New Isrаel: Book 2: A Survey of Discontent to 1703

Committed to 2026 Completion

In This New Isrаel: Book 3: An Inquiry Into A Once and Actual America 1704 to 1803

Committed to 2026 Completion

In This New Isrаel: Book 4: Unweaving the Fabric of American Myth

Committed to January 2027 Completion

Every history, honestly undertaken, is somewhat an experiment, as this dialogue demonstrates, as it lies at the nexus of no less than three multi-volume histories. Do keep in mind that Alexander was busy outfitting ocean-going fleets at the time of his death and that his general Ptolemy’s successors in Egypt dispatched two fleets with the joint goal of circumnavigating the earth.

Email 2/21/26

Creek Are Greek?

James,

The Creek Indians speak a sort of paleo-Greek along with other evidences that they mixed with the Greeks. I keep pondering what happened to all the people here pre settlers. The Smithsonian has erased all evidence they could obtain including giant skeletons, relics that point to Europeans being here. I suspect that this is why the churches were used to either brainwash kids in the Indian Schools or kill them. This is also why the first thing the us mil does when they invaded iraq was to rob the museums (Hillary Frazzledip Clinton's emails regarding the discovery of Nimrod's tomb in Iraq a few weeks before the invasion), why statues etc in the middle east were destroyed and so on. Why did USA have to be repopulated? The only people left were the nomadic peoples that moved about the periphery. In addition I've spoken to a few Navajo that told me that certain rock formations are named things like hippo and camel and other things not here now. I just blew it off for years as them just messing with a white boy but now I'm thinking that this could in fact be true. I recently read that Egypt was called Kemet which means black soil. The reason given is that the soil near the Nile is fertile. Well look at the map That isn't fertile soil. That isn't black soil. This is the land of black soil. Modern history seems pretty fake and gay.

…

Banjo, I have no doubt that more European connections to Pre-Columbian tribes in North America, have been discovered and discarded, than can even be guessed at by skeptics such as ourselves. For starters the Nordic-Iroquois languages sharing 1700 terms, the Algonquin languages sharing 500 Gaelic lone words, a Muskeegan tribe found to be practicing Judaism in about 1700, the 33 European alphabets represented in Pre-Columbian potshards and relics, the iron furnaces all over Pennsylvania, Virginia, Maryland, Ohio—the Solutrean-Clovis relics being mostly in the Chesapeake Bay area, not in Clovis, New Mexico! First and second hand accounts from Gottlieb-Mitterberger 1756 and William Moraley 1743 describe structures found that the tribes said had been built by other, previous peoples.

The evidence, the facts, are overwhelming. But, as Aeschylus wrote in Orestia a feminized ruling elite can mean but three things: that the people are too weak to accept truth, that the ruler is ruled by an invisible masculine mind, and that such a world, where the king has been replaced by a Democracy, Oligarchy or Tyrrany, is ruled according to The Lie.

My friend, when I was arranging the Norns of Aryas volume in my mind yesterday, as the eye pain was too much to write, I exercised in the dark and listened to that genius play composed by a combat veteran of Athens, which simply mean Thought, place of. I was convinced that the dozens of histories I have conducted, many with help from investigative readers such as yourself, must be buried by The Lie, as the Truth cannot be sacred in a false, fallen world. Then, this morning, I get the first such email in a while, and decide on this dialogue as the afterword to Norns of Aryas.

Athens, or Thought was, by its own most thoughtful citizens’ accounts, Solon, Thucydides, Xenophon and Socrates, first and foremost a place of Emotion, a puppet show where demagogues ruled in service to the enemies of Athens and Greece. Any society based upon money or feminine cares, as Aeschylus describes the Argos of the Iliad, the city of Agamemnon, the absent and returning king, as was the Athens of the playwright’s day, must be a society governed by open deception. This begins with the tacit agreement that men submit to the fictional value of money, and thus place themselves in bondage to money mongers. These money mongers, by definition, thereby control every religion that recognizes monetary value, every nation, every person, as was clearly defined in the book Undertaken.

I suggest there is a foundational reason why the early Arуans and their remote descendants, Eastern Tribal Americans, rejected money for art, and hence why the real masters of the Spanish Conquistadors insisted on melting down tons of art into bullion and coin. Is not a smiling sun of gold or sleeping moon of silver more valuable than coin? It is a value-added product, to use a grocery term. Yet tens of thousands of precious works of art were rendered into mere metal lumps, into a form objectively of less value. The reason is obvious, control, bondage through falsehood is most treasured by those who hold power over us.

"Control Is The Goal with James LaFond" >>

Facts, such as the Scottish blood and language of Creek chiefs, the Queen of the Pamunkey having the last name of West after her husband and having blond children, will continue to be, and must be, lied about and denied by all academic slaves of The Beast.

Speak the Holy Lie.

Repeat it.

Teach it.

Promote it.

Recite it.

Extol the Holy Lie…

And the Truth drowns in the murky swamp of The Deceiver, who is master to all who have ruled in this world since at least 323 B.C., when Truth’s champion, unbeaten in battle, was poisoned at dinner. This is why, I am, at the end of this Fetid Year of The Lie, AEG [1] 6, abandoning the inquiry into any historical subject other than the Life and Death of Alexander. This year also, I dedicate to the completion of the final five volumes of Plantation America so that the focus upon Truth, which can only effectively be pursued in fiction, might be more effectively pursued in The Areid [2] and in The Son of God [3], history of Alexander.

Banjo, North American tribal lore will be pursued in the only venue safe for me as a man who embodies the absence of color and the antithesis popular morality, in the Elder Earth novels, of which I hope to complete the 5th, Knight this year. [4]

Notes

-1. AEG = After Everything got Gay, began in the Year Of Our Lord AD 2021, called by the slaves of The Beast CE for Common Era, a lie that is now holy “secular” lie worshiping doctrine.

-2. The Areid constitute a prequel novel, Seven Sons, and seven novels about the Agrianes, Alexander’s most loyal military unit, to run parallel with The Seven Volume The Son of God, based directly on Arrian’s Alexander Expedition.

-3. Expedition Ares: Front Notes to The Areid and The Son of God, is a non fiction companion to both the speculative account of Alexander’s Agrianes and of Arrian’s account of Alexander.

-4. Histories of Slavery to be concluded in 2026 are Bondage & Carnage, Planting America to 1631, In This New Isrаel to 1704, Of A Planted Land to 1804 and Rise of a Notion 1800s & 1900s.

“Hey Boss, really enjoying the series on the Odyssey. So you think Odysseus did not love Penelope? Do you think the heroes of the epics experienced Romantic love in the way that we understand it?”

-Sean, December 2025, by text

Love was regarded as a curse that could even sway God’s will, something that men must be wary of and women depended upon for dedicated protection by a man capable of providing it. In this light, few working class women would practice love, as their men, being slaves, subjects at best, could not provide it. They would rather love the king whose feet they might kiss in passing. A hero though, could command a woman’s love, which is ALWAYS OWAYS ATLLTIMES, conditional! Woman cannot experience unconditional love. Men can, and need be wary of that weakness. This need on the part of the woman would then be partially or totally transferred to the children he sired on her, with that, their joint legacy in the field of Time, in temporary mortal life, now their joint cause, their fruits.

These fruits, of either what love the woman managed to cast upon the man with her sorcery, or his lust imposed upon her physically, or in the case of Odysseus and Penelope or Phillip and Olympias, of their political/domestic union, imposed upon them in a societal way, would now be the glue, or the wedge, in their union. No doubt, some men and women fell naturally in love, even in arranged marriages. Others grew naturally in love. Women, as indicated by the moon being regarded as the divine mirror of love, are and were more prone to insanity, to include LOVE. There is also no accident that the Fates, Furies, Norns of various faiths are all depicted as feminine.

Odysseus alone among Homeric heroes, seems to have been immune to Love and able even to seduce a Goddess and a nymph, who loved him! The counterpart of Odysseus, the hero who is never at a loss, is, in Homer, Athena, the storm-cloud bearer, a wolfish Valkyrie who alone KNOWS the mind of God, a harshly practical angel who projects a feminine care only for just and pious heroes who are unjustly afflicted AND their loyal wives and good-hearted sons. Athena, Thought-lady, alone among the angels, is stronger than War, the dark, vengeful one. As such, there is demonstrated room for love in the eyes of Thought if it serves the High Truth and does not corrupt. Hence, such later romantic myths as The Death of Arthur proposed by Mallory, those of Shakespeare and the western tradition that followed, sympathize with corruption by love, an ancient sin yet a modern honor. Such are this writer’s musings on love among heroes.

What is best, is to select Arуan examples of romantic relations between heroes and women, down through Time, from the oldest I can recall…

Gilgamesh is immune to romantic love and possess only love for his war companion Enkidu, who is entrapped by the holy whore Shamahat and seduced into civilized life where he is stricken by the gods with disease as punishment for helping Gilgamesh defeat the forest demon. Enkidu loves her still as he dies, wishing her well.

The closest thing to romantic love I recall from the Bible, involves Samson, of the Arуan Danes, of Dan, whose heroic tribe converted into the anti-heroic Chosen Way. Samson Agonistes by Milton gives a good dissertation on an early modern Christian view of how a man’s love for a woman, entwined with lusty allure as it is, remains a spell of entrapment. Odysseus is not prone to this. He coldly interviews Penelope, to determine if she is loyal. He does not trust her! She does not recognize him, and is willing, if she discovers Odysseus is dead, to love this man of the world he is pretending to be who might save her and her son.

The women of Achilles and Patroclus, slave women, taken from slain husbands, brothers and fathers, yet LOVE their conquerors! They yearn for their return, and when their bodies only return, they mourn for them. The two heroes, doomed to soon die, treasure their prize women as possessions won by deed and held by right, but make no pretense at love. Such deep affection is only held for battle companions and seemingly divorced from sexual conduct, with the passion satisfied by stabbing and smashing the foe! Sex with the prize women might be seen as an extension of this, with Patroculus and Achilles having exclusive slave girls in the same tent. This is the crisis of the Achaean army when the Iliad begins, a feud over prize women with Agamemnon. The cause of the war, Helen, is again prized by her captor, Paris, and by her jilted husband Menaleus, but not “loved.”

Only in the Odyssey, in the Telemachia prequel composed probably by a woman of the 200s B.C., in the decadent Hellenistic Age, does love seem to exist between Menaleus and Helen reunited. At this time, in the post-heroic period of Hellenic decline, “love” seems to occur. Interestingly, this addendum as prequel was written in a period of population decline. As fecund Rome rose in the west, criminal psychopaths breeding armies of disposable sons for the war road, Greek civilization was in such steep cultural decline that entire cities were empty. Great families no longer had children, but willed their estates to slaves. [1] In such times, when children no longer occupy the dedication of a mother’s heart and the ambitions of a father’s mind, married couples of middle years are likely to either drift apart into love affairs with others, or fall more closely in love with each other. We live in such a time. Look to the people you know who have one child or less and are still married. They are either getting closer together or falling further apart and looking to other human contact to sooth their specific mortal decline.

Herakles demonstrates lust for a bride who he wins in battle, though he is driven mad by its poison. He will eventually be driven crazy and slay his won wife and children and fell a forest on a mountain side to burn himself on a pyre. I regard this as a mythic tale reflecting an assimilated barbarian warrior culture falling prey to the sorcery of all-corrupting civilization.

Aeneas and Dido fall in love, which gets her killed.

I do not recall if Dionysus had a love interest.

Beowulf and his queen, the King of Heroat and his queen, are dutifully loyal to one another, and demonstrate nothing we would equate with personal love. The strongest love shown is by the monster’s monstrous mother for her son, and by the women of Beowulf’s kingdom for their dragon-slain king, who wail that they and their people will now be slaves.

No personal love across sexual lines exists in the Song of Roland. Warriors love Jesus, their King, the peers who die by their side, their horse, and their sword. The person who loves is the princess, the daughter of Marsile the Muslim, who loves any man her protector, whatever faith, and eagerly becomes Christian under Charles The Great’s protection.

I am hazy on love in The Death of Arthur, though Euther was clearly practicing lust when he sired the storied king while in disguise. As with the Poetic Edas, it seems that love is the province of women past child bearing years and their warrior consorts engaged on the sly.

In heroic terms, love is a problem. So, in cultural terms, a society built on pillars that include love, will tend towards safety orientation and secrecy, with a concurrent degradation, or reduction in status of the hero, and the erosion of positive, risk-taking morality, or heroism.

Notes

-1. See The Life of Greece, Will Durant

Just saw your piece on F.G. Junger's The Failure of Technology (excellent by the way) and thought you would enjoy this audio essay from him called The Titans. It was put out by the same guy who published The Failure of Technology. He is also working on a translation of Ernst Junger's An der Zeitmauer (At the Time Wall) which further touches on some of his brother Georg's work.

The Titans: 

Apparently the last thing Georg published before he passed was a translation of Homer's Odyssey.

-Montius

…

Assigned Viewing: Plasma Portals?

-Charles

In Hesiod and Aeschylus the idea of the titans is closely tied to technology. Only one of the Olympian gods, Hephaestius, is involved in technology. In the Shield of Achilles, by Homer, he uses automated tripods that sound like 3D printers and silver-tongued automatons. There is also Gilgamesh who is a descendant of gods [angels] and man, much like Herakles, Theseus, Achilles, Aeneas, Theogenes, Glaukus… This generation of heroes seems couched in a fallen state. There is nothing incongruent with the heroes born of heaven, fated to perish mortally on earth, whose foot steps among men herald the Age of Bronze and Age of Iron, both worlds of war and sorrow, with the casting of Adam and Eve out of the Garden whence they had filched knowledge of good and evil.

The blood of gods and titans was ikhor, a caustic substance. One of the titans was described as having a great vein of ikhor, released by a plug in his foot that drained him of this life force, sounding very much like fuel or hydraulic fluid. Prometheus was found guilty of giving man fire, which was key to all the civilized arts, which again, sounds like petroleum. Even the cheap clothes I wear, the keys on this writing machine, are made of petrol. He was chained at God’s command by the god of technology, with the aid of two mighty angels, Strength and Force, to the Caucasus Mountains. This was a known ancient source of petrol, possibly the source of the main ingredient used by the later Greek-speaking Roman emperors of Constantinople, in the making of their “Greek Fire,” a super weapon that saved that city from numerous Islamic and barbarous fleets. Prometheus had been instrumental in permitting the gods to dethrone and imprison all-eating Time. Chained to his rock, with an eagle assigned to daily dine on his liver and release his ikhor, that titan, named Forethought, swears to abide his suffering for an age of 10,000 years, and then to return and challenge God again.

Has mankind been here before?

Plato speaks of Atlantis, having learned of it from Egyptian sources, which Herodotus claimed held the deepest lore of antiquity, as a civilization dominant to the point of hubris falling. The Bible has the tale of Babble, with man trying to reach heaven by technological means. Ovid declares that twice, God annihilated mankind, once by fire and once by flood, to purify the earth of their wicked taint. Might these tales of overreaching humanity and the fall of civilizations also be allegorical records of linked to titanry? Could the titans, the giants, have been humans, perhaps augmented through DNA manipulation, to the point where organic humanity became their social food, their disposable lessers? Could heaven-sent, or merely periodic, cataclysms have wiped one or more such civilizations out?

Native American lore of various tribes speaks of giants. There were sites named by numerous writers of the 1700s, such as Gottlieb Mitterberger and William Morely, where giant bones were held. Even if these are of extinct mega-fauna as skeptics contend, the remains are still the record of a disaster. This is redundantly proved in Velikovsky’s Earth in Upheaval.

Prometheus was the angelic prophet, his brother Atlas cursed at the gates of the Atlantic, where it is said Atlantis, an island kingdom, once reigned. If we take the calamity that Plato numbers at 10,000 years before his time, the geological record offers the Younger Dryas Event from 12,900 to 11,600 BP. Taking 12,000 years ago as the median, as the time when Prometheus was chained, we have arrived at about the year A.D. 1, chosen by the old church as the birth of Christ. That time is also the approximate date of the creation of the Roman Empire. Imperial Rome, founded by Octavian Augustus from 27 B.C. to A.D. 14 is the actual model for the modern world, a universalist system based on human consumption. Rome and Christianity would reign as one from about A.D. 300 to the late 1700s, when various republics, especially USG, would resurrect Roman social structure as a god in the making. The State has, since 1783, been progressively deified.

Beginning, in 2020, the subject of progressive deification has switched to technology, with the state retained as a kind of priesthood and police force.

From the ancient Arуan perspective expressed by Homer, Hesiod, and Ovid [writing in the time of Augustus] we are almost exactly 2,000 years into an age into which Forethought has returned to unleash the powers of all-eating Time. Towards the end of this cycle, we have lost hundreds of languages and cultures and most of our collective knowledge of the past. [1] The natural world has fared no better. The empty echoes of the shadow-haunted Hall of Norns beckon.

This hunter into the haunted past, now dedicated his remaining ability to the brief life of Alexander, a youth who seemed strangely possessed of a knowledge that humanity occupies a lifeboat of sorts adrift on monstrous seas.

Postscript Concerning Undertaken

In Regards to the Tattered State of Our Ancient Lore

James,

I am slightly overdue in following up on this exchange. I read the related articles on your website, and I appreciate the depths you’ve gone to explore this topic.

The first article alone has a lot for me to chew on. The contrast of Jеwish sexual dynamics and the ancient Arуans. Christian sterility. Academics as shitty writers, unable to touch the spirit of fighting men. Gene Wolfe as infantryman and writer. And so on. It’s sobering to grasp even a fragment of how domesticated we are. It brings with it a sting of embarrassment but a renewed vigor in charting out my own masculinity and my aims to influence the guys in my circle.

This is tangential, but just so you know…you are not writing into the void. I downloaded “Negro PTSD” (thanks for the free book). And your classification of Gene Wolfe as a taboo man has influenced me to read The Book of the New Sun, of which I’m about 150 pages in. It’s very good so far, thanks for the endorsement. I am not necessarily trying to foster an epistolary friendship with all of its obligations to read and respond…however if I find something worthwhile to discuss, I’ll send it your way or pick your brain if that’s all right.

From one paleface to another…happy new year white man

-Ryan

Thank you, Ryan. In terms of ancient inquiry, I am simply an avid reader of some 5,000 books and a writer of some 300. The former is the material, the latter the tool. To the extent that I have accomplished anything worthy as an amateur historian, it is due almost entirely to readers such as you, and Montius, whose desk I sit at, who have pointed the way. Thank you.

-James, Wichita, Kansas, January 20, 2026

Notes

1.) We may have the same books as Leonardo. But all, yes ALL, ALL!, of our educated people have been inducted into misunderstanding the past by applying recent corruptions of language and twisted methods of thought to past words written in good faith to fellows of the same fraternity. For example, the term “Indentured Servant,” used only in intergovernmental letters of the mid 1700s, and never used in bound, common or high society, by master or slave, was applied to voluntary slaves from Germany in the 1820s. By 1831, it was being used to replace actual period terms in documents from the 1600s and 1700s. Downstream from that slight of word, by 1948, “indentured servant” a voluntarily bound state that did not exist prior to 1804 and was not employed in social discourse until the 1820s has been used to obscure the bound lives and deaths of some 2 to 4 million European souls, whose legal designation was bondman or bondwoman and were known by some 30 other terms, such as indented servant man, apprentice, slave and transport. Yet the intergovernmental term invented by Benjamin Franklin to buttress his debate with military officers who accepted runaway slaves as soldiers has served as a curtain of negation to erase the reality experienced by two in three Americans over the course of 200 years. This year I intend to complete books 18, 19, 20, 21 and the final 22nd volume in the Plantation America series.

I am half a continent away now, in a small Missouri farm house. Yet the red tiled kitchen and little helper stools leaned up against the worn kitchen counter, as I sat at the tiny toddler table with Zeke, now five, rises like an audible shadow in this addled mind’s eye. Wetzel paced, a bit nervous about the contents of the manual journal in his hand, a tall, lean T-shaped figure looming with ginger hair over his memoir; the records of an earlier man whose judgment he did not seem fully to trust.

Dully curious, I drank water after our boxing workout. Then, outside on the patio gym, Zeke, had grown upset that his father and Uncle James were hitting each other, and used a stick to get between us and pry us morally apart…

We retired here, with Wetzel looking down at his son, wondering if reading this out loud was the right thing for him. I recall that, decades ago, whenever a parenting chasm was approached for the first time, wondering, was I making the right decision? Was the bridging material at hand the best? Would it even do, or make things worse for the little fellow that trusted me so?

Mother, Gloria and baby Rudy were in the other room doing Mom stuff. Zeke, as always, is adamant that he belongs with Daddy, and when Daddy is not around, then whatever this visiting man, whatever “he is doing, I am doing!” When I go into my suitcase Zeke asks, “What are you doing?”

“Oh, Buddy, I forget what I do with things, like my boxing trunks, so I check.”

“Oh, they are in your gear bag, right there—I saw! Don’t you know you have the gear bag?”

“Well, it’s new, only a year old—still getting used to it…”

“A year! That’s a long time. What are you looking for now?”

“My pills.”

“Mom says that pills are bad.”

“Oh, she is right. Pills are bad.”

“Then why did you just swallow that pill?”

“Because, Buddy, I was a bad man, and these pills, they are my punishment. If I want to walk, I must swallow the bitter pill. When I met your Dad this time last year I was crippled, on crutches.”

This is all in the narrow children’s study with its canvas bunk beds that serves as guest room. The tweezers had not worked, so out came the skinning knife to work on the splinter I had earned while building Zeke ramps to ride his yard car, and his father’s remote stunt car, over the day before. His mother had been horrified as he demanded ever more dangerous ramps of his aged engineer.

“Still the splinter—let me see! That knife is way too big for that tiny splinter…”

Zeke stood on a chair pulled over from the desk, looking down into the palm as I scraped at it with a knife, “That looks worse—the hole is much bigger than the splinter ever was… I can’t see the splinter.”

I felt for the splinter and found none, “There you go, Ezekial, problem solved in classic American fashion, by making a bigger problem.”

“How do you mean?”

“Oh, Buddy, lets just say if you end up running a small nation and America says, ‘Do this or do that,’ then you do it, or the you that was the splinter is replaced by the hole that was the solution.”

Zeke grins, “That’s funny—you know Gloria is sneaking gummies right now—want some?”

“Oh, it is unseemly for the elderly to sneak. But I will have some coffee and attend the party.”

“Mom says you drink WAYY too much coffee!”

“Mom is right…”

We were then in this kitchen where the tiny woman named Gloria stood on a helper stool, face in the snack pantry, cheeks puffed full, hand in a bag of gummies clutched in the other, and admitted, “I’m sneakin’!”

“Oh, I don’t see a thing—us old folks are near to blind, you know.”

Gloria handed the bag to Zeke, now fully implicated in the crime, who winked at me, grabbed three gummies that he counted out, as a proper sneak portion, and hissed, “I sneak at night!”

These few hours later, Zeke was not sneaking now. He was pacing in between his father, leaning on the counter with long legs, and this guest squatting a tiny bench on stunted legs, not wanting to miss any man stuff going on.

Wetzel read from a journal he had recorded the day after Ezekial’s birth. I cannot recall the wording. It was, I think, five hand written pages in a 6 by 9 note book, which I think was of some off red maroon, mauve color. He held it with a mixture of reverence and contemplation, still studying it like training notes considered after the fight, looking for a lens of self-evaluation, a further lesson on the progress of his undertaking.

I do recall the sympathy of terror I felt. Recalling myself, in 1990, sitting in the hospital room with my wife as she was fixed with monitors stuck to my son’s head who was still inside of her, nurses and doctors coming and going. She needed my to be cool, as her mother was flipping out and had to be ushered away by her father. I was reading a bloody science-fiction novel titled A Cat Of a Silvery Hue, post apocalyptic butchery, as the entire team descended upon her. Putting the book aside I attended, was hastened out of the way when disaster loomed…

From that reference I had a sense of the near useless support role Wetzel described himself being in as he attended his wide in their home birthing pool, trying his own methods of distracting himself into a calming presence for his wife, but with the need to act as a nurse if necessary…

She needed him to be calm. He struggled with this in various ways; held her hand at the times she most needed, and heeded her directions as to what other measures of him were required. The reading, taken in slow lines, infused with the calm that he had wished to embody five years ago in a deeper way, shone like a mirror on his face. He has since assisted in Gloria and Rudy’s births, and peers into his own first time as a form of deeper assessment.

I was not seeing any of the performance anxiety that creeps across the faces of intelligent men who try and learn boxing at the advanced age of 30. In terms of parenting, Wetzel is well into an advanced self-coaching mode. He makes certain to deepen and even his voice a bit more clearly for us as his younger self writes of the need to be stronger and more calm in the future and the awe he felt for his little wife in suffering so much. Wetzel concludes his reading with final lines that remind him that a commitment to support and guide her and their children through a life each was a small debt to owe for what she suffered there in the birthing pool. He then rubbed Zeke on his tawny head and said, “That is how you came to us.”

It was an honor to be there, in that kitchen, for such a moment.

Two days ago, Dove and her pet yeti were shopping at a Target in Southeast Portland at about 1:55 PM. Looking for a blood pressure cuff, we had the option of staying for another 15 minutes while it was taken out of back stock. We opted to leave, as I had only two hours of good daylight to insulate Dog Soldier’s shed. There were two armed and armored private security at the door, with a marked vehicle. The lead on the detail, probably also a local cop, was really up tight and would not make eye contact with me on the way out. About 2:20 Border Patrol shot up a Latino/Latina on that lot.

The local and state politicians were in an uproar about federal police shooting “locals,” who were illegally in the country and were wanted for human trafficking. The woman was the pimp, or bawd, in old wise, her husband merely her muscle. The photos show an incredibly hard set of faces, especially considering they were in their twenties. The shooting was big news, cause for social justice debate. The business of these two gangsters was of no interest—the local Karens and Cucks looked away.

Dove once had a shoulder cramp and felt lucky to notice that the massage parlor next to her regular bar was open at night. She knocked on the door, and an Asian female voice on a speaker, told her that she did not work on women. I then began pointing out to her every one of these converted houses, small 4 room affairs, with the same exact signage, bars on the windows. After Covid hit, these places began to pop up in strip malls. Where I sit and writ now, in Southeast Portland, there are 12 such places within a 40 minute walk that I know of. That is 12 in a 2 mile radius. We have noticed the same density of massage parlors in other areas. That extrapolates to 40 or 50 places. Open 24 hours, working your bitches in 8 to 12 hour shifts, you need at least two, and probably four girls. Let’s say three. That is a minimum of 150 sex slaves, locked behind these barred windows and doors, in Portland. That is just low end truck trade, $40 for a hand job and $80 for intercourse.

Just like the Asian and Latino slaves that work on the illegal weed grows in California, the grows that the state buys from before licensed growers, these women DO NOT EXIST on paper. You can kill them, and as long as there is no witness or body, there is no legal punishment.

Such girls are run by women. While staying in a cheap California Motel, a mature 40 year old Chinese beauty, with three twenty year old women, all in white business dresses, invited me into their room, which had one bed. These are single room with a bath rentals. I am no dummy. I was being invited as a training dummy for this woman to instruct her girls in how to pleasure older American men. I wanted to accept. But I know these girls are not free and were being coerced to have sex with beastly me.

In Baltimore, I used to walk by a whore house, where the girls were locked in, and sent out to work from the Hyatt Regency downtown. One Russian beauty asked me to rescue her form it during a blizzard. I saw the two women that ran it, and noted, over 7 years, that the cop across the street never went on patrol, that he was always parked on over watch. That hard-faced bitch that took the same bus as I and went there, her pitiless lines were present in the face of this Latina pimp on the news this morning. The local police, who are usually involved in such slave dealing in return for free pussy, were complaining on the news. Dove asked, “But they are human traffickers, and people are not concerned about their victims, just them?”

I said, “Customers are concerned. It is a tragedy. We already have a hundred and fifty skinny Chinese bitches in town. If these Venezuelan gangsters are moving shapely Colombian bitches into massage parlors, that would make the local truck drivers very happy.”

I have reported in the past, in 2017, of interrupting the abduction of a young beauty. I did nothing, no hero in my soul. I have seen two women and a child, moved for sale on trains in 2018 and 2021. I did nothing. Amtrak cops have two priorities: stop train bombings and stop slave drivers. The videos at the station explain that a young woman who does not speak English, traveling with a middle-aged woman who is bilingual and holds the tickets, should be reported. In 2020 in Havre, Montana a squad or Border Patrol men boarded looking for slave girls and their soul-drivers. In 2022, at a strip club, I met a Kyshatria pimp from India who was impressed by me as a reliable man, as I was pulling security for my host, who likes to dance with the girls in the aisle. Knowing I was from out of town, and discovering that I traveled constantly, he tried to recruit me as a fixer for the girls he moved into the country via San Francisco, across the country via Denver, and thence to Chicago and New York. Older men and middle-aged women are who a soul-driver needs to herd his bitches. Young men will get stupid around young beauties. This dude was a savage; neck and hand tattoos in Sanskrit, who was definitely going to confront me with a dead body at some point. I toasted him and said I was busy coaching, that the girls would be bad for my fighter’s discipline. It was my discipline I was worried about.

Rule one is get the bitch to a country where she does not speak the language and does not exist in a database and has no family. The girl I saw getting nabbed, and Nikkie, who barely escaped an abduction in 2017, and the girl I watched being walked by her boyfriend in tears to a black van full of black dudes to pay a drug debt in Middle River Park on Eastern Boulevard in, I think 2016, on the other side of the 7-11 from where the little beauty was about to be bagged by the two giant Nigerians on Monday Night, December 11, 2017, at about midnight, those girls are being taken out of the English Speaking World.

On the seven occasions I was in position to help such women, I declined. The only act I can claim as a moral fiber, is that I do not look away. Most of us look away. That is now. How many records of these slave girls have never been made? They are just missing persons or runaways. How will any of their stories make it down the ages to be marked in the pages of some history book? Think about the odds. How many of the roughly two million a year girls sold worldwide for pleasure slaves will make it into the human record?

Now consider, the thousands of accounts of enslaved individuals, entire towns, entire races, that some high school dropout has uncovered from his weird reading list, that are documented in the 22 book of the Plantation America Project, and in other ancient history books. At least the ancients were honest; Sophocles, Aristotle, Caesar, they looked at a slave and named it a slave. We look at a slave and name her a whore, a masseuse, a drug addict, runaway, etc. we call her anything but what she is. We even insist, as a social axiom, that prostitution is the “oldest profession.” Yet it is not, cannot be. For the slave-dealer, the soul-driver, [1] he must exist before a young woman who could have been a mother, is used to satisfy the lust of a lonely stranger. The revolts of Boudicca and Wat Tyler were fought over such treatment of women. Today, we have no such burden, for we are prevented by our social filters from seeing a slave box, a 24 by 14 foot building with bars and posters on the windows, for the slave pen it is. Our sympathy, as worshippers of money, is with the pimp.

With our very language, we look away, and even deny that the oldest occupation of Civilization, slave-driving, exists.

Notes

-1. Temple prostitutes were pimped out by priests and priestesses. Religion, after all, is designed to compel us to kneel before our betters.

-2. My Books that deal most with female and child slavery are So Her Master May Have Her Again, Advent America, Orphan Nation and Undertaken.

I have been blessed to be gifted hundreds of audiobooks. While unable to visually read, along with listening to these I have been listing to some Paul Bing Ham, T—B Wright and Rickard Barrett podcasts while trying to reinvent Tai Chi in a dark Igloo. Headed to an Injun Burial ground tomorrow for one of our many recently deceased friends in the PNW. Until then I shall enjoy the following recommended listening.

Hopefully one of these will work for your techtarded ass. I say this as a fellow techtard.

May your travels be light and whatever boobs may you procure heavy.

See you nex monf, Yo

Nero, King of the Picts

Author’s Proof

Copyright 2026 James LaFond

Concept Developed with Ghost Girl One

Dedicated to Uncle Ted The Younger

Dust Cover

Bung Ron, who was once Young Ron, is the used beer dealer at the American Beer dealership in Zoom Town America—the Taps have seen better days, the bung hammer ever at the ready. Slick Seth is the new beer dealer working a herd of marks that ever wither fewer in the Post Boomer winter. Merry Ann tends the wine bar as life sinks from weird to worse. Zack Cheer works the whiskey bar as business trends from spirits to beer. Cody Tear, born in sorrow of an orphan fear, preaches sobriety, under a state liquor board license, spreading the idea of a better tomorrow. Across the street, in the penthouse bar, waits Balty O’Seven, guarding what the broken savor, assured of Tomorrow’s sweet favor.

Fussed Cover

Americans of Late Modernity know all too well the frustration of paying for autonomous transportation through a process of debt exploitation, where aftermarket shills stoke every fear of reliable mobility. Legion are the American “home owners,” who are in actual fact “home renters under liability,” who have been forever traumatized by the experience of “buying a house,” in which they are seated at a table of anonymous creditors and compelled by the needs of home security to sign hundreds of documents that they are not permitted to read. Dubious an honor as it is to buy in the land of the free, imagine a future where such burdens are fantastical gee whiz, among the debt-ridden consumers who find themselves adrift—and sober—in the stables of the wee… reduced to debt-ladden economic jizz…

“Welcome to The Beer Dealership,” chimes the sweet young lady behind the counter to the customer of the post economic future.

“My life is a movie I don’t wanna watch.”

-This Movie Sucks, Durry

Original Concept

Dry ran the world. Clean fresh water is a thing of the past in Zoom Town America. Nothing may be made from the raw stuff of Mother Earth. Terminal economic decline has been addressed by law, executive order, community ordinance, corporate initiatives and medical guidelines. Everything must be 100% recycled. Alcohol consumption, as per the prophecy of Guru Roe Jogan, is socially stigmatized and penalized. Drinking at home is medically unsafe. Grapes, berries and honey may still be used in making wine and mead. But beer and spirits, heavily dependent on water, must, by law, in America, be brewed at the beer dealerships from the water deposited there by the customers. A wide variety of loans, leases, rentals and mortgages are available to the alcohol consumer.

With car ownership, home ownership and individual alcohol use prohibited, the drinking public is served by the salesmen, financial officers, managers and auto-mechanics turned brew-masters, who once inhabited that hallowed economic zone of America, the car dealership. Beer Dealership, The is the story of those harrowed souls charged with administering civically circumscribed libations to the herd of hopeless proles known as bar flies, dunks or alcoholics. The view to this renewable still is had through the window of a single day in the life of those human gears caught in the economic node of a lost civilization in a nation built of promises crafted so as to implode.

Brainstorming Beer Dealership

Yesterday, Tuesday, December 23, 2025, Ghost Girl One was shopping for Christmas hams, when the tramp next to her said, “Is there a beer dealership on the way home?”

We both laughed. He had come from Pennsylvania were there are beer distributors and had been talking to Megan the night before about the insanity of working at a car dealership, and somehow, the pickled brain of the passenger triangulated along comic lines. Ghost Girl One, then said, “What if there were beer dealerships, where the bartenders had all of the motivation of a car salesman—imagine, putting your brain in the hands of a used car salesman? And, how do you sell used beer?”

“It sounds like the making of a novel?” drooled the tramp as we pulled into Nikki’s Liquor Store, now owned and run by two Hindus. This beautiful specimen of prime womanhood fairly made the purchase decisions each for the various friends coming over that night. The bill came due and I, the bearded patriarch, paid. The liquor and beer made a hefty box. Ghost Girl One, who is thrice as strong as this old tramp, stood ready to haul off the box. The Hindus looked at one another, their eyes saying, “Daughter or wife?”

The old Anglo-Irish stain was up to the challenge, hefting that box before her worried eyes. When we got outside she asked, “You need help?”

“Of course I do—but now they think I’m the luckiest old man in Baltimore!”

The scheming between the mismatched twain continued along the theme of notional, environmentally responsible, alcoholic decline.

Disclaimer

The author drank Natural Light, National Bohemian, Chocolate Stout, Whiskey Stout, and half a bottle of Kavanagh single malt Irish whiskey, in that ascending order, at this dinning room table, while outlining this literary masterpiece. Do not try this at home. Walk, do not drive, do not bicycle, to the nearest beer dealership. So indemnified, the author here assigns the rights to Beer Dealership, The: Confessions of a Piss Peddler, to Uncle Ted The Younger, who is currently supervising this venture from his high chair.

Casting Note

All of the characters in this novel are real people. Most of the Beer Dealership staff drank at this table last night. The consumers are real-life authentic drunks from Baltimore, Lancaster Pennsylvania, G-String New Jersey and Portland, Oregon. This is done for authenticity, as Zoom Town America is coming into being across the face of this consumptive notion, peopled by folks from everywhere.

Contents

Ghost Girl One Decreed 13 Chapters

“High density housing is very echo friendly and there would be shops underneath. But this is a seedy—some slum lord is renting this space—and they’ve secretly knocked down the walls to create these four different bars in this high density housing project.”

-1. Only The Best

At the Liquor Bar with Zack Cheer

-2. Jackson Brown or Michael Jackson

At the Wine Bar with Merry Ann and Freckles

-3. The Perfect Pour

At the New Beer Bar with Slick Seth and Big Norman

-4. The Last Boomer

Used Beer Loan with Bung Ron

-5. The First GenXer

Used Beer Rental with Bung Ron

-6. My Friend

Sobriety Options with Cody Tear

-7. Team Synergy

In The Dynamic Experience Space with the Team

-8. Untitled awaiting bar patron

Used Beer Leasing with Bung Ron

-9. Untitled awaiting bar patron

Used Beer Mortgages with Bung Ron

-10. Sir, Might I?

Pre-Hangover Counseling with Cody Tear

-11. Really?!

At the Bar with Bung Ron

-12. Jigger Boss Round

Last Call with The Crew

-13. Drinking on the Thirteenth Floor

At the Real Bar with Balty O’Seven

Tortoise shell cat

#1

".......a subconscious drive in Civilization to bend all men until they break and in its automated image remake."

 James. would you say you are unbroken?

#2

James,

First off, if you do ever ride into NYC with your friend, we can just meet at the park. It will be easier that way, and there are numerous Whole Foods Markets around, with tables, where I can buy you any kind of food, hot or cold, that you like.

As for my question about whether you consider yourself to be unbroken or not, I simply mean overall. I, myself, have wondered lately, since I work at the museum 40 hours a week and am still too poor to rent an apartment. I've also not written any songs in a year and half, though that may be okay. I've been homeless. I may have told you. I have also lived without electricity, etc. I do not recall ever being depressed, or even questioning whether I was a slave or not, during those times. I have questioned it lately though. Anyway, simply working through it, and of course we live in time and space so things take time. Overall, I believe I am still alive inside.

Email anytime, but know you never are expected to. One further thing. Kingsnorth's book is one I enjoyed immensely, though I did not agree with every detail, both semantically and ideally. Nevertheless, a great book. Your gift is unconditional. If you decide not to read the book that is fine, of course. Do with it as you see fit.

-Barry Bliss

I pray you will write more songs, maybe some poems.

When I am at a writing crisis, it usually involves having too many novels and histories to juggle. This is a crisis in that writing is the reason I have assigned to linger in this world so counter to my weird nature. That purpose is an automatic pilot of sort, once adopted, providing this writer with a zero-point energy source. The readership remains quite small. Yet this writer is blessed with, I suspect, 10% of readers who are active or fallow writers. Of the other readers, they tend to be smarter than I, once met in person. Thanks to Charles for constructing this ether cave for our musings to meet, and to men like Barry for adding their own fuel to what has grown as a mutual fire among a variety of outsiders. Here, below, in an email, Barry helped me with a prompt that may help in the completion of a book that was unplanned, and has fallen like conjoined orphans of the past into its own gathering form.

Carnage and Bondage: A History of Social Ingression, is taking more complete form in this accidental investigation with the email accompanying my return to Portland and opening this museum window. Here awaited a gift from Barry, Against the Machine: On The Unmaking of Humanity by Paul Kingsworth. Within was the gift slip:

“Hi James. I am still reading this book myself. I figured you might like it. Take care. From Barry Bliss.”

I intend to consider the work of Kingsworth before placing my own ragged sacrifice on this Omega Altar, this shared museum of we who reject, and/or have been rejected by, the feedlot stall. First, I must be able to address a quote that it is suspected came from these fingertips in some book or another that constitute my many attempts to find the focal hinge of our exploitation, by a power I have failed to identify. Barry knows much more about this one than the pulp writer knows of him. I am certain though, we are akin in two ways: we don’t fit the common role assigned to men of This Age and of our age grade of being beyond middle years. I do not know your age, Barry. But I will be shocked to discover you have yet to survive your 50th year on this pitiless sphere.

Do I exist as a broken or unbroken soul?

Barry, the writing of songs I wonder at from afar, cannot imagine singing and fairly drooled in Mister Lemanachus Music Class in Trinity Middle School, I think 49 years ago. I refused to sing. My Assigned Under Master, the system boss of song, sent me to the auditorium to sit in the dark for his period, the rest of the school year. I was told by an admirer that the music teacher made fun of me to the class and employed me as an example of a failed student destined for poverty. The man was not wrong! There the weird boy had time to muse, not yet knowing that muses were finding him in the dark, thinking he was alone.

On the first day in Middle School I had been tasked with running the 220 yard dash along with an athletically challenged boy returning from sickness. Our family had moved from suburban Baltimore County, MD. I was running a mile in the woods every morning in the new environs of Washington County, PA. The student teachers, a woman with nice tits for an athletic girl, and man, timed us, without coaching. I was running down the finish while the other boy was laboring around the first bend. They did not advise him, but simply cheered me on, that I was going to break the school record. So I stopped and walked in. I was then arraigned by Mister Perry, the football coach, and his assistant the gym teacher, and chewed out about not living up to my potential. They wanted me on the football team. My brother was a natural athlete, and would be the second best soccer player in his age grade across the entire state. I knew that I was not the germ they wanted, but merely some desirable chaff to help the wheat kernel shine in the winnowing. Here, as I thought I was resisting the system, I was instead finding a chink in the machine through which to slip.

Us boys were arraigned to compete in a school track and field meet on the final week, to train for it, three events each out of ten, I think. They had made a mistake. I signed up for the last three: shoot put, javelin, and discus, which I found interesting and had never done. I already knew how to run better than the rest. Most of the boys in my grade, 7th I think, maybe 8th, did the same, following my gambit to leave as if it were a lead. I was aghast, found out by the rest and singled out for discipline. I was removed by the three gym teachers and made to sit the rest of the year in the dark auditorium. One of the assistants also worked at a steel mill. He was the one who chewed me out quietly, alone, in the dark place with a hundred empty seats, who let me know that I was being cutout like a cancer from the Body Adolescent. I sensed he had been assigned to turn me back into the herd. He had no idea that the weird boy relished the dark alone. The next year, I think, he was crushed by a steel beam at work. I felt, in a small sense, that my intense dislike for him, had added to his bad luck. I never bothered to recall his name, but still see his slick black hair, his strong wide frame, under his red sweater, knowing he could beat me in a fight, deciding that I was out and he was in. A sad chill still sinks in my chest when I think about him, who was supposed to be my last chance conductor back into the temporary age grade tribe, who was so easily crushed working for what was the major area employer.

A dozen years later, working in grocery stores in Maryland, I heard news that Washington Steel had failed, like the glass factory back there. I had already been hired to staff stores that replaced the failed Pantry Pride, and the failing Acmes and other chains. I would see a chain go out of business every second year. We debt slaves kept turning the wheels, us the raw materials for the corporate fictions that mastered us for a dozen years, then died like overworked beasts, their riders hopping off onto another growing beast.

As I remained in my own dark place, working at night and in one-man departments like Frozen Foods, or in the hardest grocery aisle, as a way of being too valuable a gear to be sucked up into the hierarchy and “belong,” I remained a debt slave like the rest. Reading was my portal to other worlds from where the weird young man viewed our own. I began to understand that companies and governments are grave fictions imposed upon us, to shepherd our indebted state as we are gradually marinated and seasoned into a consumable good.

The debt I did not escape until my fifties. It took from 1998 thru 2018 for me to fail to buy cars and a house, all repossessed, and to fail to build back credit. That wretched fiscal state finally untied me form the wheel designed to break us all. My body is broken in many ways, my will shattered along certain grooves, unable to even decide what to eat at a restaurant. Lost even is the ability to grow angry over threats, to dislike those assigned to maintain a boot upon my ideological neck—even a failure to align with, accept or cultivate an ideology. Barry, like you, poverty has helped me wiggle free from the system of our consumption.

Last month, my editor applied for me to get an Amtrak credit card. In 2018, I had been rejected for bad credit. When I returned to Baltimore, to my Address of Record, where I sleep on a couch 7 nights a year. There was a credit agency letter. The auditing body regretted to inform me that I do not exist as a debtor, past or present, that there is no record of me in the existing data-bank, and therefore, I am unsuitable for future debt!

“Free, free, free at last!”

Like the dark auditorium of a long dead youth, what is left of the man he became, seems but an echo. This does not feel good, brings no sense of accomplishment. Like a savage that tripped and fell down a mountainside and thence avoided being killed or enslaved by the agents of the machine, the empty feeling is somewhere north of bondage and south of freedom. It does not feel good, yet somehow seems appropriate for a person fabricated with enough defects to be spat out by the thing that feasts so greedily upon better-made men.

Sir, it feels also, that the words you wrote above and the book now resting upon this dresser, might help frame this curious exploration of what ate us in the wrong ago.

Thank you.

Hope this finds you well, sir

In lieu of writing you a long letter, I am trying to send you several short accounts of current events.

My sister has been boxing for several months now at a different gym and doing well beating up women MMA fighters and teenagers.

She is roughly the same height as I with more aggression and a wider head.

I find it interesting how our interests parallel later in life despite a lack of interaction or familial affection.

We both like to combat sports, Frank Frazzetta and the band Motorhead.

Our father was his Battalion boxing champion at 21 in the 101st Airborne but he always discouraged our boxing except for conditioning on a homemade bag which he constructed for us out of heavy carpet rolled tightly together.

We also did a lot stick fighting which he also didn't approve of, though hardly being a pacifist.

He was very much like Sean in his younger years, in physique more than mentality, because he eschewed all physical exercise aside from his work, which was considerably demanding.

I noticed that the men older than him who stayed healthy and active into their 70s and 80s, not only did heavy labor but always had an aggressive physical hobby of some kind on the side.

In any case, it is interesting that we both have continued to pursue an interest in boxing into our thirties.

My sister's aggression is greater than mine, but obviously it's always been encouraged.

I'm happy she's doing well in sparring.

If I showed Any aggression at all in sparring, by this time I would have been drafted as an assistant trainer at my gym. That's not an aspiration of mine, but I do work hard to be more aggressive and relaxed in the ring.

I can't account for this shortcoming.

It's taken me longer than it should have to overcome and I'm not all the way there yet, but find much food for thought in the experience.

-Best, PB

…

Paul, as the cracker jack psychologist to Blue Corner men, I feel—a feeling, not an analysis—that I have failed you here. You are still nice with the gloves on. The only time I see killer instinct in you is recently with knives. That is either the Mohawk or Cherokee welling up from your soul spring. In boxing, you are getting crafty and still reacting. I see you as stuck in the counter puncher role, which is fine, as those types last a long time and have less head case problems. I will save boxing advice for the next section. The question is, since boxing was developed to help the spiritual development of weapon fighters, can we use weapon fighting to develop boxing spirit?

We need to make you a hunter in the ring. Charles has observed that I did not do a good job with coaching you in stick. I wanted you to expand from smash and jab to slash so as to develop your saber fighting ability for the Civil War re-inactments. To heck with that.

You naturally jab and smash with the blunt stick. That is an effective use of the weapon. We will try and add fanning to that to keep you from getting stuck in the clinch. We [you] need to get light rattan sticks and beat the dog shit out of each other. Three minute rounds of ripping into each other, to develop your aggression along predacious lines. Light sticks will hurt like hell and keep our bones from cracking. Let’s assign a referee so I will be free to be a dick about it. The sessions will start with and end with light tapping. But we should try to do 10 hard rounds, actual fights to a stoppage or a draw, no point scoring, so as to deepen your grit.

Paul, you are highly intelligent, contemplative, and pondering, with a tender curiosity that has always been beyond your years. It is hard to train such a thinking man. We should do it like we did with Charles, turning him from nerd into one of the best stick fighters in the nation. Get four half inch rattan sticks, make that five. When I show up in Kansas, forget drilling and coaching. We just need to go at it on video. Then, send those videos to Charles. In May he can coach you out of whatever box I’ve shut you into. In the meantime I think I can beat that tender child out of your mind and get your mind right, as some old CSA man must have once opined.

…

[James will answer in brackets.]

Monday: worked with old sparring partner, we'll call him evil Dennis, since he's built like Sean's friend, but a coke head street fighter type who has reputation for sucker punching and hitting too hard in drills and technical sparring. He's ballooned from 165 to 218. I know you said no heavy weights and I wasn't thrilled about even drilling with him. He immediately went full bore in a simple back and forth partner drill, so I hooked him to the ribs several times and apparently did some damage because he hadn't been back.

[Every time this guy hits you hard—injure him. He lacks control and honor. Be polite, but break him. Retiring him from the gym will be a net GOOD to that community.]

Tuesday: body sparring with heavy handed half injun bantam. Followed Sean's dictum and tapped him lightly the harder he hit me, but gave him few targets until he resorted to groin punching, earning him a warning from the coach. I didn't appreciate the groin shots but they weren't too bad.

[When he goes for the groin open your body up by raising your elbows. Let him have our body, then drop your elbows down with the intent of snapping his wrists and thumbs. Be polite. Call him, “Sir.” Break his arm.]

Wednesday: rest day, worked extra hard. One hour shadow boxing and slip bag.

[That’s what I like to hear. I bet that slip bag is not lining you up for a groin shot like that savage pug.]

Thursday: heavy sparring

Broke mini Sean's nose with sneaky right (I think). He told me it has been already broken earlier in the week sparring. He is continuing to shrink to middle weight from 250, but has lost none of the heaviness of hand.

I used Bernard Hopkins foot feints to lure him into a sneaky jab. Noticed a trickle of blood coming from the nose so put pressure on it and there was quite a bit of gristle, more than when mine was broken. Doesn't seem to bother him though.

[This kid sounds workable. Try and form a broked nose men’s club with him and see if you two might buddy up against injury.]

Sparred with full sized Sean type MMA fighter, but only technical sparring. Coach said I should have closed range on him, but he was hand fighting me a lot, effectively making it hard for me to get close.

He very much wanted to keep me at range and has good lateral movement but I should have tried harder to get in on him. Coach said jab close and make it ugly and use my awkwardness to my advantage.

[Good advice. I would add to this that you should let him hit you with a hook or straight right in order to get in. practice taking contact with the slip bag and rolling, sliding in with a counter.]

Both these guys are wrestlers so holding usually doesn't work, mini Sean and I were grappling in the corner of the small ring on October and actually broke the turnbuckle, narrowly escaping both falling out.

Both MMA fighter and he did a round where they employed the Philly shell against each other.

I had previously cracked Gustavos shell and put him back in the high guard which the coach told him to maintain.

Favorite Duran clinic on fighting the shell

In an old article, you talk about the tactic of measuring and how Holmes used it against Mercer. I used it successfully against Gustavo in October but being an astute student of the game and shadow boxing aficionado, with slight reach advantage, he has started using it against me. Is there a preferred counter to this that you recommend?

Best

PB

Anyway…

Paul, against the measure, you can bait it, collar tie his wrist cuff, with your hand and slide in while pulling with your hand, with a sneaky punch with the other hand, or weave in. Set of an eye-level post, set lateral, the end facing you. Tape an old glove to it. Press your forehead to it and practice slipping off the glove and in, to both sides. You can use the maze ball for this, balancing it on your nose and slipping around it. Speed bags, heavy bags, all work for this. Make it a neck conditioning drill.

Good luck,

james

Charles, concerned with my taking a nerve medication, spoke to me on this the day before I left Baltimore this September. Hearing my track record with the drug, he suggested I write this article on my experience.

June 9, 2023, I was crippled, crawling back from the side street where I collapsed using a walking stick in two hands to stagger towards the bus stop. I had Kaiser, and the folks who could give me a lift all worked day turn in the trades. It would be a few more weeks before I could get to the urgent care. My only boyhood friend, Rick, who has since passed, was real bad with the cancer. I had Doc dread X-Ray me and shoot me up with cortisone so I could take the train to Ricks, which was hell. He showed me that the lumber had collapsed on the right, at least one disc out, bone on bone from L-1 up to L-5.

I then got diagnostic showing three torn muscles, a torn labrum in the hip, only one ruptured disc, and, worst of all, an impinged, stretched and twisted femoral nerve. The torn hip ligament is there to remain as is or get worse. The spine, I jacked that up, back in place with exercises I developed and adapted from two forms of yoga. The nerve, numerous doctors suggested was dmaged for good. But Doc dread, did say, after beating my knee with a hammer and getting ZERO reflexes, but noting that I had gained back some of the muscle that had cavernously shrunken away from the ever twitching nerve, “You might be the guy to get the nerve back.’ that was said in such a way but the eternal optimist that refused pain medication even after being crushed by a tree and having the muscles blow off of his legs and ribs puncture his lungs, that I was to understand that he had yet to see a recovery from that nerve injury. It is though, a rare injury, said Doctor Park, which he had only diagonosed in one other person, a retired ballet dancer.

Both doctors suggested gabepentin. Doc Park said, “It was developed for seizures and was a terrible seizure medication. It has shown benefits for neuropathy and has minimal side effects.”

The hand out tells you the side effects, nausea, dizziness, diarreah, cognitive decline, memory loss and tells you not to use with alcohol, a warning I dd not notice until six months into taking it when I began blacking out when having more than six drinks. And here, I thought light drinking would be fine, keeping it under ten drinks, but no, another buzz kill drug…

The recommended dosage begins in 3 day upward cycles of 300 MG capsules:

3 days 1 in morning

3 days 1 in morning and evening

3 days 1 morning, noon, evening

There, at 900 MG per day, I was able to use crutches. Also, when I put my hand within a couple inches of the nerve, not touching the leg, the nerve stopped reacting. Previously, placing an object—like pants—within an inch or two would cause the leg to heat up and burn, the hairs of the leg to stand straight out. Doc park had a name for that and said, “yes, that is a thing.” Oh yes, I was also able to sleep again after 7 weeks of shivering like a dying leaf.

Every 3 days you add 1 pill, breakfast, dinner, lunch

At 2, 2 and 2, or 1800 milligrams, I was walking with a cane. This was not simply pain, but the calming of the constantly, visibly banging nerve, which prevent the knee fro bending or straightening, stuck at a 45 degree angle.

At 2100 I was walking. I was sleepy all the time, though.

At 2400 I could step and drag, able to box and stick spar, but I was losing some memory, was a bit dizzy and felt strange.

A couple of times, pushing strength training, I raised the dosage to the maximum, of 2700, and did not like the way I felt. I slept great, but could only write surrealistic fiction, like SPQR.

Rick noticed some of these side effects, told me that the yellow pills were “Bad, bad—you don’t even want to know. They say there are no side effects, but…”

At this point I would have been OK witah sure diagnosis of cancer from the gab, since walking and boxing, and even having sex with a lady, was far preferable to moaning on the floor with my bent knee on the coach while I passed out from the pain, until the leg shifted and the pain woke me again.

Noticing my dosage, this past year, as we compared exercise and nutritional notes, Rick said, ‘the half life of that is six hours. Why would you take it three times a day? That is for eaters. You’re not an eater. You don’t sleep more than four hours. Work on drawing you dosage down towards one every six hours, or four a day.”

I began taking Rick’s advice in May. I gave up the strength training. The leg will just have to stay where it is. I went from 3 quarter squats to 60 half squats, from 5 flights of stairs in a row to 61. I’m 62, almost 63, I’ll take it. I’m too old to expect improvement in any physical activity. But, I can still hope that I have my best book ahead of me.

In may I went from bouncing between 2100 and 2400 to staying at 2100 thru June.

June and July I did 1800 with a bump to 2100 on training days, roughly 3 in 7.

August and September I maintained 1800 a day.

In October, this month, I began pushing my last dosage, the 6th pill, to the middle of the next morning.

November I will be training a lot and will do 1800 on training days and 1500 off.

December the intention is to stay at 1500 most days.

January I hope to make 1500 the ceiling and begin using 1200 on rest days. I suspect that the bump down to 900 will be the tough one, maybe at bedtime, then after morning writing, before training and then after training. Eventually, perhaps I will be able to use it purely to suppress that crazy nerve during activity.

I am curious.

Thank you for your support in this weird pursuit.

Han Silo, than you for that pint of beer and dinner tonight. Since I suspected we’d have a drink, I pushed off the evening dosage until after our meeting, and the completion of this writing.

-JL, San Francisco, CA, Wednesday 10/29/25