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‘Cleanblood Cross Training’
Part 2: Nugguh Satarn Is Interested in Crackpot Sports Classifications: 12/26/2022
Below are sports that were not practiced by myself, but by better and tougher men than I and their long term and short term combat applications.
Salsa dancing instructor Rico Arus had the best footwork of any stick-fighter. Rico also had much better looking training partners than I did!
Doctor Dread had the best conditioning and stamina of any fighter I have known. This was from extreme running, swimming at dawn in the Chesapeake Bay every day, triatholons. I would do all of that but the bike, if I were young and able. The bike sets you up for murder by car, especially in these days when rich faggots and their bike lanes are serving as an excuse to go after working Americans and their automobiles. The track and field and swimming that Doc has been involved in as a competitor and coach for 40 or more years are basic conditioning pursuits that have direct survival applications. The third best boxer in human history, Tisander of Naxos, trained for fighting by swimming in the ocean. The swimmer was the athlete chosen by film makers in the casting of the Tarzan movies for some 50 years. Also, keep in mind that most Gawds cannot swim, at all. So, if you can swim, when the Righteous Reparation Horde invades, you can swim to safety! Also, their allies, the PIGZ in body armor, are not likely swimmers.
-Hockey Players are always tough stick fighters on their first day. Hell, in a street fight, a hockey team will beat a boxing team any day.
-Lacrosse Players are second only to hockey players in adapting quickly to combat sports.
-Football players do okay adapting to combat sports but tend to be wrecked in middle years from the injuries.
-Rodeo and motocross athletes I have met have all been studs, but, by the time they are my age, their can barely walk.
-Powerlifters are hard to train in fighting, and by the time they are my age, they can hardly walk.
-Bodybuilders are rarely trainable in combat, but, can take a beating and do basic force moves into old age.
-I have worked with three boxers who came from racket [willful typo] sports and they all adapted quickly. One of these men I training in stick fighting and his racket work was the basis for a lot of precocious success. The problem with racket [I know I am spelling it wrong, but it is French!] sports is that organized forms are upper class white and white adjacent Asian, demographics which are highly in line with the gaslight and will be the most woke venues, since they are so white and aspirational.
-It has been easy for me to coach men who are avid in barroom games and lawn sports because they have a high level of relaxed precision. Most people, when trying to do something precisely in motion, will tense up, ruining the punch or stroke. The arts of punching and fighting with hand weapons require dynamic relaxation. Dynamic tension sports like football and weight lifting do not promote the type of relaxed hand and shoulder necessary for the best punching and stroking. However, good horse shoe, billiards, darts and shuffle board players have developed a relaxed state of precision and tend to relax under pressure, especially in the shoulder, which is where strong men ruin their punching mechanics with tension. For this reason, I much prefer playing these games even though I rarely win, as a kind of relaxation therapy. I have also noted that men who are too high strung or intense to enjoy these games are also difficult to coach into a relaxed striking state and tend to shoulder injuries.
-Baseball players tend to be the best athletes and most coachable in punching mechanics. However, for some reason most are horrified at the prospect of combat sports. For this reason I like the idea, if I were younger, of joining a softball team, which I did once at 31 and really liked. Baseball selects for really high eye activity, which we lose in time anyhow. Softball selects for more overall activity, with most balls being out in play. My guess is you can find 1 in ten softball players that might train combat, as opposed to the 1 in 1000 baseball player ratio. Baseball players are going to make better shooters, which might be why it is still America’s identity sport, as no nation was more formed by the gun.
As a final note, I would like to point out that throwing balls overhand at high speed, eventually destroys most shoulders if you do it enough. I have known a few professional ball players and they assured me that it is a genetic selection process at that level. So, as you age, I would suggest throwing the disc, the frisbee, since you can get practice with eye and hand and feet without hurting your shoulder.
Additionally, soccer is usually played outside and has a low material and ground floor skill requirement, can be done in mixed age and gender teams, and is perhaps the best cardio sport next to running and swimming. It’s no accident that soccer players have died the most from the vaxx—that sport tests the heart, the same organ that has been targeted by The Lie and its blood poison. My brother is still active playing competitive soccer with men half his age and his fitness level is higher than mine doing the same thing in combat sports.
Train and play alone and make that the basis for finding partners in those passions.
Thank you Cleanblood, for finishing off a career of self help writing on a positive note.
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posted: June 9, 2023   reads: 111   © 2023 James LaFond
‘Soy-Ciety’s Unending Gaslighting’
Part 1: Nugguh Satarn Is Interested in Crackpot Sports Classifications: 12/26/2022
Hello James,
I've been an avid reader of your blog for years now, though I have very seldomly commented. I appreciate the rawness of your writing; I too resent soy-ciety's unending gaslighting. On two separate occasions I have used the awareness gained from your writing to defend my sister from possible attack.
I want to ask a question before you end your self-help writing.
I remember you wrote in an article there are about 80 different sports (another article you counted 110 sports).
I would like to know into what sets your mind categorizes the sports (I.E. racketsports, watersports, combat sports, racing sports, winter sports, lawn games, animal sports, throwing sports, etc.)
I ask this because I suspect the oversystem will initiate another lockdown where cleanbloods like me will be once again barred from martial arts dojos, if not those dojos closing down altogether.
So which types of sport are suitable for developing skill at which types of combat?
I.E. Tennis and Stickfighting, Rodeo and Wrestling, Soccer and ??, ?? and infantry combat, and so on.
Please try to make your list as exhaustive as possible as many of these sports will also be restricted and I may have to seek out private training or informal play.
Thank you and Merry Christmas to you, your family, and friends.
Nugguh Satarn
I am thrilled that this literary misbehavior has helped you protect your sister. I love the term cleanblood. The pressure for the genetic blood injection experiment is lessening. However, that device will be delivered by the lie now. I have a friend who said no to dirty blood for his kids and the doctor said he was injecting them with a Rubella booster and tried to inject brovid jiveteen murder! Right in front of him his child was attacked by a ring wraith under cover of gaslight. It might not be long before all νаϲсіոes and many other things injected will include this poison and one will have to avoid all medical are to avoid dosing. Even if some how Doctor Satan and his medical minions are blocked on this account, the future will hold other conditions for fraternal entry and facility use, like apologizing for ancestral crimes, repenting racial privilege, for kneeling before a portrait of Floyd Christ, etc., before entering.
Sir, this is a good question in preparation for the inevitable return to the gaslit isolation of us from our fellows.
I don’t have the mental capacity at this point to do a comprehensive inventory of current sports out of my head. What I will do, in Part 1, is my personal list of sports that I have engaged in and my thoughts on how they might apply to survival training in the increasingly atomized transhuman lie-scape ahead. Here also I will break down the three categories I use for sports classification.
In Part 2, I will cover sports that fighters I have trained with or fought against, have used for cross training. Additionally, I will cover here sports that men I have known who have engaged in them have either suffered or thrived from over the long term.
My messed up mind categorizes sports into 3:
-Combat, fighting sports like boxing, wrestling, fencing, stick fighting, etc…
-Contact, hockey, football, rugby…
-Non contact, most sports and games beginning with baseball, basketball and soccer down to horseshoes and lawn games and including track and field and swimming…
I have played pickup sports my entire life, to include softball, wiffle ball, basket ball, soccer, volleyball, frisbee. All such sports help basic eye hand coordination and movement. These are usually done outside. Fewer people of the guilty race do any of this. I have noted Gawds playing basketball and joined their play during brovid in 2020 to avoid the cops thinking I was what I was. In 2018 and 2019 I trained stick fighting on the same park court where Mexican kids played soccer. In the future, be the crazy yeti and ask if you can play. To avoid the gaslight it will be increasingly important to mix with the lower echelons of savage races, as the gaslight is really a white and aspirational class thing.
But there is always the way alone. When I was a boy and could not get active positions on ball teams because I was such a poor athlete, I played wall ball and step ball with a tennis ball, playing catch with myself and the wall, which unlike the First Baseman, did not beat me up after practice.
As an old man, I have increased my fitness and maintained hand and stick fighting strength by other individual activities beloved by prize fighters of old:
-felling trees
-using hatchets, machetes, pruning shears, axes and saws to deal with downed and overgrown trees
-splitting wood, yesterday I used a maw and spike for an hour splitting cedar rounds and feel like I did a great bag workout with the stick
-raking, has proven good therapy for my damaged ribs and chest
-shoveling, pick ax, maddock work in ditching and gardening.
The point is, in the old days, when highly schooled boxers from cities fought crudely trained loggers and farmers, they decided they wanted some of that strength. Why spend money going to a gym full of faggot ghosts when you can get an ax, saw, spike and maw and process a downed tree for a neighbor, build good will and get some real exercise?
The only racket sport I have played is ping pong and it is great for eye hand coordination and can be done in your dwelling. Hell, empty a room and get paddles and balls and play wall ball by your self.
The more formal, acredited, sanctioned and certified a training facility of sort is, the more gay, lame, fake and gaslit it will be.
My favorite sport over these past four years of hobo life was not ruined by the shamdemic. Hiking out and away from faggots, Karens, schools, gyms and The Lie has done a lot to get me and keep me in fighting shape even while injured. I was not alone. There were many people going to parks in the east and west to exercise away from the gaslite—so it follows. National and state parks are being closed, having limited hours and attendance, and will eventually require some kind of compromise with The Lie so that you clean bloods will not infect bears when they eat you.
So walk the burbs, the town, the city streets where you live. Do this at dawn, the best time of day when the worst people are away.
Keep in mind that most combat training is solo training. Go to a real boxing gym and everybody is training alone unless they are sparring, which is not most of the time. Train alone and find another psycho that trains alone and then spar outside, under a tree on some neglected piece of pavement. I have done this over the past few years in Baltimore, Jersey, Illinois, Kentucky, Pennsylvania, Denver, Portland, and here, in the middle of nowhere, I play fight Toby’s reprobated black canine ass on the way to the woodpile. Watch kittens learn to kill by sparring. Animals know. The Colonel’s cat, Tigger, saw me shadow boxing last night and flipped out, meowed shrilly and ran and hid, because it knew that I was training like it does with shadows.
Get a big dog and wrestle and slap box with that sucker.
If you have a yard, make activity centers: training post, rope climb, horseshoe pits, pull up bar, ax throwing rounds, archery targets, a garden, even a flat patch that you turn into a hole and a mound and then fill the hole and make a mound where the hole was, or a compost pile you turn over. Get a wood stove and split your own wood by hand. I really like chopping wood with machetes and breaking rocks with maws.
Don’t join any sport. Just do stuff with impact tools and moving objects, with hiking probably the most important skill you can develop, especially if the Oversystem shuts off your car and you and your sister have to haul ass to the hills ahead of the Righteous Reparations Horde.
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posted: June 8, 2023   reads: 292   © 2023 James LaFond
Teutonic Fist Cues the Crackpot on Organized Metaphysics: 12/29/2022
At the moment i am writing something about Ritual for my native outlet. This is because on solstice the azov battalion burned a longboat as ritualistic burial for its dead, and how a ritual gets meaning by what is at stake, quite literaly. Meaning in the nietzschen sense that god does not justify/gives reason to war, but that war will justify and give reason to god.
One can see the burning of the ship as either metal or corny but nonetheless its a real thing. I read  a while ago about how german military personal in afghanistan copied rituals from american military personal, since they have no ritualistic warrior rites of their own anymore. There are still pictures around of ww2 german soldiers burning a casket before battle as "burning of woes". Maybe you remember when alex jones snug into Bohemian Grove and recorded such a "burning of woes" rite. Rituals are important for any cult, culture even if its just the Bushes jerking off into the Skull of an Indian Chieftain.
That said these modern cults you refer to with egalitarianism and so on and so forth are not really cults. They have no rites, no real rites, they have no sacraments, they have nothing. And thats why they all spin out of control when a charismatic leader leaves, dies, disappears. Q Anon was a basic bitch christian bait op based on "Operation vampire killer" from the 90s, pacification rumor mongering that in secret military and police would be on "our side" and any day now arrest the pedo elites.
There was also "Operation Trust" during the early soviet era and when you read the monthly reports of the Reichssicherheitshauptamt about how the mood in the population of nazi germany was, even back then many people believed what basically amounts to Q anon worldviews. All of these "world explaining" "cults" spin nuts at some point because they infuse their followers with wrong intuition, wrong consciousness and the inability to form anything of substance around a common denominator of ritual. All that is left is the death drive of their followers waiting for apocalypse/military takeover/arresting tom hanks. They were never ment to have so much synthetic "information" and it fried their brain.
So i take longship burning viking larpers, who at least do something real such as fighting, killing and dying, over enranged proles, who live extremly online and therefor lack all the positives sides of cult and culture, any day.
In other news; germany will have the warmest new years eve since the record started while america is ravaged by a blizzard and everyone told me without russian gas i would freeze to death.
You make some very good points here. However, I stand by my assertions that we have ideological cults all through modernity and that they do practice rituals [such as confessions of hereditary guilt, voting and demonstrations], wear vestments [such as suits and ties and masks], tithe to their governments and avoid critical thinking and cling to faith and the proclamaitions for their priesthood of experts, and also conduct purges and witch hunts. Now, I grant that these are cults prone to weakness, lack of truth and depth, fracture and negativity. But how many times has Christianity fractured and split into another denomination?
However, perhaps this is their purpose, to divert cultic energy away from real metaphysics, away from proximate community, and to dissipate the mind and feast upon the agonized souls of these dissipated minds?
What is more, the lack of substance that you describe and the thanatos urge will serve the homo elites who have set up these ephemeral cults as finishing feed lots for souls to be consumed, to feed their increasingly self aware leviathan system. The new Canadian public health initiative focusing on government assisted suicide for depressed women is one example of a governmental good, a transfer upward of death power and a devouring of sacrificial victims, of the transmogrification of potentially eternal or autonomous souls into meaty sacks of ashen damnation. Such fiendish plots in open execution, like the brazen Punic bulls that babies were once burned in, are a 100% good to the government and a drain on its food source and potential enemy, The People.
At the very least these are counterfeit cults, and yes they are weak. But when the purpose of a cult is to prepare the cult members for consumption by the priesthood and feeding of them into a gestational god, then weak cults are a good. I truly believe that our crypto elites are trying to develop an actual, physical, systemic, autonomously intelligent deity. I suspect that the memory of the hydra, of Tiamat, of dragons and titans, of gods that can be killed and yet bleed blood so caustic that it will kill mortals like white phosphorus or napalm, is a garbled memory of an earlier such attempt to raise a man-made deity upon the bent back of humanity. The reality of mass human sacrifice to appease dark and devil like gods in Mexico, might be, I suspect another such Atlantean thread.
While cosmic oatmeal cookies like Randal Carlson and Graham Hancock believe in a golden age of sacred geometry when experts worked for the people and the people worked in concord with Mother Earth, I suspect this was the opposite of prehistoric reality. Rather, I suspect, that mechanical monsters, such as tanks, planes, robots, automated ships and drones, once stalked the planet and devils and demons and dark gods waxed strong waiting at the gates of eternity like gulls for baby turtles at the ocean’s edge, and feasted upon a harvest of screaming souls.
Fortunately, I am just a crackpot and my guesses about the deep past and our cyclic return to earlier conditions will most likely be no more accurate than my predictions about urban and suburban blight.
Thank you, sir. It has been a pleasure corresponding with you over these past handful of years. I also view the icing of America as the hand of God punishing the closest thing to Leviathan we have seen in recorded history. May Uncle Satan freeze in his striped tights.
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posted: June 7, 2023   reads: 420   © 2023 James LaFond
Rabbit Soul
A Conversation with Portland Joe: 12/17/2022
While driving home from training:
“James, since sparring with “King Kong” [James of the North} and receiving this cracked rib, I fee like I finally have some skin in the game. I’m more confident. The shadow boxing is clicking, I’m starting to stress less about getting hit by you and think more about what I can do to you—going on the hunt as you say. Now, I was wondering, since you have experienced so many injuries, in the past, has this effected you positively or negatively when it came to navigating Baltimore’s crime space?”
So Spake Portland Joe, taking me back in my mind through my 38 years working and 4 years visiting Baltimore.
This is a fascinating question about how some injuries bring out the rabbit in your soul and turn the Bantu-hunted, guilt-haunted world into a cast of hungry foxes, cats, coyotes and wolves, while some injuries bring out the beast in your soul.
In retrospect, as I review my various training injuries, I note that most brought out the beast, that I would arrogantly stride amongst the savages as a miniature Tarzan with broken fingers, fractured forearms, black eyes, and even debilitating back injuries and rib injuries. These latter injuries I compensated for by carrying knives.
Just like MMA fighters usually fight hurt, I knew, that due to my hard and constant sparring that I would be hurt in someway when attacked by hyenadon tribesmen. Sparring hard while hurt became an important component of this prepping. Even severely sprained and shredded ankles dd not make me hide or shy away as I envisioned falling into the gripes with my attackers and dragging them to the pavement with me as I stabbed and bit my way up their lags and body.
Walking Baltimore after 25 concussions did nothing to diminish my confidence, not of victory, but of the stabbing and gutting of my conquers as I was shot or stomped to death.
Only one injury brought out the rabbit in my soul, the torn hip rotator. This was the injury that caused me to get fat. The fatness as much as the debilitation caused me to become less aggressive, less savage. That injury had me in constant agony and the bloating up made me less tough. I knew that a hard push would just send me down.
When the Soul Patrol rolled up on me on Sefton, I was unable to get up curb and had to stay in the gutter as I drew my knife.
When Eddie and Arsinio wanted my umbrella at Glenoak and Norhern, I knew I was dad in the water and would have to stab my way out.
When Salt and Pepper tried to mug me at Glenoak and Pine, I yelled, for only the second time in my life, the bitch in my soul having been found.
When the two giant Nigerians came on me after I interrupted their slave girl abduction by dragging my lame foot, at Old Eastern and Eastern, I knew I was helpless.
This all happened in 2017 as I limped about, the hunters smelling the rabbit in my soul. It reminds me now, of the old English stick fighting tradition of fighting with whale ribs. Head shots were good, but leg shots were banned. It was acceptable to kill but not lame your opponent. There is a deep truth here, a tribal recognition that lack of ambulatory capacity makes us less of a man and that walking is part of our developmental structure and the door to our autonomy.
Perhaps our brain washed society is so because people no longer walk but sit and move in machines.
I finish with a quote from Don Quotays in this regard concerning an instructional walk to a coffee shop with a 7 year old girl:
Reading the dialog between you and young Emma, it reminded me of Aristotle tutoring Alexander. Who knows what this young lady will do in time?
Don Quotays
06.07.23   Sean — "The legs feed the wolves" as they say. Never neglect the hard training of conditioning, mobility, and speed work.
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posted: June 6, 2023   reads: 501   © 2023 Sean
Trad Brad Cues the Crackpot on A Possible Grift: 1/6/2023
Wow, thank you! [For the PDF of Poet.]
I look forward to reading this. I have been enjoying The Combat Space. It’s funny, I have very little experience in combat sports but had been going to an MMA gym that was nearly identical to the one described in, “Running in Circles,” and was starting to suspect it wasn’t a good gym to learn at. 
I have been thinking about an encounter that happened probably late October of last year that ended uneventfully and wondered what you thought of it. 
My work has brought my wife and I to one of the suburbs south of Chicago for a few months. It’s a decent area overall, mostly hispanic families in older houses that appear well cared for. 
We were walking our small dog when we heard a voice calling from behind us. It was a large man (Probably around 6’2-6’4, very broad, and had a bit of a gut) quickly walking towards us. “I’m not a threat! I just need help!” he yells and lifts up the front of his shirt to show he’s unarmed. He had a phone up to his head, “It’s okay! I’m safe, father!” before putting the phone away. I don’t think he said goodbye. 
He told us that his mom was recovering from a surgery and was going to go visit her at the hospital, with some generic Catholic-sounding name. He explained that he had tried to talk to the priest at the church that was across the street but the priest did not speak English. He was asking directions so my wife pulled it up on her phone; it was about 40 minutes outside of the city. We thought that he would get back on the major road and head that direction but then he explained that he needed gas. We explained that we didn't have any money on us but he said he would pay for it. We explained that we didn't have gas cans to transport the gas but he said that he did. I think he even said that his truck was parked at a gas station. 
"So can you help me, please? I'm not a threat. I'm very fat and tired and just trying to see my mom."
At this point, I'm not sure what he's even asking for. My best guess is that he wanted a ride back to the gas station that he walked pretty far from to ask for directions. My bullshit detectors are firing hard. You don't prove you're not a threat by only showing the front of your waistband, he had thrown in that he was a veteran and Catholic (2 groups that are viewed with some degree of respect by polite society), and what kind of non-threat repeats "I'm not a threat" over and over? All I said was "We don't live close to here." and he immediately started walking away. 
What do you think? Was this some type of scam? Was he planning some type of attack? Maybe I'm paranoid.
Thanks for reading all that. You take care, too! 
Okay, this guy was a threat. He moved off as soon as he found out that you did not live nearby. He assumed that you walking your dog meant that you were a few blocks from home and that when you agreed to give him a ride, he would locate your car, and your house, both of which would be targeted by smaller, leaner less tired members of his crew. Once your house is under observation, when you are away will be noted so it can be cleaned out, or when you arrived home on Friday with a juiced debit card and possibly cash, you could be car-jacked and maybe taken tot he bank thru the drive thru.
Since he was alone it is unlikely this was an immediate violence threat unless the person on the other end of the phone was not mom—who he probably was not—and he was speaking code to bring in the team, probably a teenage lookout and a vision mid sized dude with a gun or knife.
In case this happens again, continue to detail your wife to be on her phone helping the grifter remotely:
She must be behind you.
She must relay information thru you so that there is no communication directly thru your woman. The female desire among white women to hep out and do the right thing for non whites and for youthful waifs can spark in an instance into communication between her and him. That is the road to disaster as he begins using her sympathies to undermine your protection of her. The more obedient she seems to be to you, the less likely the situation will blow up.
The worst thing that could happen is for your wife to bust his chops and start telling him off. That is a disaster.
If he looks behind himself he is planning an attack.
If he looks behind you he is planning an attack.
If he looks down expect to get hit.
Keep him two paces away so that you can scan the area for his partners, who are within three blocks guaranteed.
The guy showing you his waistband is confirmation that he is an active criminal using gangland and prison yard cant to reassure you. This guy is so deep into criminality that he does not even understand how normal humans view him and his world.
With a dude this fat, if it goes south stab him in the neck or armpit, not the gut. If you have no weapon, finger jab, rake or spear as you step off right in a weak pivot and present the left hand for checking.
Your wife should be trained to keep behind you at all times and never verbally or physically engage the enemy.
06.05.23   Joe — There is more good information in this short post than there is in most so-called self defense books. A lot of experts seem to be just preparing you for single man mutual combat. Your real threat, as JL instructs, is a team of attackers.
06.07.23   Barry Bliss — Recently, Andrew Tate said:

"If I have a responsibility for her safety, I should have a degree of authority over her safety, meaning........if I'm the one that has to fight and die to protect her, I'm the one who decides how we walk home."
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posted: June 5, 2023   reads: 607   © 2023 Barry Bliss
Mirror Hack
Cain 4-B
Troubledoor Radio Sedan, sole proprietor and driver, Dean “Heavy Fez” Carson
“Yet, as I read,
soon growing less severe,
I liked his project,
the success did fear.”
-Andrew Marvel, 1668, on John Milton’s Paradise Lost
It took some getting used to for a rural black man up from Oklahoma come to make his dime running a reference sedan in a to-hell-and-gone and-ain’t-come back city. Portland was not right in the head. He had heard of this niche opportunity from a hobo at the Cattle Yards during the horse auction last year who had told him that the crackheads and thugs and Ubers had run out the regular cab businesses.
Heavy Fez, as he preferred to be known, was a strict Black Muslim, who knew that what white folks would pay high dollar for was a straight-up and honest get-things-done kind of black man, that would protect them from the pork-eating negroes and at the very same time permit those guilty so-called “whites” to feel like they were not racist and were alright.
Heavy Fez kept issues of The Final Call paper on the passenger seat to sell. But he did not belittle himself to traffic in no bean pies, as much as he might like them. When he ordered a box, he ate them himself and had rightfully earned his proud moniker.
There was something about the tall old Blue-Eyed Devil—and that he was! Heavy Fez had seen that cat, striding along like a champion, like as fast as regular people jogged. Dude looked a hundred if a day, like an actual Methusalla. Carrying a full pack and yet having a cane, it was a certainty that this cat would make an interesting passenger. He had, over this last year, picked up, driven around and dumped off an army of stupid, muddle-headed, drunk, drugged-up and mentally messed-up, to include sexually fucked-up [literally fucked-up] Godless white folk. It was enough to make a man’s head spin.
He would normally eye ball a ride he didn’t know and decide between Jericho Green, Jesse Lee Peterson or NPR—usually NPR—in order to sooth his soft devil cargo and to keep from having to talk to these zeroes. But this man, this fellow that looked like he’d eat the Gordon’s Fisherman himself—face first—rather than the actual fish fillets, this man, would call for no thought insertion media to keep him calm or awake as the case may be.
Heavy Fez drove up to the man, who was getting good and rained on, rolled down the passenger side window and yelled, “Old School, get in—the ride is free!”
The man stopped, considered, talked over his shoulder, and nodded ‘Yes.’ Stepping to the curb, taking off that mighty ruck sack and slinging it in to the back seat with one hand, not letting go the vehicle with the other hand so his stuff could not just be roll took, the man was an old hobo hand for sure true. Then, as the over tall man had to twist to get in the back of his Ford F-250 Diesel—which made folks feel so safe driving in and out of Portland and around tweaker camps, Heavy Fez got a chill up his neck. This dude was so tall that he did not have to step up, and his shoulders were so broad he had to turn sideways.
“Thank ye,” piano-like said the man, as the scent of rum came to him.
He returned, “Praise be to Allah most high, and Peace be Upon the name of Mohamed, His Prophet.”
“Sustained, friend of Far Araby,” rumbled the man in a kind of British but also hillbilly accent.
“Sir, Allah demands of Heavy Fez—that’s me—that I deliver an act of kindness each and every day among those who do not yet reside in The House of Islam.”
The man chimed right in, “On behalf of The Damned, our ken, we commend thee.”
That was said with such candid authority that Heavy Fez refused to meet those bloody, blue eyes directly and returned to the normal sedan mode of talking through the rear view mirror.
The man looked away as if seeking something in the dark and snarled, “I seek three certain dens of debouched iniquity, to seek of a peddler in flesh, to apply not man’s law, but HIS WILL to such deeds set there.”
He was off driving, “You are a godly man then, a Christian?”
“Not so good a Christian as ye be a Mohamedan—rather ‘ave I tainted the name. Yet I serve HE ALMIGHTY who cursed me with vagabondry. I be oathed o’ a nabbed lass.”
‘What a cool cat he is,’ mused Heavy Fez as he veered around a bicyclist with a wheeled baby cart in tow.
“Yes, Mister Quartermaine,” said the man, in a tone that indicating that he was speaking to a third person.
‘Shit just went from interesting to terrifying in a second!’
“Never fear, kind Coachman. My associate, Mister Quartermaine, wishes me to compliment your Cap of Morocco. He rides within this sea-bag o’ mine as do I ride upon heavy seas o’ Time.”
So saying, the man lifted the top of the rucksack and a little brown hand waved to him and a voice that sounded Haitian, but with as much Jamaican in it, sang out, “Wonderful good man of fair fine hat, unhandy of height I am. Master Cain carries me about upon his quest of recompence.”
“What da fuuu…” ‘Allah give me strength!’
Then, a black midget with a bad-ass tight Afro, that had been cut and wove into a fez with a tassel of kinky curl, popped his head out of the ruck and smiled to the mirror, “See, Heavy Fez, brothers we, great big you, wee me.”
The tall white man called Cain did not even look alive at this moment, rather sat stiff like a corpse, the whites of his eyes rolled back into his head to show silvery in the sockets, rather than white in the dusky cab soft lit by his devil-soothing running lights, lights that enabled him to see what folks were doing back there at night.
“Yo, Quartermaine—your friend don’t look too good.”
The midget then but his chin on his little hands and frowned back up to his side at the now frozen giant, scary, white man—who was not so-called white, but the real ghost deal, “Woe is he, too much rum. I shall fix him, for I am no his friend, but he doctor. He carry me by pay, legs so weak have me, lungs so rattle squeak has he.”
‘Wow, what a ride! Just in case that rich pink-haired faggot I just dropped off aspirated some drugs in here, I might as well go with it.’
“What can I do for your friend, Mister Quartermaine?”
The dark midget with the big eyes had a silvery eye glued to his forehead, which to Fez looked so Jew-like that the Black Israelite in him wanted to slap hands and the Farrakhan in him wanted to bail out before the IDF assassins fell out of the sky. But there was an easy, compassionate, childlike quality to how the midget looked up at the giant. So that Dean’s original boyhood heart of gold went out and above and beyond all of his adopted faiths and suspicions.
Quartermaine frowned, “He afflicted with Whiteman disease of extreme—must be good guy, fight bad guy, though he bad to the bitter bone shed. These wee hands can only mend so many broken bands. Me wee still can only make so much swill. You see, what keeps Cain alive is he will—He The Seeker Supreme! No captain seen so much da Maine!”
‘Chocolate Hitler in a box!’
“So, so, your friend, what’s the places he needs to go, he has three joints—but I’m only down for one. You give me the names, I’ll work it out and set you on the downhill, so you got the direct downhill path.”
“Yaaz… Good aboy, Dean ye be. Ye set me to cemetery near to Captain Cain’s hero pier, so I seek me friend’s o’ past year—then we are un-offended and we Fez fences all mended!”
The Midget then pulled the ruck sack shut overhead and, like that, the big, scary-ass, knob-shouldered whiteman, who seemed all but a corpse, the silvery backs of those eyes rolled in and those blue devil eyes looked through the mirror into him. The whites of the eyes now yellow and shot with red, the chin set like a castle on a mountain, the tone like as one a piano and an organ, and below a dead-pan bell of iron tolled, approximating a voice, “Agreed, Mister Quartermaine, a good man is he, our boon Coachman what took us from the wicked lee.”
‘Yep, I’m fuckin’ high as a Portland kite. Homeboy probably left enough magic mushrooms scattered in the back seat to keep these motherfuckers with me for at least a week!’ [1]
“Well rhymed, says I!” barked the giant, as if he were a forklift trying to laugh.
“I seek yon sooty jabber nabbers o’ a fair forlorn lass, to search thrive vile dens: Devil’s Point, Private Adult Entertainment—across same alley I be told—as well a libertine dungeon so known as Velvet Rope.”
“Gotchyou Old School, Foster-Powell. Thirty blocks out is Lincoln Memorial Cemetery—generally closed at dark.”
“A shadow fears not the dark as a goodwife fears not her home,” intoned the man, like a cast iron skillet that talked.
‘Allah protect me!’ prayed Dean.
“Blessed be thee Samaritan o’ Araby,” rumbled the giant devil like he were made of iron.
Remote Viewing Note
-1. Reflected observations projected into the remote viewing field by Drake or Pewter Eye naturally include the inner thoughts of the mesmerized human lens.
Concerning the Chapter Title
A hack is an unlicensed cab or sedan driver as known Back East, by Dean’s cousin, Jewels, who related that such sovereign drivers were once also named “gypsy cab drivers,” from Atlanta to New York.
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posted: June 4, 2023   reads: 356   © 2022 James LaFond
Shadow Wall
Cain 4-A
Banjo, Camp Captain, Sovereign Auto Co-Op, Thursday before Halloween
“Oh how unlike the place from whence they fell.”
-John Milton, 1668, Book 1, Paradise Lost
Tray and Alvin just got in from the trash run. Miranda was tending to the old man’s nose, whose objections that he had his own doctor did not fly with her. The fellow was tall and over-lean, oddly wide-shouldered in the extreme. Banjo had taken his ruck off, the old fellow being stiff as a board and seeming to suffer numerous and constant pains. The ruck sack must have weighed a hundred pounds, of oiled gray canvas, with nickle buckles.
As a former exercise physiology major and an occupational therapist, turned to Chinese Medicine when the Big Pharma scam became a total killer sham, Banjo could not factor the build and proportions of this character. He must have been suffering from some kind of rare and expansive auto immune malformation. The man’s pain tolerance must be off the charts based on the malformation of shoulders and knees detectable under the drape of canvas. Audible, slipping joints, vitamin-d deficiency, a knocked off nose that barely bled?
The man was seated on the couch/bed center, his ruck to his left, his striking dragon-headed cane propped in the hoist strap, Miranda to his left, cleaning his nose with her honey and coconut oil ointment. His Love was oh so cute in her yoga pants and poncho and hippie hair braid, her uncut bangs of black pulled back behind her head to confine the rest of her shiny hair. It was amazing how well she kept the camper, considering all he did was work and drink. Tray’s camper was nearly gutted, a mechanic’s shed. Bruce, Good God, the thing ran, but there was only room for the driver and if two were on the clothes-heaped bed, they’d have to stack up.
Banjo waited for his guest to be seated, before extending his hand again, “Name’s Banjo. I’m Camp Captain, security, location, government interface.”
The man rumbled, like an iron lung, in an odd old English accent, “Cain, Captain Cain, late of His Majesty’s Service.”
‘His,’ service? Holy shit, this dude hasn’t served under Charles, must be a hundred!’
The man seemed to recoil, as if demeaned by being the object of some crass curiosity, and nodded apologetically, “Humble to be asked aboard, Captain Banjo.”
Banjo then corrected his rudeness, feeling as he did that he had given offense, “Our blond grease monkey here is Tray, lead mechanic. The tall mop-headed trash man is Bruce, he deals with our suppliers and clients.”
The men both nodded as Miranda dabbed and asked, “Cain, could we take off your hat, please, I’d love to see that whole head of silver hair. You are such a striking man!”
“No injury received, Captain,” said Cain as he tipped his hat back to reveal an over pale scalp without a hair on it above the olive wreathe of final stage male pattern baldness and seemed to be attempting humor awkwardly, “All the hair there cushions the hat rim and keeps it from to slide. My lee mates, may Time be kinder to ye pates.”
Miranda kissed him on the cheek and the man’s pale face flushed to an almost living pallor as his deep black pupils, so feline and like those on the dragon-headed cane, winked to life in those steely blue eyes afloat in pearly yet blood shot whites of eye.
Cain repeated with a smile that caused his upper lip to split, split right down the middle and reveal a purple rather than bloody wound, “No injury received! Fairest lass on this lee shore ta be sure.”
Miranda, who was now trying to hug all the way across to the second broad shoulder, which she rubbed over the coat close enough to show an unnatural round outline, kissed the now flushed cheek and assured him, “I saw, saw it all on the camera. That Tacoma Crew are snatching girls off the street. If I didn’t have Banjo, I might be in that pickle Little Oakland A is in.”
The man seemed confused, so Banjo pointed to the security display on the counter in front of the sleeping alcove where the TV would be, showing six frames in high resolution.
The man nodded, understanding, and patted Miranda on her knee, lightly, like she was made of glass.
Tray was cracking a beer and handing them around, “No rum, Captain. Vodka is gone and all we have is PBR.”
The big left hand went up, opened like a stop signal, unbuckled the top of the ruck, reached in, and came out holding a quart-sized brass flask with a wine cork stopper and declared, “Overproofed, t’ ease thy ills, by me personal physician, best Hispaniola swill distilled—pass ‘er ‘roun’ men!” clearly ordered the odd, eccentric giant.
Banjo took a swig and his eyes and nose burned before he even swallowed, “Fuck!”
The giant boomed with some savage mirth, “Ye sons o’ gray gods, pluck a Frenchman w’ ye cloth yard shaft!”
Bruce took a hit and gasped, passing the bottle to Tray who took a double, held it in his mouth, swished it around and swallowed it with a lusty gush, “Yeeeyah!”
Miranda took a tiny nip and sneezed, causing her nose to wrinkle, “Oh my.”
“Glass,” asked Cain.
Bruce extended one of this morning’s coffee cups and Cain, extending an arm long enough to do a standing dunk on the basketball court, and filled it.
“The crew’s good portion!” declared Cain, before putting the flask to his lips, tilting it, and draining perhaps half of what was left, enough to knock Banjo out.
“Men, lee mates o’ mine, I must recover yon nabbed lass, where, pray tell dwell yon yammer pack o’ black dogs o’ Hell?”
The man made to stand but realized that his head would hit the bulkhead and sat back down with the worst popping of knee Banjo had heard—and once upon a time he was an occupational therapist before he refused the vaxx.
Rather than words slur, as the man sat back down and the couch that could slide out into a bed bent, his diction became better. The right hand of the rum drinker who continued to swig with his left, narrated with a play of talking fingers in mime, a voice that rang clear and sank into their hearts as the four of them began to hold the anachronism among them as both true and dear.
Miranda was curled on her knees, fairly hypnotized by the play of mighty hand, a hand that could have palmed a basket ball, its forefinger stained black.
Questions he asked about who bought girls, who sold them, where they were rented, where displayed, were couched in such rhythmic metaphor and old time euphemism that the rum circle become a circle of truth and trust, a place where bad actors remolded themselves into allies against the world’s deep malefactors.
Fluent rhymes were asked.
Bluntly considered, the rhymes were searchingly answered.
The cup was passed before the tilted flask.
In time, where he had sat and they stood, he now keenly towered while they languidly reclined, the deeply split lip now healed.
“It is time,” he hummed, like steel, his nose somehow returned to his face, now as sharp as a hawk’s beak, the ruck somehow returned to his back.
“Yaaz Master,” Banjo heard a West Indian voice chant, “My Mighty Master!”
Bruce was drooling, “Bad-ass…”
Tray was mumbling, “Drunk on my ass—you got no shadow Captain,” pointed their mechanic, to the inside of the white door, where a shadow of a shoulder should have been cast in the ceiling light.
“Thy shadow be stowed,” answered Cain, “below decks in ye craw hollows of a harried soul, strapped upon back, down yon troubled hallows blow.”
“Fuck, yeah, Daddy, go raise some goddamned cane!” slurred Miranda, making a little fist of power.
Out the door the man went, with a tip of his hat and the duck of his head. Banjo had, by duty, to escort him out. So up he rose and slurred, “Seein’ ya out, Cap’n Cain—”
“Wow, that would ‘ave hurt sober!” Banjo mumbled as he was lifted off the ground by one iron-like hand and tilted onto his feet. Looking up into the moon white face of that hawk-nosed man, his eye whites totally shot with blood, his iris a cobalt blue, his pupils winks of catlike onyx, Banjo felt blessed, just felt it, beyond thought as he was, living in the drunken realm of keen though fleeting human observation.
“Captain, thank you.”
Cain nodded and smiled thinly, then frowned grimly, “It be Captain Banjo en crew ‘as blessed ye old screw,” said Cain as he gently pressed a flattened right thumb between his ally’s eyes, in a tender, grandfatherly way.
The man then turned and marched off on unnaturally springy legs, as if he was strapped into carpenter’s stilts or perhaps the athletic prostheses used by Special Olympics amputee runners. That march became a bounding stride and saw the man clear an Audi parked in the next lot and then bounce like some flightless raptor, like a great-coated starling with a third leg in one hand and a world of hurt strapped to his back.
“Good luck, Captain Cane,” and somehow Banjo’s soul sank a little into his belly as a native sense that he wished well a man beyond the help of mere happy Chance seated its sorrow in his very marrow.
“Banjo, baby, come to bed. I need a hug,” came her lovely voice from the camper door.
They had almost gotten her once, The Tacoma Crew, and he knew she’d be the night and another day worried sick about Little Oakland A, as they called her.
Historical Note
Just as “cracker” was a term alternately used to describe the bond Gaelic soul driven to his labors by the crack of the Anglo whip, as well as he who on behalf of their mutual master cracked that whip, the term screw not only referred to the man who flattened thumbs with torture screws and likewise locked doors with screw keys, but as well to he who had his thumb so flattened once upon a hard-deserved and cruel-served time.
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posted: June 3, 2023   reads: 415   © 2022 James LaFond
Pain Tolerance
Lynn Lockhart Cues the Crackpot on Pain and Fighting: 1/5/2023
“Catching up on Man Weekend posts. Pain tolerance: do fighters see their pain tolerance increase? Or decrease? Do you think it is psychological/physiological/both? And is clinical pain due to illness, can this be comparable, or no?”
-Lynn, Lockhart via text, 1/5/2023
Dear, Lady,
Both, for certain.
In 2006, after a four hour meet in which we both got stopped by the two baddest stick-fighters on the East Coast, Charles and I, regular sparring partners, took off a month. A month later we got together and started whacking each other at a level that had permitted both of us to remain a threat to bigger, better men, so much so that they chose to KO us rather than risk a point win. We got the toughness award for taking the most and continuing, fighting in four times as many bouts as the men who beat us, who stayed in their comfort zone.
As we started ripping into each other we both winced and backed up and Charles said, “How did we ever think this was fun!”
Now, I had helped Charles go from having a low pain tolerance to the best, over 4 years. Then, over 4 weeks we lost it all, my having 8 years in. He had done it largely with focus, me with raw toughening, just killing nerves.
There are two types of combat pain:
-passive [getting hit]
-use [tearing soft active tissue while exerting yourself]
The passive pain deadens over time due to hardening of impacted bone and the deadening of nerves.
Use injuries are tougher to get over as the nerves commanding the forever damaged part give signals to the brain “this part my fail!”
I have noted that decades old use injuries nag me sometimes even when thinking of making the motion in meditation and when initiating that motion and when over working it. But places where I got hit and even had bones broken, there is no residual pain trace over the decades, but a permanent resistance to the pain level originally experienced on impact. The exception to this is when connective tissues like ligaments, tendons and cartlige are impacted and heal incompletely and then have a chronic pain trace and a residual use pain signature when in use and impacted. This is why impact injuries to the rib cage are the longest nagging thing suffered by fighters. That cage expands every time you breathe.
One effective way to submerge both kinds of pain is in meditative, focused training and competition, getting in the zone. This has to due with psychological embracing and controlling of use pain and endorphins released during exertion.
The worst kind of pain is use pain that flares when immobile. If I want to be crippled by pain I need only lay in bed enough days, being 3, for my various use injuries to adhere.
Overriding pain with effort, like training your self to go on the attack every time you experience pain or disorientation, is helpful.
I have personally found that the worst pain I have experienced was eye pain, which seems to be residual use pain and nerve pain resulting from long ago sustained head trauma and severe sleep deprivation. The only times I have had pain go beyond ten, was the eye pain, and was the dozen or so occasions when the pain was so bad that it made me pass out, which is an 11, and the half dozen occasions where it got even worse after I passed out and woke me up, which is a 12 in my broken book.
Psychologically, the inner determination that pain is something to be embraced and overcome, is the key element of developing pain tolerance. The modern ideal that pain is a disease and must be cured by drugs or reduced activity does not permit people to develop pain tolerance. People who have not suffered athletically and pushed through the curtain of pain, will have a low mental pain threshold. One aspect here is body building and running pain, slowly developing the ability to work through the pain of fatigue and the burn of exertion. This develops an expanded capacity for pushing through more severe pain, as this is aggressive, the pain caused by you and begging to cease, the pain only driven by your will to continue. Most people do not have this and quit fighting as soon as they get tired.
I often have people ask me about pains they have and discover that they are suffering extreme distress from what I understand as pre-pain, mere discomfort. I was never tough of my own nature and only gained the ability to deal with pain without drug use through training, fighting and recovering. My lowest pain tolerance was in my late 20s when I should have been toughest, but was mentally the weakest due to my comprehensive lack of hope. I regained my youthful pain tolerance in my 30s through adopting a suicidal world view and embracing pain as an escape from work and wife.
So I find in old age that the lack of painful pursuits have doomed many of my fellows to misery and I am now relatively pain free.
Physically, the act of working through pain, of pumping blood through stiff areas, of doping the nerves with inner opiates kicked out by the active body, and of honing one’s focus while in a state of pain, develops coping mechanisms that are generally unavailable to the person who has not trained, worked or competed while in pain. Though my back might be wrecked compared to most people, I can function at back pain levels that would keep others in bed or on pain medications.
In large measure I credit my lack of drug use for this. I took zero pain meds or alcohol while a child or teen. I never used drugs recreationaly like perks, ludes, valium, vikadin or oxys that most people my age used for fun. Also, when injured during my low pain tolerance 20s, I was obsessed with regaining function and knew that pain masking drugs would set me up for accidental re-injury and avoided them.
When I did get pain meds for the hip rotator tear, I used them like so. I never took a whole hydrocodon to work, just a half. Every 20 minutes my back would lock up so bad that I had to walk to the dairy walk-in cooler and squat against the warm heated door while the adhesions loosened in my hips and sacrum. If I began to pass out from the pain, which could make me unemployed and homeless in short order, I would pop the half pill.
Once, while squatting with my back to the door and eyes closed, I looked up and pretty Cheri, the cake decorator was standing over me. She told me that she had been watching me in extreme pain for six months and had seen me back there a few times and that my example was helping her get through cancer treatment.
I spent those six months at a 9 and 10 pain level and it perminantly increased my tolerance. I recall Charles having to hep me in and out of the car to get to sparring and then me being able to move around sparring okay. There was something about the fight zone that cured the pain. As soon as sparring was over I’d be back to a crippled state. This was at the time that Sean was afraid I was done and wanted to get training videos on tape. These Lancaster Agonistics videos where I show basic stick and fist work were done when I could not stand for 20 minutes, or sit, or walk for as long without extreme suffering. We filmed them after I worked a shift as described above. On the way there I washed down a muscle relaxer, and a hydrocodon with a half pint of vodka. Avoiding using pain meds made them more effective in a crisis of function.
One thing I have found is that pain is increased physically and mentally when the sufferer is not physically active. For this reason, lack of activity as we age, for various reasons, I think that pain returns with a vengeance in infirmity.
I hope this was some kind of decent answer. I feel, here, that I have failed to touch all aspects and am somewhat addled by my own pain experience, for better and for worse.
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posted: June 2, 2023   reads: 855   © 2023 James LaFond
‘Out of the Cookie’
Outtakes from a Conversation on Knives and Grappling: 11/13/2022
An abridged recollection of a morning conversation. Redacted some 45 minutes on knife use, legalities and carry options.
The Operator: “Mister James, sir, thank you so much for setting me up with that instruction. These guys definitely know their stuff, techniques, drills. But, I got this sense that, well, outside of the drill format I was already on their level—that they weren’t you. I mean, they know their stuff but they don’t spar, we don’t bring it, it’s all course work without a test at the end, if you know what I mean.”
The Crackpot: [I explained the history of FMA training being integrated in Korean and Japanese American schools where non-contact stop action training is the rule and how the FMA people had to choose between flow drills or stop action contact in order to purvey their art in America.]
“So, combat training in America, being pay to play retention oriented enrollment schemes, naturally gravitates into a hypnotic and sympathetic pattern. If you ever get to go knife to knife with a guy trained in FMA, that is not one of our guys, then you threaten the hand to lock him into his training focus, then do a pass lunge and cut his throat off of that feint to his hand. His focus, checking the enemy blade hand with the empty hand, for you, that is what you do after you kill him so he can’t take you with him.”
The Operator: “Okay, so you just halfway answered my next question, in that although these were great guys and I’m going to do some work with them in the future, they seemed to be put off by me. I thought it was my association with you, but they speak very highly of you.”
The Crackpot: “You’re an animal. The sheep don’t know if you’re a dog or a wolf—all the same to a sheep who is meat for either breed. But where you are into combat because you like it, they are in the business of studying it, isolating it, sanitizing it and controlling it. You, showing up at the dojo with a directly stated purpose of tooling up for trouble, that kind of pierces the vacuum that is the dojo.”
The Operator: “Okay, so should I just keep with the Kenpo drills and the bag and footwork drills and wait for you to get back, or should I call Erique.”
The Crackpot: “My recommendation is to train with Erique once a month. He will spar with you, and when he does something that you don’t deal with well, you say, ‘Hey, could you break out the portion of a drill that comes from, then you’ll drill briefly and go back to sparring. He’s a good coach, he’s got gear for you, and he fights. Now, Brett he’ll show up with his gear—you bring your own, then he’ll politely tool you up, pick you off the floor, dust you off, ask if you’re okay, and then take you a part again. He’s a stud. He won’t hurt anything but your ego, and since he learned as a kid, he knows the little guy angle you need, even though he’s now a specimen.”
The Operator: “So what about the grappling. I work, I’m a thin older guy with back injuries, and I still wanna be there for the young girls, if you catch my drift. I don’t want to be rolling a ound on the mat getting hurt...”
The Crackpot: “You remember the stocky neck tattooed guy?”
The Operator: “The Bronx guy, a good guy.”
The Crackpot: “Well he wrestled for a decade and did BJJ at Mat Serra’s club. He does not see himself as a coach, but he can break down and explain grappling well. Plus, he’s been doing knife for 20 years. I can’t get a clean cut on him any more. He can go over the grappling tells with you and he knows that grappling is a waist of time for a skinny guy your age, that once you’re on the floor you’re done, unless you stab him or shoot him from your back.”
The Operator: “I like it, good guy...I remember him, Set it up, can he get down here to Baltimore?”
The Crackpot: “Look, I thought of him before, but sent you to the other guys because its an hour drive for him to get to you and, well, he hates cops, and you were a cop.”
The Operator: “Oh, shit, so he’s got a history. I mean if he’s done time I understand, wouldn’t hold it against the guy. You know what, really, the only reason I became a cop, being an Irish guy from Boston, was because I had family members, you know, uncles, that were in there. I had done some bull shit jobs and I wanted some action. I was either going in the military, or police, or on the other side of things. It might sound funny coming from me, since I made captain. But, I wanted to do something that had some kick to it. If I hadn’t become a cop, I’d a probably gone the other way.”
The Crackpot: “Believe me, he understands that! I’ll talk to him. If its okay with him and I give you his number, do me a favor and break the ice like so, ‘Hey Chief! You don’t live around here, do you Chief? Your Grandma live around here, Chief? Don’t you belong over in Sheepshead Bay, Chief?,’ and then say, ‘On behalf of the NYPD, Chief, I’d like to apologize for those bigger micks givin’ you a hard way to go.’”
The Operator: “I gotcha, I know, you know, that when the cops get their hands dirty, its rougher on the tough guys and having punched my ticket over in Essex, I know the guy that’s gonna kick your ass is the one whose dad works down at the point, not some skinny black guy gonna be calling for rights and mamma and Jesus to get us off of him. So, I know, I can see why him—and you, I appreciate you working with me after the shit you’ve been through—Okay I’ll apologize for the other cops!”
The Crackpot: “Okay, I will be back in May. But I have to work with a boxer in Missouri on the way back, so let’s call it May 10. then I’m in Tennessee getting knockout for the last time on May 20, then back in Maryland, PA and Jersey for the summer. When we train, there are some other local guys I’ll bring in so that you have regular sparring partners. Look, you are going to get better sparring with one other dude that is enthusiastic than training under some guy that knows everything. Next time I leave town I’ll make sure you have a training network. If Chief isn’t in to working with you, I have a Jamaican, and if there is money on the line, he will be there.”
The Operator: “Great, great. Look, I’ve burned up half your Sunday already and I’m really sorry. But I needed to get this straight in my head. When we had lunch, I recalled our training a few years earlier actually, and it clicked in my head—‘this is the guy. Mister James is the real deal and he understands me, maybe because he’s a little like me, or maybe just because we’ve both danced with the same devils.’
So, brother, when you get in town, we’re kicking it. I like it! You know, the other knife people, they know their stuff, but, but...”
The Crackpot: “But they do not share your predatory sense of the blade.”
The Operator: “Yes, yes, absolutely, thanks for saying it. No wonder you write books. You know, people talk about nature and nurture. But when I was a little kid I collected knives. Now, as an old dude, who packs heat, whose got something for your ass, I still collect knives. I love knives. There is something about the knife that connects with my soul—that connects us! I’m really of the opinion, that as much a case as can be made for nurture over nature and all of this social conditioning, which I used to buy into, which every body whines about, that how you jump out of the cookie, whatever you are when you jump out of the cookie and hit the ground running, that that’s pretty much what you are. My friend, it has been a pleasure and I am sorry for eating into your day.”
The Crackpot: “No problem, Captain. And thank you for your generosity. Because of you I was able to buy some groceries for my friend’s boys.”
The Operator: “Mister LaFond, get back here in one piece. You have people to train. Take care brother.”
06.01.23   Ruben — I just got my copy of Cracker-Boy. I've been wanting to get it for years and it's everything and more than what I was hoping for. It's huge. Gigantic. Well thought out and incredibly researched. This is bomb. Wow.

Now I have the handbook to say what I want to say. Just the back cover talking about Asians in Maryland in the 1700s is an eye opener. Reparations indeed! We ALL deserve them. Keep on keepin' on, James and Lynn. What a public service you provide that will sadly be more appreciated under the lenses of history than the cucks and snowflakes riding the horses of the Apocolisp will ever make of it.

It was here all along. Future historians making acorn soup in a land with no electricity will marvel that this was swept under the carpet while they deplatformed anyone save the Ukie lovers, antifa, and BLM and swept us into poverty in the charnel house of history.
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posted: June 1, 2023   reads: 917   © 2023 Ruben
‘Functional Self-Protection’
Dragan Would Like the Crackpot Opinion on the Optimal Combat Skill Progression: 1/7/2022
Thank you sir!
If you don't mind, I have question...which may have been already addressed somewhere on your website, but I haven't stumbled upon it yet.
Namely, would you have a preferred approach for the order/progression of learning and developing functional self-protection skill set, for a person whose aim is to survive (maybe even thrive?) in a modern deteriorating urban living environment?
Also, if we took the legal/social/political aspect out of the equation, what would be the optimal progression of developing a well rounded and comprehensive fighting skill (empty handed, blunt, and bladed, maybe even the mixed format included)?
Sincere gratitude and best wishes!
Dragan, for urban training I recommend the following:
-1. Walk your living area for 3 blocks in each direction each day, paying attention to sign, like needles, shell casings, hair extensions, trash, to determine who goes there in the dark.
-2. Now walk it at night: dusk, midnight and predawn.
-3. Walk egress and access routes to the nearest evacuation point by day, dawn, noon, late afternoon.
-4. Walk your work area the same way, during the day.
-5. Walk to and from work and home at least once in each direction.
You are now forming a mental map that only you have of your area of operations.
-6. Only shop local, in part, because these shops will give you actionable intelligence. Do not drive to the best deal, but buy in your work and living zones and get to know the business owners, shift managers, etc.
-7. Scout the nearest crime locations: schools, courthouses, police stations, malls, major transit hubs and other places where violent actors strike out from.
-7. Do not clean up trash and especially not hardware. If you see a brick somewhere, leave it there and map it. This is your improvised weapon locker.
-8. When not out and about, run meditation scenarios in these locations from optimal to disastrous.
-9. Now drive these same routes and note what you saw on foot but missed in the car. When you drive new areas, this will help you map the gaps in your motorist perception. Drive slowly.
-10. Never sit in a vehicle that is not running with your hands on the controls. If you must wait, stand by your vehicle. This is not just for defense, but to increase your observations.
-12. Take mass transit, using your pedestrian view of things and the gap awareness from your motor scouting and assess the various routes and hubs, especially the characters at the stops.
-13. Never stop building the map of the war zone. As hunters update their knowledge of the habitat they hunt, you must update yours.
-14. Think like a criminal and plan gun, knife, club and empty hand crimes to serve as the basis for later scenario work.
Now, for fighting progression, I am assuming a youth or adult, not a child, a person physically a man if not yet fully developed.
The reference point should be grappling, that is, just as Hell and The Pit are the reference point for the Christian wishing to go to Heaven, something to be aware of, avoided and escaped. Cops, gangs, mobs, bigger men, knifers, they all want to grab you. So, when training your progression, work out of and into the clinch and make clinching and counter clinching part of every aspect. For instance, part of every boxing session should be devoted to one boxer trying to clinch and the other trying to avoid it.
#1 is stick work. Learning the stick will help develop blade skills and the relaxation necessary for effective boxing. It also takes from 3 months to a year to develop the forearms for power work. Blade first does not develop the appreciation for power necessary for blunt extension weapons. Stick has the greatest range variation of the skill sets.
#2 is blade work, especially if legalities are not an issue.
#3 is grappling, which must be learned to avoid being grapples just as the above arts develop the ability to counter the crude use of those same weapons when you are unarmed.
#4 is boxing. By placing boxing last, you will not become the best boxer you could be. But boxing leverage requirements can get you killed in knife work and clinched and taken down by a grappler.
We have recently, in Portland, developed a sparring flow that goes like this:
We have variations in each set, various lengths of stick, goals such as to clinch, asymmetrical boxing against grappling, stick against grapple, knife versus empty hand, etc. With boxing, start at clinch range and box out, then box in, before doing freestyle boxing.
With all arts set sparring goals, such as this stick round is not over until someone clinches, until someone scores, checks and scores in sequence, etc. In boxing, the man who scores a combo and is not countered and achieves angle and range, causes a restart, with the partner now set to this goal.
Grappling needs to be worked on on surfaces that I generally do not have access to. In a dojo, I would take the sequence above and place grappling first and last, bracketing the boxing.
I have no real knowledge of firearms or where they should fit into such a scheme.
Good Luck, Sir.
06.02.23   Email Lienko — This is pretty big if people would get over themselves and do it.
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posted: May 31, 2023   reads: 995   © 2023 Email Lienko
‘What is Your Advice for A New Writer?’
Portland Joe Asks the Crackpot after Beating Him Up: 12/26/2022
Driving back to Portland in the sodden rain from sparring with British National, Joe asked:
“James, a friend of mine is a writer and I referred him to your site. What is your advice for a new writer, if you can encapsulate it. Also, should he use a pen name. I realize you boldly write under your own name. But would you recommend that for a young writer in this current climate?”
This is easy, and I would suggest to Joe’s friend to approach writing like Joe has approached fighting, through self-discipline and daily training.
-1. Write every day, especially when you are sick or don’t feel well. Currently, to rest my bad eye and to travel, I am only writing 25 to 27 days a month. I’m on the downside of the process. Climbing into the writing saddle you need practice.
-2. For fiction use your own name. For political and social commentary use a pen name.
-3. Publish every week, which means setting up an electronic platform, a site. This will build readership and give you feedback. If you publish less then once a week you will lose readers. Ideally, publish every day. That is how I got half of my readers and how the Zman, a very successful writer, built his readership.
-4. You want writers as readers, this is a measure of your standing among your peers. Also, thinking of your readers as a readership and as writers, will encourage you to respect them more and make positive self censorship calls. I do self censor. When we are our own publisher we need to censor our self to avoid the iron heel as well as the mob’s squeal.
-5. Serialize a portion of your work in front of a pay wall and put conclusions behind the pay wall. This gets you out there and builds printable content.
-6. If I was starting fiction writing now, I would just do 44 to 72 page quarterly print releases, then annually do a full size omnibus.
-7. Do not seek a publishing house. In order to be accepted you will have to compromise your vision, and, most importantly, you will have to write books worth of promotional material about your work, which is degrading to the creative process.
-8. For nonfiction, write dissenting opinions of your own majority opinions. In fiction, do the same by writing the bad guys with empathy and even sympathy. This will help you very much.
-9. Find a completion ritual. For me, after I finish a book I get drunk and then the next day don’t drink at all and start a fresh work. Maybe fasting on the last day of your work, and then feasting on the day of rest after, might work for you.
-10. Try writing as soon as you wake up. If you get stale, either exercise or nap to recharge. With fiction I prefer to write a chapter in the morning, then exercise, then proof the chapter. If I doze during this I nap and then write the second chapter when I wake. If I do not doze, if I am charged up, I go right into the next chapter. I am a believer that before writing chapter 2, proofing and amplifying chapter 1 helps.
-11. Do not do rewrites. That is advice given by established writers to keep aspiring writers from competing with them. Write.
-12. Don’t obsess on the perfect scene or over work it. Write the scene, and if you think it could have been done better, and it can not be easily juiced up with an amplification, then write the next scene and make it better. Any doubt you have that chapter 2 could have been better, should be used to make chapter 3 better than its predecessor.
I have read dozens of books on how to write, mostly in my 20s. I have tossed most of the advice and do the opposite. I’m surely not the best writer out here. But I have written more books then the top ten current best writers in the same time frame. Writing more will make you write better. Also, in the current market, you will not get big sales without a publishing house, but you can publish a book every season instead of every other year and get more readers that way.
Good Luck—the Greeks and Latins both named that god a woman. Forget that at your peril.
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posted: May 30, 2023   reads: 975   © 2023 James LaFond
Jimmy In Print
A Memoir of Childhood by a Failed Adult
Perhaps this will be of interest to someone.
Thank you, Lynn for putting it together.
05.30.23   Ruben — In life, in literature, it rarely gets better than this. I'm urging everyone to buy your books, while there's still an internet. I have a good situation that might looked fucked up to some. Hope to see you this summer. You know you're always welcome at our table.
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posted: May 29, 2023   reads: 1074   © 2023 Ruben
Letters from the Inner Reaches
Final Dialogues with Readers: November & December 2022
A Crackpot Book
Copyright 2022 James LaFond
Lynn Lockhart Publisher
On Monday, November 7, 2022, the most prolific living writer, a homeless vagrant, went to a dive bar in Portland, Oregon to use the wifi to check his emails for the first time since August 4. Having experienced 10 weeks of excellent eye health, and completing writing 19 books in 10 months and editing 9 in two weeks, the unique structure of email and website text, which he had not been exposed to for months, exploded his vision.
The following dialogues will mark the final engagement of James LaFond with the tiny and brilliant readership responsible for sparking many of his inquires. The first four dialogues are written from memory and three word prompts scrawled on the back of a bar receipt. The remainder of the dialogues will be written from prompts forwarded to Lynn Lockhart, who has been kind enough to reproduce them in a font readable for LaFond.
To the Reader
It has been an honor to be engaged through my email box by readers these past 11 years. I did not realize until today, that the oddly good eye health I enjoyed in Utah, over 10 weeks, which permitted me to write 7 books and edit 9, was in large part due to not having to struggle with the type style, font size, spacing, coloring and background of email and of website texts.
If I cannot read it in a 16 point sans font, I will look away to save my eyes for work. Yes, I am a boomer tech tard. Using the magnifying glass thing and scrolling strains my bad eye, which is ironically my good eye. This seems to have been a fortuitous test of will, this office space disaster. For, before leaving for the bar to use the wifi, I shared two cups of coffee with my host, who actually tried to convince me that I should give up writing in favor of a return to living to eat as a retail food clerk or janitorial functionary. I had reiterated to him what I had told my brother in late July, that the only reason I have consented to remaining among the brainwashed damned, is on the condition that I may write. Writing is my parting negotiation with the world that I hate, the world that ate me.
I have read my last email. They will be forwarded to Lynn henceforth, to be returned, upon her discretion, as text attachments. I apologize for this rudeness. It is quite bad enough that I have declined to read comments on the site that bears my name for some two years now. I do not even read those that the webmaster sends texts of to me. I regard the comment function on the site to have nothing to do with me or my writing, but a courtesy for readers to be able to communicate with each other concerning my literary misbehavior.
Additionally, although I no longer view videos or read site links, I have been in the habit of posting such links sent by readers. Again, my attempt at this courtesy is now at an end due to the eye problems. I tried copying and pasting some emailed links and it was too much.
So goes the end of the Crackpot Mailbox experiment. My final dialogues will post in May and June. As of December 26 I will limit my use of emails to thanking readers for purchases and donations and deleting solicitations by publishing agents, hookers and other scam artists. Emails from readers, writers, fighters and others will simply remain there unopened. The only emails I will read will be those sent by the webmaster and editor.
The final phase of this writing experiment by a special ed student who failed 9th grade three times will consist of writing only:
I realize that I have developed a great deal of information pertinent to combat training. I apologize for abandoning this subject and of self-help books and articles in general. Hopefully something on this website or in the books already written will answer your inquiry. I have not increased my knowledge of these matters since 2020 and continuing to write upon them would be a redundancy.
As for the four failed emails from today:
Sorry to hear your buddy lost his eye. I get my eye patches at drug stores for about $10. they are so tight they hurt, so the elastic will needs be broken in. Mary Biscotti did send me a leather eye patch she picked up at a renaissance festival which is more comfortable but less practical while active. The soft eye patches I have worn sometimes were designed by a former girlfriend who I have no contact with.
John North
Your website looks so cool. I wish I could have read it. I can read something and review it if you send it to me in 16 point lucida sans. The eye strain for me to convert a document to a readable text is as bad as trying to read the original. If we meet I will be glad to train stick with you.
Smart Ron the Science Guy
I have not lived in Baltimore since June 2018. I am homeless. I have generally been in the East from May thru July. At such times I spend about 10 days a month in Baltimore. My entire family has been driven from our ancestral city, I being the last in 2018. I am honored that you wanted to treat me to dinner and a beer at the Inner Harbor. From either of the two locations in Baltimore where I am still welcome, it is an easy bus ride for me to get to the Inner Harbor, about 45 minutes one way.
Your inquiry about throwing spears is fascinating and I will answer this in a full length article to be posted in history in May. This will be part of the book Shrouds of Aryas. Do note, that I devoted 7 chapters to this question in the book Songs of Aryas, to go up for sale as a site e-store exclusive, this coming January. The free postings of this series of articles subtitled Cover, are scheduled to post in February.
Thank you all.
James, Portland, Oregon, Monday November 7 2022
05.29.23   NC — Goodbye Mr Bond, James La Bond. RIP
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posted: May 29, 2023   reads: 1068   © 2023 NC
Mirror Slack
Cain 3-B
“Messiah crowned,
God’s reconciled decree,
rebelling angels,
the forbidden tree...”
-Andrew Marvel, 1668, on John Milton’s Paradise Lost
At Mort Induction
It is surmised by the Considered Majority of the Remote Viewing Fraternity, that the death of an obstructive body, and the departure of that body’s animating soul via consumptive means, or Terra Sanguination, in the presence of either the Drake Eye or Pewter Eye, generates an impressionistic wake receivable by remote view.
It is surmised by the Speculate Minority that the slaying of a willfully malevolent soul occurs when the body has been entirely devoted to the animating evil, and that rather than being ejected from the slain body and sent to its master or ken, or offered a reincarnation of recompense, that said soul is extinguished. In so doing this extinguished evil projects a final imagery into the viewing field. This projection is more receptive to Passive rather than Active Viewers.
It is cautioned by the Select Theoros of the Speculate Minority, that remote viewing of such a terminal impression by a female viewer who is with child, might effect a demonic possession of the unborn and require prenatal exorcism. If the Select Theoros opinion is correct, then the At Mort Induction provided by the slaying of the apparently random criminal Limber Shoop by Seeker Cain, may have been a planned or impulsive act of demonic propagation.
The view is that vantage of the fled soul lingering in morbid guardianship over its body, a circuitous, floatish and ultimately myopic view.
-Signator Minor, Sloan Vatesh
The tall man, blood running from a nose once long and now shorter by a full inch, the white of the nose bones showing as the fleshy sprit of the nasal bow had been knocked away, peered down over that ruined nose in what appeared to be sorrow.
Towering taller over his foe then before, he spoke at once like the low keys of a piano, sinking to the sadder amplitude of organ-kind, “To have once reveled in such, just doth Heaven turn away in disgust.”
Three men gathered around the body, one bald and bearded, one tall and pointy-chinned with a mop of curly hair, the third, short and stout, thick of blond hair now running to brown with the grime of his homeless conviction and as well his mechanical occupation.
The view now rises above their heads and the three wise men of the lot engage the Victor in turn…
Voice 1: “You okay, Sir. Thought for sure he hit ya.”
Victor: “Cropped snout en broke rib o’ blows do pain. O’ his haste ‘o lead I did no’ taste.”
Voice 2: “Would a been a shame if he clipped you with that ghetto windage. You hit him but one, and that after he came for you. If the cops ever get here, I’ll vouch.”
Voice 3: “Good on you, Sir. Hope when I’m up in years I can crack like that.”
Voice 1: “Shit, Tray, if the cops come for this saint, we loose everything. I say we clean up—my camper can’t even move.”
Voice 2: “Bro, there is a recycle bin right there.”
Voice 1: “On it, Bro. Right back.”
Voice 3: “Would you like his gun, Sir.”
Victor: “Not I, ye deck, ye booty fall.”
Voice 2: “The call won’t bring cops for an hour or two. You have time, if you have a need to rest with us. We might be able to patch that nose—looks painful. Got a girl inside patch you up while these two take out the trash.”
Victor: “Did I not offer parlay—knew this man not, sought but guidance on a lass o’ concern.”
Voice 3: “Clear as day, I heard it. Shit, with you on a cane and haulin’ ruck, he could have left. Seemed he was here for no good purpose—look at this dumb fuck, had alternating brass and stainless steel casings and hasn’t cleaned this thing for who knows how long. Good piece though—I’ll get ‘er ship shape.”
The sound of plastic wheels and the vibration of a bin was heard, lending a rising cadence of dread to the voices that wafted up as if from the tops of those four heads.
Victor: “I could do with a bit of rum. My own physician shall attend the worry of nose.”
A blue bin was wheeled into place. It was opened by the bald man and the other two bent and hoisted the dead man and deposited it within, all three closing the lid and clasping hands over it like pirates at conclave.
As the men stepped away from the bin, standing about it in a circle without apparent concern, the vantage of view descended to the lid of the can, and remained there, as if the parting eye and ear of the just departed perched there as a ghostly gargoyle about a church eve or more like a crow above a laden gallows, but facing the stark visage of he who had separated body from soul.
A white Toyota CRV pulled up behind the victor, whose nose had already ceased to bleed. It stopped abruptly as the man turned and regarded the occupants: a dark, bald man in ski cap and blue coat, and a pale woman, nodding out in the front seat, her head lolling under a green baseball cap nearly fallen from her head.
“Spawn of Hell!” thundered the strident voice of the old tower of a man as he began to hobble towards the CRV. The driver seemed to consider a bold action, then three guns appeared in the hands of the three tweaker mechanics and the driver set his CRV in hard reverse, knocking the girl’s head into the dash board. Off flew the hat, as her pretty little head bounced back against the seat to be lost to sight as the driver did a stunt turn and his wheels shreaked away.
The tall man stopped and hung his head, then turned towards the men as Voice 2, came from the blond mechanic, “Fancy piece of driving considering what he is. Lucky for Old Time here his friend weren’t as handy with the firing iron.”
Voice 3, coming from the bald and bearded man, intoned, “Wheel that box of shit to the blind spot behind the berm.”
He then turned to the taller, much older man, “Daughter, granddaughter?”
The man’s pale face grew ashen gray and the nasal bone seemed to dull to a lesser white as those two unnatural wide shoulders rolled round and stopped down. He groaned, “Daughter of mercy stumbled upon cross ways. I know the lass not. She now be under my protection by oath, where now would such a jackal take her?”
The sound of the rolling bin intruded and then overwhelmed the conversation even as the vantage drew further away, past three campers and a make shift auto-mechanics shop, around parked cars, through a camp of blue tarp tents pitched atop wooden pallets, through a veritable swamp of plastic bottles and aluminum cans, past more wretched cardboard huts, around a miserable form shivering in a dirty blue sleeping bag, under a railroad bridge and into a deep grown grotto of blackberry brambles.
The vantage began to tilt as the voices that spoke now in the absence of rolling wheels on road, faded as if the hearer were suddenly afflicted with deafness.
The men walked away from the vantage, fuzzy and increasingly combined in outline, as the view grayed and narrowed, then darkened and closed like a shutter.
Remote Viewer Isabel Frank, Anchorage Station, fell faint and delirious and thence into coma as she transcribed the final passage above. Isabel is stable and under care. The chief concern, the close of her seventh month of pregnancy, has not resulted in pregnancy termination or fetal distress, but oddly, in an increased health and vigor of the unborn.
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posted: May 28, 2023   reads: 618   © 2022 James LaFond
Shadow Fall
Cain 3-A
Union Station, Portland, Oregon, Nightfall, last Thursday Late
“Of a new world,
and of a new kind of creature to be created,
according to an ancient prophecy or report in Heaven,
for that angels were long before this miserable creation
was the opinion of many ancient fathers.”
-John Milton, 1668, from The Argument, Paradise Lost
Limber Shoop, up from LA, by way of Tacoma to wash drugs and run bitches in Portland, normally had better things to do than wait two hours for a phat bitch that up and got fat so that he could only charge chumps half of what she used to bring. But this bitch was bringing his money on the overdue train—better be bringing his cash or there would be hell to pay. Standing out front—in case shit went sideways—Kingman Tweak at the wheel around the corner towards the bus yard and up the street, Limber was ready to leave all of that if it looked like she had messed up and got caught up with the law.
Mia had been pretty once, and was still good for blowing the whole crew on New Year’s Eve when the lines were being blown. But you never knew when that bitch would up and do something stupid. But, that was the bitch he had—and she stopped texting at 2:13 AM. It was now 5:54 PM! What was left of his LA stash had gotten on that train yesterday morning in the leopard skin carry-on of a bitch who would throw hands with a cop over the mere tone of his voice.
She had done worse than that, or maybe, better, depending on how things went down. She couldn’t help but brag herself up in her texts with ‘licky’ smiley faces, that “MeeMee still gots it!” Mia had taken it on her own initiative to seduce an Amtrak station attendant, actually having full on sex with him in the baggage claim. She had reasoned on her own initiative and went ahead with the air-brained [0] scheme when unable to contact him because of the dead zone that was Jack London Station, that the train people would just be scanning tickets on the platform, not the train. So she did the fat negro on duty and got a seat slip without a ticket. So she reasoned, that if a “cash sniffin’ dawg smelt dat monay” she would not be connected to it “by a dock-you-mint.”
Limber saw enough holes in this dumb bitch plan to drive that train through. And, she WAS found out by a conductor, proving that people who sucked dick for a living should not make crucial business decisions. But The Man smiled on her, when she convinced the conductor that caught her to take her aside, to a private area, and she blew him, not once, not twice, but three times, shoving viagra down his throat with her wicked tongue so that she could totally own the guy.
Limber was hanging out by the Amish Jews in their funny hats so that he wouldn’t stick out too much, in case Mia was getting walked off with the cops. Then it occurred to him, that Mia either got nabbed by the train cops, of that bitch might have cut out on him with the conductor when the crew changed in Sacramento!
‘I bet that bitch took my cash and already has that white man’s debit card!’
‘Damn, I shouldn’t have given her shit about getting fat and cut back on her dick-commission—bitch done got herself a sugar daddy I bet—why she was braggin’ that up.’
“Oh, I’m gonna kill dat bitch!” Limber snarled under his breath as more and more passengers started coming out: weird Amish Jews, lowdown white folk, some beaners with babies, beaners with job bags, a couple well off white folks, a negro or two, and not one big, fat, black bitch with a three foot wide ass and hoop earrings that you could put your fist through.
The train pulled off. Most of the people left, except the Amish Jews, and, and, and! ...some stupid, scared little white girl, not prime age, but still workable. The white people with money had taken all the cabs and Ubers and this bitch was biting her knuckles and bouncing her little heels...Limber’s high time preference and instinct for gauging vulnerability already had him headed over to the girl before he had made full decision.
His best Uncle Tom face painted on with a watermelon eating grin, Limber was up under the eves of that train station where the girl was shivering under some strange coat with no arms, like a Batman cape for keeping people halfway warm, holding just a pink purse—no luggage at all—beeming ‘Down on my luck and desperate for a friend!’
“Miss, miss. Look, I’m a hacker, you know, an illegal cab operator and these ubers and cabs won’t let me park up on here. I had a rider scheduled, supposed to get off this train, and she ain’t showed.”
She seemed numb, “Have you asked in the station for her, sir?”
‘Oh, this bitch is somewhat wary, been around.’
“Yes, miss, I have. And they told me that there was no such person ticketed on that train.”
The woman then looked at him with wide eyes, and her little chin dropped and she began to drift away, not even looking for cars, almost getting clipped by a black Jeep, “Miss, be careful, watch out for these Portland drivers!” he hollered after her in fake concern as she hurried off like a frightened little girl, obviously with no one who cared enough about her to pick her up in the center of this shithole city.
Out came the I-Phone to call his wheel man.
“Yeah, Limber?”
“Dat fat bitch done jumped da train. But ain’ all lost. Dare a fine lille white bitch wit green Oakland A’s hat, a lady homeless blanket ‘bout da neck, en a banged up pink purse commin’ exactly yo way, loogin’ herself fo a bus. She ain’ got nobody—grab dat bitch en we’ll train ‘er up on yo dick. Meet me behind da campers.”
“Ooof, ooof!” wolfed his wheel man, and cut the call as Limber walked briskly towards the three broken down tan and beige campers, a meet-up sight they had agreed upon two blocks to his right. The girl was off and running towards the bus yard and the homeless tents.
‘It’s better this way. I won’t be on camera at this Fedded-up joint walkin’ off with no disappeared bitch.’
When it came to bagging bitches, Limber Shoop had absolute confidence in Kingman Tweak. Tweak was not just his wheel man, but his partner, his only friend over all of his life, really. Kingman was a bad dark-skinned negro from Tacoma who came to LA ten years ago when they were still teens. Now, they had a five man crew, twice as many associates, and were running bitches and shit, guns and even weed from looted weed shops that didn’t have the sense to fortify they’re store front so that two heavy hitters could not just back a van with four greedy thieves in the back into that bitch and clean it out…
And so worked the mind of Limber Shoop, charting his successes and gauging the potential of his current crew to achieve in the future: like tomorrow, the next day, or maybe even next week… as he sauntered towards the camper, with some weird-ass Lurch of an Amish Jew hobbling after him.
Limber put his hands in his hoody and palmed his Nine, as he looked over the shoulder of his white hoody at one weird white man, who, on one hand, seemed to be following him, but on the other hand was limping on a cane and strapped into a big-ass backpack.
‘If fucking Lurch turns the corner, behind this hillbilly hut on wheels, it’s on!’
Limber was now behind the first of the three campers, parked on a lot that backed on some building that was not in use—like a government building where people had left to go home, next to an actual parking lot full of nice cars. The tweakers had an engine hoist behind the middle camper, where three of them worked on taking the engine out of a stolen car next to a camp fire on the asphalt. [1]
The three campers were parked in a crescent, forming something of a perimeter that Limber did not want to drift into. He wanted to skirt that meth-zone, those tweakers were busy, didn’t even sleep, always with eyes on.
Limber did not want to mix with these guys. They were white and this guy might be with them. So he made left into the opening where Kingman could pick him up, as he’d be pulling in right where Lurch was following him now. This was it, if Lurch followed him into the small open lot, then it was on.
‘Go to your peeps, Lurch. You don’t want none of this!’
Lurch did not follow Limber’s original right turn and approach the tweaker mechanics, but followed Limber into the lot.
Limber stopped and turned and the man clattered on big hard boots towards him, working that cane like a kayak paddle. This lit a fire in Limber:
Limber: “What, motherfucker? What?!”
Lurch: “Hold!” spoke the man in a cancerous voice full with some weird thunder of command, not loud, but needle like sure.
Limber: “Hold the fuck back, Lurch! The Adam’s Family is canceled!”
Lurch: “I ask parlay.”
The tweakers were paying real big attention.
Limber: “Bitch, yo ass might be big. But you old en yo shit is fucked up. I will not even waste a cap in yo ass—I will whoop yo ass! Now back the fuck off!”
The man said in a low level tone as he lurched forward on clacking legs and ringing boots, “Vile brigand, on your guard!”
The confidence and size of the man squashed Limber’s boast and he drew his Nine, racked the slide, turned it to the side in both hands, and popped off a round right into the chest.
The crack of the shot was accented by a ringing ping. But the man kept coming in his awkward, lurching stride.
Limber squeezed the trigger forever, but that only lasted for two more shots, both hitting the man and pinging off with sparks. Then his prized Nine, which he cleaned every New Year’s Eve, right before running two clips through it, whether it needed cleaning or not, jammed up on him.
‘Traitor piece of Italian shit—I knew I should have got a Sig!’
The man was towering over him and Limber pistol whipped him across the face, knocking half that pasty nose off and away, blood splashing, but not enough for a gone off nose.
‘What da fuck?’
But a forensic question on the effect of his blow in no way diminished Limber Shoop’s confidence in violent action. He came up with a wicked left shovel hook, going to the body like no body, cracking the lower rib, which he could feel give.
‘Take that, Cracker Jack!’
Then the big old cracker slammed a hand that was unnatural hard and heavy into Limber’s chest, a fist that felt like a sledge hammer should.
Limber fell back, slow-like, from that fist.
Before he hit the asphalt he stopped breathing.
By the time he hit the asphalt full panic over not being able to breathe had set in.
When he hit the asphalt he heard something crack, like a broken broom stick used to stab rats in an LA alley.
He could not feel anything below his neck.
He could feel blood running up into his throat.
‘My shit is fucked up,’ dispassionately narrated the inner poet of his only hero—himself.
Above him gathered a constellation of pale gods, the monster in the hat and coat and three grunge-made tweakers who were all looking down on him as if from some infinite heaven.
-0. Not a typo. Hair does not think, but airheads do, disastrously.
-1. The author witnessed this exact scene on a main street, a mile east from this location in March 2022, under less cover.
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posted: May 27, 2023   reads: 678   © 2022 James LaFond
Wager of War
By Banjo
[James cannot read this. Banjo has always provided deep thought. Here he is.]
Today I watched a video taken from a drone dropping a bomb onto a tank, killing one person that was with his head above the hatch. The tank then moved away so not everyone was killed and the tank was not disabled for whatever that is worth. The same day I saw another video of a guy in arizona running heavy machinery remotely via computer. The machinery looked to be doing strip mining or some similar task.
So why run a tank via manpower? Why run any war machinery with manpower. Why not run it all remotely? I'm sure there are some logistical reasons like small localized emp attacks or something but put that aside for this question.
Now consider this quote from McCarthy's Blood Meridian: (or listen at
"The good book says that he that lives by the sword shall perish by the sword, said the black.
The judge smiled, his face shining with grease. What right man would have it any other way? he said.
The good book does indeed count war an evil, said Irving. Yet there's many a bloody tale of war inside it.
It makes no difference what men think of war, said the judge. War endures. As well ask men what they think of stone. War was always here. Before man was, war waited for him. The ultimate trade awaiting its ultimate practitioner. That is the way it was and will be. That way and not some other way.
He turned to Brown, from whom he'd heard some whispered slur or demurrer. Ah, Davy, he said. It's your own trade we honor here. Why not rather take a small bow. Let each acknowledge each.
My trade?
What is my trade?
War. War is your trade. Is it not?
And it ain't yours?
Mine too. Very much so.
What about all them notebooks and bones and stuff?
All other trades are contained in that of war.
Is that why war endures?
No. It endures because young men love it and old men love it in them. Those that fought, those that did not.
That's your notion.
The judge smiled. Men are born for games. Nothing else. Every child knows that play is nobler than work. He knows too that the worth or merit of a game is not inherent in the game itself but rather in the value of that which is put at hazard. Games of chance require a wager to have meaning at all. Games of sport involve the skill and strength of the opponents and the humiliation of defeat and the pride of victory are in themselevs sufficient stake because they inhere in the worth of the principals and define them. But trial of chance or trial of worth all games aspire to the condition of war for here that which is wagered swallows up game, player, all.
Suppose two men at cards with nothing to wager save their lives. Who has not heard such a tale? A turn of the card. The whole universe for such a player has labored clanking to this moment which will tell if he is to die at that man's hand or that man at his. What more certain validation of a man's worth could there be? This enhancement of the game to its ultimate state admits no argument concerning the notion of fate. The selection of one man over another is a preference absolute and irrevocable and it is a dull man indeed who could reckon so profound a decision without agency or significance either one. In such games as have for their stake the annihilation of the defeated the decisions are quite clear. This man holdgin this particular arrangement of cards in his hand is thereby removed from existence. This is the nature of war, whose stake is at once the game andthe authority and the justification. Seen so, war is the truest form of divination. It is the testing of one's will and the will of another within that larger will which because it binds them is therefore forced to select. War is the ultimate game because war is at least a forcing of the unity of existence. War is god. "
So let us suppose that war endures. It is evident that games of chance are defined not by the game but by what is wagered. A bet on roulette odd or even for a dollar will not garner any attention. The same bet for a million will attract a crowd of lookyloos. Same bet, different wager.
To War
If war becomes increasingly a remotely performed task what is wagered? What can be won? Taken to an absurd level it would be similar to the program from the 90s "Battle Bots" in which robots were made gladiatorial contestants. While it went for a number of seasons even the public grew weary of the battles and it was canceled.
Here are a couple things that might happen.
Militaries are a few men that are genetically, chemically enhanced and use bionic suits to increase strength etc like the old Japanese cartoons of the man in a huge robot suit that fought other robot suit men. The rest of the military will be at home on their couch or in a strip mall spot next to a slave labor nail salon, running drones in Ukraine, Taiwan or wherever. But again this continues to diminish the wager. Who cares if 6 million drones were shot down? No one. But the public must care, they must be forced into caring, their wager must be increased purposefully to keep making money via the war machine. One possibility is that war becomes focused on taking out infrastructure, geoengineering droughts and crop failures, attacking financial infrastructure and ultimately causing the most amount of chaos to the civilians.
Venturing a guess here but the tech has probably been here for decades to remotely run war machines but tptb have to consider that they need men to die to keep the wager up. Just like the tech for self checkouts at retail stores has been here for a couple decades but was never rolled out because it would raise unemployment and robots don't buy loofas. But now they are rolled out as the population declines and there aren't enough workers.
So what do you think? In an age of robotics how will humans be forced to ante up or wager something of real value? Or how will they be forced to believe they have skin in the game?
05.28.23   Wilhelm Von Savage — Before man was, war waited for him.

Why males pack a powerful punch -02-males-powerful.html

“Elk have antlers. Rams have horns. In the animal kingdom, males develop specialized weapons for competition when winning a fight is critical. Humans do too, according to new research from the University of Utah. Males' upper bodies are built for more powerful punches than females', says the study, published in the Journal of Experimental Biology, suggesting that fighting may have long been a part of our evolutionary history.”

"In mammals in general," says U professor David Carrier of the School of Biological Sciences, "the difference between males and females is often greatest in the structures that are used as weapons."

“But even with roughly uniform levels of fitness, the males' average power during a punching motion was 162% greater than females', with the least-powerful man still stronger than the most powerful woman.”

Trust the Science (when it’s violent and sexist)
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posted: May 27, 2023   reads: 1295   © 2023 Wilhelm Von Savage
Grappling the Knifer
Crackman Cues the Stabby Crackpot on Knife Defense: 12/29/2022
Hello J,
Well, this may not be all too surprising for you.
An empty-handed, very high-tier grappler spars against a knife wielding mid-tier grappler (without any knife skills/training).
Result: not a single instance where the better grappler disarms the knife wielder without getting stabbed and sliced up like a bacon.
Honest content with higher production value like this hopefully debunks many of the typical self defence bullshit choreographies which are spread all around the Internet.
Greetings & all the best,
Sir Crackman, I could not view the video. However, I noted that no eye protection was worn by the unarmed party, or the attacker. This indicates two things:
That the most effective defense against the knife, eye jabs, eye rakes, flinging your own blood into the eyes of the knifer, are not available.
More importantly, as with all grappling based knife training other than Modern Agonistics, the lack of face gear indicates that the knife attacker has agreed to not cut the throat, slash the face or stab the neck or ear of the unarmed defender.
I did realistic knife training with fencing masks with Portland Joe and British National last week. The masks give the defender a small measure of chance, up from zero to 20%.
At the same time, thee knife armed attacker adapts more quickly and the speed of his kills increases to OJ levels of butchery.
The rules are:
-get between the knife and it’s wielder,
-get the wielder between the knife and your guts.
It is imperative when training that the attacker, when frustrated in his stabbing attempt, goes upstairs to punish the defender with throat and eye slashes and neck stabs.
It is further of great importance that the defender sets escape as a goal.
When the defender is physically superior, across the six-banded spectrum, of size, speed, strength, fitness, skill and experience, a disarm is increasingly more likely as these advantages multiply each other.
Real life disarms include:
-improvised weapon use, like a bat or chair
-two handed grabs of the knife hand by a larger defender
-elbow slap ejection by a master level striker and knife man, the guy on the cover of The Logic of Steel
-Doc Dread tackling, mounting and disarming a negro knife man in a blizzard in Fells Point, Baltimore.
-And, the most common successful defense, running away. When training against physically equal or superior knife attacks we should stress:
#1: Improvised weapon use
#2: Angular passing of the knife hand or empty hand and then pushing the back or shoulder of the knifer as the starting block for your sprint to the ER to get stitched up.
None of this practice will be be effective if we do not wear gear that permits face contact and full speed actions with and against the hand.
I have written about this before. But it is an important subject. I would suggest for future Man Weekends that we make this a contest, defenses against twerps and goons, the escape and the grapple and the spear hand.
There is a Lancaster Agonistics video of two defenses done by Sean and I in 2017.
Thank you, Crackman.
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posted: May 26, 2023   reads: 1311   © 2023 James LaFond
‘An Alternative Spiritual Technology’
Fire in the Dark: Men and Gods by Jack Donovan
2020, Dissonant Hum, 252 pages, an impressionistic preview of pages 13 thru 43
Thanks to Electric Dan for purchasing and sending this book to the garage in Portland where Jack and I met some three and more years ago.
Dan has asked me if I’d be interested in reading Jack’s book, Fire In The Dark: Men and Gods, and I said yes, if the typeface was something my eyes could handle. He said it was a reasonable font and not too densely set. This was correct, and Dan mailed a gift copy to the Yeti Waters residence. This actually caused an outrage by my Portland host, who has a deep dislike for one time fellow Portlander, Jack, who he says, “Was run out of town.”
Well, I was run out of town once, out of Baltimore in 2018, which was not just my residence, but my birthplace and the home of my family for over 150 years, and further from my ancestral state, Maryland, which was the home of my family for almost exactly 400 years. Well, so I’m not going to ignore a man’s work, a man who once bought me lunch under pressure from mutual readers, who despite being obviously and deeply uncomfortable with my prolesh person, was gracious to me when I was in very poor health.
Jack writes and speaks on masculinity as a vocation. This is a subject I avoid. It makes me cringe when someone cites me as a “masculinity expert” when I have but two children, have only conquered 15 women, have been made homeless by five different women, and have lost almost exactly 200 fights! On certain forms of combat and certain periods of history I might be well versed. But the idea that I am some kind of expert on being a man when the two men who I raised are embarrassed to discuss my comprehensive failure to climb the social and economic pyramid we were born into and regard me in all things as an example of what not to be, well that is strange.
I enjoyed reading the first few pages of Fire in the Dark, and then my eye exploded. The ringing in my head is now incredibly loud and the burning of the nerve that ends in my right eye is so severe that I am throwing up every second day since arriving in Portland. I am “in cycle.” These cycles last from 2 to 18 months. During a cycle I cannot read anything for more than an hour, and must limit myself to 16 point sans fonts, which means this screen. So, it appears that I will not complete a reading of Jack’s book, not this year. As it is, I read and slept for two solid days to get through less then 40 pages of the 252.
I did manage to get through the preface and the introduction, which is to say, read Jack’s summary and mission statement for the work I failed to read. I have read The Way of Men, No Man’s Land, Blood Rites and a Sky Without Eagles by Jack.
The Way of Men is still, to this date, the most important book of this century, for it is the most counter cultural, iconoclastic, anti-American [1], anti-modern book I have read. In The Way of Men, Jack actually broke down masculine characteristics as positive vectors for good, having written this book in a nation that has been dedicated to emasculation since its inception.
Jack writes to sell. As Jack told me, and as he wrote, if a written idea does not make enough money to buy a cup of coffee, then that idea has no value, is manifestly not worth a cup of coffee. Such is the world we live in, Under The God of Things. He is of course correct, for in America, only monetary and social media currency matters, and a bright man like Jack can see that in his life time, the two kinds of currency will gel as one and colonize what remains of our social pyramid. This matters even more to a masculine ideal, which Jack has promoted in our conversation and in his books, that denies that a man can be a good man outside of a hierarchy, that masculinity cannot be divorced from hierarchy. [2]
So, as defined by Mister Donovan, and I think correctly, a man can only be a good man within our monetary currency system, which is in the process of being merged with a feminine-inspired and neutered social currency system. The question that a masculine idealist is stuck with solving, is how does Money Man thrive in the world of Emotional Woman?
From reading Jack’s preamble to this appropriately titled book, I think he demonstrates that Fire In The Dark is a way to keep The Way of Men alive by addressing the strange tightrope that he and I have had to walk on writing about this subject [3], that it is an issue for theists and atheists, an issue that men must wrestle with continuously, whether they have faith in One God, believe in many gods [like me], fail to see evidence for divinity [agnostics] or see in themselves the incubus for an ascendant deity [platonic/academic/atheist/humanist/idealist] in a world barren of a higher conscious power.
Jack keenly employs his more successful brands and slogans. My impression is that Fire in the Dark is an operations manual for employing the concepts in The Way of Men and negotiating the hazards of the world illuminated in A Sky Without Eagles. Jack even backs partially away from his famous Violence is Golden article, [page 38, sentence 2] by declaring that the capacity for violence is not an intrinsic masculine value, when this capacity has always been the core value of men the world over, from earliest times until now.
My sense from this initial reading is that if you have read The Way of Men and found it insightful or useful, that Fire In The Dark is a book that you should read. The chapters and headings are beautifully wrought for a book of this type, with Jack demonstrating an expanding capacity for word crafting beyond ideals, slogans and arguments and into a more textured myth.
I leave you with a handful of Jack’s quotes, with only one criticism, that on page 30, men are described as needful creatures multiple times [strikingly odd in a book focused on heroic themes] and that throughout the opening discussion the gods framed by the author are in no way posited as real, that gods are just a fictitious assortment of the ideal for a man to emulate, embodied in the notion of:
“An Alternative Spiritual Technology”
“I propose Solar Idealism...”
“...we can confront the challenge of this age of annihilation...”
“...trending moralities are driven almost entirely by the madness of crowds and a culture of complaint.”
“I will sketch out the distilled essence of an integrated [Jack defines the regenerative Latin root] masculine spirituality—my own rendering of this eternal flame.”
In reviewing my notes in the text, I am most impressed with Jack’s commitment to propose an ideal of perfection as a direction rather than as a destination. Donovan’s one-man crusade on behalf of manliness is perhaps one of the most amazing things about our plight, as if wolves were left only the struggle not to become a dog, to the point were being a wolf were rendered secondary to the existential threat of becoming a goddamned dog!
-1. I am certain that Jack would disagree heartily. But he is probably not familiar with the Plantation America Project or the fatherless roots of this orphan nation.
-2. In Incubus of Your Sacred Emasculation [part 1 of the omnibus Under the God of Things] I discuss how hierarchy, under civilization, successfully colonized and subjugated organic masculine tribal society. The feud between Achilles and Agamemnon in The Iliad is essentially a summary of this otherwise neglected prehistory. This is further explored in Barbarism versus Civilization, my most hated book.
-3. Jack writes and speaks for alpha males and beta males, while I write for the tiny minority of omega males in Taboo You. In a strictly hierarchical, civilized view, there is no value to the outsider and he is thence a social cancer. But in a more lateral tribal society, an outsider like Aristotle the Stagarite [in Athens] Saul of Tarsus [in Rome], Liver-Eater Johnson [army guide] or Crazy Horse [the insane Blue-eyed war chief] might still be granted a tolerated arc of social value.
05.25.23   Ruben — Fnck man!!!! You're on fire here. This is one of those posts that reveal your genius and just blow the whole family away!!!!
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posted: May 25, 2023   reads: 1385   © 2023 Ruben
American Dream Boat in Print
The Long Awaited Social Horror Novel from 2019
American Dream Boat
A Tale of the America of 2048
James LaFond
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posted: May 24, 2023   reads: 777   © 2023 James LaFond
The Iron Dildo
Devil Dick Prompts the Crackpot on Pseudo-Masculine Negroidaltry: 12/29/2022
[Crackpot comments in brackets]
Hey James,
I've done some more reflecting on white guys turning to Kevin Samuel's (pouring some drink) and more recently, the quarterish black Andrew Tate. Recently Andrew converted to Islam.
[Black men are in general more feminized than others because of the higher incidence of single fatherhood there. It is no accident that these men have become worshiped as the paragons of male prowess in all things. The NFL has pushed black quarterbacks to the point where entire teams have been restructured to make up for lack of passing ability and a running quarterback. Teams are choosing to lose for wokeness. The NFL had Morgan Freeman read a letter by Tom Brady to black youths naming them the quarterbacks—the metaphorica American captains—of the future.]
I remember in a podcast you did you once mentioned Christianity spread by priests converting the daughters or queens of chieftains/kings, who then spread this feminized religion among his own people, and that feminism ultimately evolved from this.
[Of interest is the passive sacrifice of Christ and how worship of him is now being replaced by worship of black men martyred as the only race ever enslaved.]
Well as it happens, in a book I read about the Amazon's (Greek mythological ones), and eventually how Islam spread among certain Berber tribes was brought up.
[There was a Berber queen with red hair who resisted Islam.]
Islamic proselytizers (perhaps Ibn Ali Tyrone Tate) convinced the men that the beliefs of their women were silly and superstitious by introducing them to philosophy and science. This is in direct contrast to how Christianity spread with the women selling out the men.
[You are putting your finger on a reactionary trend that is feminized but less feminine than the main current. Note that half of masculinity experts are homos, as are some European identity leaders. The Homo rulership is supplying the faux opposition to its own Few World Order. This is genius stuff.]
I propose then that what's going on is that the islamization of whitoid and western "men,” as proven by Imam Samuels and Muhammed Tate, is a dark skinned reaction to annoying white women who they do not view as their own, and other groups of non chocolate people are going along with it because the last 60 years of feminism has created unbearable pig women. And as this form of secularized bromo Islam appeals to weak men, then it must by default appeal to western """"men"""" as well, especially the disenfranchised chocolate male race.
[I agree, that Islam appeals to weak men, as do the other two Near Eastern Faiths, and that these faiths produce weak men. Islam, at least, does not produce annoying karens as do the other two faiths.]
I am interested to hear what you think of this theory, and what the consequences will be between the clash of these two evolving religions turned secular ideologies if you think there is some merit to it.
[Islam, as Howard pointed out in his Solomon Kane African adventures, is a very materialistic faith. It is also built around the idea of a house, compared to the garden based ideology of Judaism and Christianity. This makes it well suited to appeal to people raised in consumptive capitalistic societies, who are now being failed by capitalism. The current counter religion to capitalism, or The God of Things, currently expressed medically as stridently as economically, is Morpheus. Dream is the number two god of post modernity. Thing is still number one. Yahweh, Christ and Allah have less traction and are eroded in power by Morpheus rising, as he takes the young men away and also, in the case of Islam, invades the House of Submission to Allah and subverts and weakens it. I see a future where the two mainstream faiths are submissive, Corporate Medicine and Despairing Medicine, all dreams of flesh and stone.]
There is one more point I'd like to bring to your attention. Having been born here to a retarded single mom who I love, I have been cursed to have to mate with disgusting Americanized whore pig women. However, immigration by our homosexual elite overlords is not mainly male like it was in buttsex plantation America as you've described in your book. Because of this, I've met a foreigner that isn't mad that I would defend her physically like the last pig who felt I was violating her strong woman fantasies.
[Women are easily salvaged from the social wreckage by a strong and caring man. Men are much harder to salvage from the matrix because they are more cerebral and ideological and women are more adapted to reassigning their submission than ideologically farmed men are to retooling from submission to action.]
I'm done with my fooling around so I plan on sticking with just her. However, do you think our homosexual overlords wielding the iron dildo intended to essentially be importing harems for guys like me?
[Working on such a vast scale manipulating a self aware system and its feedlot of souls is a very inexact art with tidal, polar and reactionary aspects. Our masters are in a constant race to predict the next unintended side effect of their satanic, social golem building. Like in boxing, when every punch thrown by the foe is also an opportunity for you to counter, the war on humanity and individuality makes gaps where the human and the individual can find some autonomy. I regard most people as subhuman or posthuman. I suggest that something like 70% of western human bodies have already had their souls fed into darkness not to return and are merely socially conditioned semi intelligent bodies.]
Will white women demand this be put an end to?
[White women, are by definition a blank bot upon which the system may imprint a social identity. This started with the invention of the term White as a racial noun, in the 1600s, which was intended to erase Christian and European identity. White women are now playing The Queen, but are the most afflicted victims of this dastardly scheme. For every Nancy Crowski there are a hundred white bitches being fucked to death in the sex trade. In the future they will only be political and PR puppets and sex bots. They have no power and are compromised in every meaningful way by the illusion that they have power. They are the puppets of the homo elite who seek self replicating immortality.]
Will the men who listen to Imam samuels demand this be put an end to as it makes their "high value" to attain annoying white women not as valuable when you can have just as much fun as a filthy peasant such as myself?
[Followers of such self-help icons may make no demands and are merely feedlot souls being drained of spirit in advance of their physical passing by the vampires they follow. Just as women have the illusion of holding power, beta males who worship alpha males are seduced by the illusion that their approval is more than the extraction and feasting upon of their essence and identity.]
I never knew you writing about how our pagan ancestors viewed masculinity would be so topical in our current cucked world. You are truly a visionary.
[Thank you, Sir! From one filthy peasant to another, it has been an honor to correspond with you.]
Not as Devilish Dick
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posted: May 24, 2023   reads: 1456   © 2023 James LaFond
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