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Marooned on the Gashstone Shore
Banjo Kane and the Crackpot Chew the Wend Time Fat about Nomadism, Hobory and Weird Existence
© 2020 James LaFond
I spent two weeks in a really empty world—like 28 Eight Days After [British zombie movie]. There were very few people at the airports—JFK in particular was empty. We were in the Land of the Gods in southern Utah. Beautiful country, but not many people on the trails or enjoying nature. The tourist business—the death of this service economy was apparent everywhere. Then, Como, announces that my unemployment could be cut off if I am found to be travelling to any of the several states where virus reports are spiking and that I had to be back by the 25th. I guess my next trip I’ll rent a car so that can’t be tracked as easily.
Forty to sixty percent of the hotels here in New York will be going out of business—that is a lot of jobs. The gig is up. It looks like it’s back to the Southwest for me sometime soon. What I was wondering is what do you think this is going to turn into?
Is this just going to be a 2008-style event where the economy slowly crawls back and then the master class smashes it back down again?
It is obvious that the powers that be have developed a thirst for travel restriction and getting people on the dole.
What about the gypsy model?
They aren’t the only group of people who have thrived in permanent exile. Think about how shitty most Americans are, morbidly obese, terrified of physical work, incapable of defending themselves—essentially crippled human beings surviving only as economic units of debt exchange.
I told this one hipster liberal woman that yes we need to defund the police, get rid of them and that she will be raped and murdered and that I will eventually be killed too, but since I have agency and can fight, I will have a good time taking some of the enemy with me, but her end of life will be nothing but helpless misery.
I’m really growing interested in nomadism. You’re thriving as a nomad for instance. It is almost like the only hope to escape the imposed sloth is to drop out of the debt model and the American Dream of a house—which you can never own anyhow unless you are a member of the elite—and become like a gypsy, a Depression-Era Okie, a wanderer across the face of the Lie.
What do you think?
-Banjo Kane

Banjo, I hope I am up to adding to this thoughtful query. As I write, the Land Lady is triaging her remaining belongings, prepping for a move back to the nation of her birth. Yesterday, her temporary world of having a stark protector who literally repels hoodrats from her property with his lowly presence took a hit. She likes the fact that none of the hoodrats cut through her yard, but through the adjoining ebony yard of the Big Bantu who keeps asking them not to as they sneer at him and cast fearful looks my feral way. They come from alley to street and they all look fearfully at me sitting on the porch drinking beer and circle even wider…
As for the distaff leftoids of pallid hue, with and without dicks, agree that the police need to be defunded, but don’t warn them of the impending reality. Rather tell them it will be okay, that ebony thugs will protect them for free… Don’t tell her that they are going to protect her free of charge from any outside violation and that while she is zip-tied to that radiator only her Master and his closest associates will sodomize her as they smoke dope in her dream home and feed her puppies to their pit bulls…
Above all don’t tell her that the remaining police will help the thugs and that the former police will become superior thugs, thug servants, thug training cadres…
Bro, let the guilted ghosts keep walking towards the cliff so the sharks have all their eyes on them and we have a chance to make our way. Enough with this compassion…
But my Land Lady’s feeling of safety has been intruded upon by PIGs cruising down her street and looking at me, something they never did to ebony thugs who were out driving her and her neighbors inside over the past decade.
Then, yesterday, her grim protector came in his hands shaking, after a five minute scramble from the cops—for I did not know how many of the palefaces on their porches saw me pull that knife out when Bold Bantu stepped to me in his seething road rage and if any of them had called the cops on me. It is a small knife, but the fact that it is not a folding knife makes carrying it a crime in the Soviet Socialist Republic of Murderland. So, now even this old Hungarian broad is trying to learn how to be a gypsy.
I am not qualified to wonder at the economy to come. I do think that it has been intentionally crashed and if it recovers it will be crashed harder in order to maintain us in immobile debt. The current scheme has us generally in debt and forced to move every 2-8 years to stay ahead of the state-sponsored crime wave. What is now desired by the elite is for us to remain in debt and immobile, stuck on our masters’ fief, literally attached to a municipality as a serf in the coming feudal order.
Think about what a threat property being bought on time is to us, a hated and hunted race.
The municipalities with the highest tax rate [government rents] tend to have laws against protecting property. If your front door is kicked in in Maryland you have to prove you could not safely flee your house in order to have a chance at getting away with using force to defend yourself. It is patently against the law in most municipalities to use force to protect property, which is a natural human instinct, particularly when you are in debt over that not yet owned property.
This, minimizing property to something you wear, carry or reside and ride within—a vehicle that is a home and at least invokes a castle doctrine if there is one—is desirable.
Even then, when I go to a train station, I leave all of my possessions in the middle of the floor and go to the men’s room without asking anyone to watch them, demonstrating that I am not tied to my property and do not walk in fear. When I come back from the men’s room the hoodrats are cringing, some poor soul is breathing a sigh of relief that the 30 pounds of C-4 in the tactical pack did not send him into orbit, and the sacred precepts of “I Don’t Give a Shit,” have been established.
Having nothing to lose and not being attached is the ultimate power base for the man of action. This is why Conan never starts a story with a bitch from the last story. If you have a woman and she is not bearing your children, be willing to jettison her like so much baggage. She is what will get you killed, her and all her junk, her nice car, her manicured lawn—that is a bull’s eye for Gashstone spotters.
We are the lowest pieces of shit on the planet—working palefaces—and that gives us a powerful upward focus as our elite counterparts cling to their manicured lawn, 15-year mortgage, new un-owned car and scepter of supremacy—the AR-15.
So, I am content to prowl the gutter and shoulder aside the Bantu and Agave hunters and scamper from their Blue Crew allies as that aspirational putz with his trophy wife and military style firearm are spotted by the laser-pointer of BLM and Antifa so that the ATF and other Gashstone [1] agencies can punish that deluded peasant for picking up a sword when he is supposed to be shouldering his yoke and returning to the role of his ancestors, a serf to his lord. Let that fool toil, and mew and sweat and stew, while we become barbarians again and fly [2] free of this fetid pen.
A purge of ivory homeowners and gun-owners is underway. I only know this by instinct, have no news, for I consume none and no proof other than my hoodrat senses and observations. The hunt is on and the hounds have been unleashed. Red Flag laws will be a key tool.
We can be the fox or the hare, but the rabbits and lapdogs we leave behind are just meat for that which hunts us—food for the fiendish engine dedicated to our extinction.
-1. Cսnt Continuum enforcement entities dedicated to autonomous paleface eradication
-2. You may ride as I eke and creep.
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