Electric Dan picked this emaciated hoodrat up from the Union Station in Joliet as the sun sank in the blustery west. He kindly hoisted the 45 pound rucksack, that is to me an Atlas stone, up into the back hatch of his working pickup truck...with one hand.

“It’s been almost three years, Buddy, since we’ve gotten together,” he grins, as we sit in the cab and shake hands. He is excited as he pulls off, one of the better drivers that pilot this fearful old pedestrian around the motorized land whale warrens of Murica.

“I hope you don’t mind me talking your ear off. But, I’m into stuff that most people think is strange, and into other stuff that the people who are into that think is beyond the pale. Stick fighting, who does that? Role playing games? If you are into that you have no clue as to the ongoing war of extinction waged on us by the blacks on behalf of the Plutocrats, which you have actually documented more than anybody. White slavery—now that is a hard sell. People’s heads spin off their bodies when I tell them that you are ‘The world’s foremost authority on white slavery’—something that cannot exist! Boxing? The intersection of Christianity and heathenry and neopaganism? I used to teach Sunday school and now I’m a neo pagan. Masculinity, another of our taboo shared interests…”

We caught up on the Electric Dan Plan for family survival: he’s marrying off one daughter and marrying in another. The former power lifter, with big thick hands, is thrilled that his son, who won such a contest, has tested positive for freakishly high capacity muscle genetics. I am glad for my late met friend, if beaming some jealousy form my shallow end of the gene pool. Another Viking, another Nord, met far to the west of my urban anti-Eden. The People’s Banking Republic of Shill Illinois is doing what it can to screw Dan out of his earnings, his house, his trade. But he is forging on.

I apologized for taking so long to return, noting that we both need the training, but that travel has been so trying that I avoid it, selfishly hiding out in certain climes to maximize writing and minimizing training and connections. I hatch a plan and say, “Bro, I have girls on both coasts, one saying with tears welling in her eyes that she hopes I do not make her wait more than three months again, and the one on the phone back east—a well-broke saddle mare of some 30 years—warning me, that if I make her wait 9 months again that she’s trading me in for a newer model.”

[laughter]

“Good problem to have, my friend,” opines Dan.

“It takes four says by train now, with all the freight traffic, to get coast to coast. Mom is threatening to hire kidnappers to haul me back for the holidays… I just can’t handle sleeping sitting up for four days straight. So, would it be okay with you, if every time I crossed the country, since you’re a half hour from Chicongo by rail, that I spend the weekend with you?”

“Sure thing, Buddy. How about Friday arrival and Sunday departure, maybe Monday morning, depending on what works for you. We can train all day Saturday?”

“Deal,” and we shake on it.

We needed a plan for multiple training sessions on the same day.

Dan muses on, “You know, I told my Kali instructor you’d be here for training tomorrow and he’s welcome to join us. He said, ‘Cool,’ which probably means he won’t show. It is so weird. I had a martial arts background and had always been interested in stick and blade and your writing convinced me to seek out escrima instruction. Then, when I find a good functional system, certified with lineage, the instructors will never spar, and if they do, they stop it for instruction and never develop flow. I really wanted to get to the last Man Weekend but had surgery. And this year I have two weddings and the government is fucking with my money, so I have to pass. You don’t know how much it means that you are stopping to train.”

“What about Dexter, he spars with you?”

“He moved to Tennessee!”

“Oh, I think I might get iced in a machete duel, then if he shows up.”

“Dexter is so cool, so puts the fаggot feet to the flames. You know he’s Russian, was an Olympic athlete, only martial artist I know who has actually bought your books. There was this one big knife tournament put on by this knife guru who was going to compete in it, set up by him and his cronies so that he would win. It was here in Chicago. Dexter shows up out of the blue, by himself, and takes first place. There was not a shred of sportmanship on the part of the promoter, like they were going to have to pry the trophy from his cold dead hands! That’s Dexter!”

We sat up discussing ancient theology, neo-masculinity, history, martial arts, women, old friends, mostly gone, from our youth. Dan had stocked the fridge with my favorite light beer, Miler Lite in bottles and ordered in Meat Max Pizza.

Dan’s darling wife announced that she was fixing us dinner Saturday night and we arranged our training to be free and post-sweaty for the meal.

...

The coffee was great, fixed by Dan.

He moved his truck and van out of the driveway, me noting that his buxom Bride had vetoed my suggestion of a dump truck mound of gravel in the front yard to prevent automobile ramming home invasions.

There was one oil spot on the driveway, a perfect place for me to walk Dan into when he started getting to me. We put on the boxing gloves and sparred for 45 minutes under pregnant and angry skies.

The rain, our time keeper, kept us from fatigue and we retired for more coffee.

Dan is a small heavyweight with sick hand strength, quick with the hands and more active with his feet than one would expect.

At noon, the sky just over the house almost clear, we donned the fencing masks Dan had purchased, the black one he got for me being the best mask I ever wore. Gloved up, we went through his great arsenal of sticks:

-A Half hour quick sparring with half inch whip sticks. Some of these rounds were almost fights and we inflicted some marks.

-Top dog stick slow sparring.

-Double heavy stick slow sparring.

-Slow flow sparring with medium sticks.

-Flow sparring with light sticks.

-One quick round with light sticks which earned us some leg stripes.

The rain, our time keeper, drove us into the dugout again after about 80 minutes work, with some lightly bruised hands and forearms, a few marks and an enhanced tolerance for being tethered to Planet Faggοtron.

Watching training videos for stick and blade occupied the balance of the after noon. When we heard Angie cooking we went out at about 4 to get in some blade work:

-Hard rubber dagger duels.

-Hard rubber Bowie knife duels, my favorite sparing tool.

-Bowie and dagger duels.

-Cold Steel bendy black safety sticks [as blade] with buckler duels.

-Black stick duels in London Prize Ring fashion.

-Last Can of Beans duel with daggers, won by Dan.

-Last Dog on Earth duel over the ownership of Charlie, the black lab, with Bowie, won by yours truly. Charlie seemed to be happy with the outcome and Dan quipped to him, “Oh, sure Charlie, James is the best, until you have to go on the road with him without your nice soft bed! Then you’ll miss us!”

Angie fixed steak and salad and steak and salad! The steak was probably 2 pounds after she overcooked it at my request—the best meal of this year.

Beer, Kracken rum, beer, and Kracken rum, completed the day’s damage and we were off to bed. As I entered the guest room, I noted that Angie had not only washed my clothes, but folded them.

What a knucklehead, and what a wife.

Thank you.