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Bear Teeth Close
Uprising #1
August 21, 2031, Northwest Wyoming, State Highway 296, Dead Indian Pass, about 8,400 feet above she [1] level
The Major looked curiously at the short, ashen ghetto banger in his black sneakers, black sweats, black cargo shorts, black hooded sweat-shirt and black ski cap, his ashy hands doing something that the Major had never seen in all of his Rocky Mountain years, not before he served in the Army or after he retired as a major of the storied Special Forces, a grizzled, gray, green beret.
“Well, I’ll be a goddamned monkey’s uncle! Hell, I’ve hunted and logged in these parts since Christ was a corporal and never have seen such a thing.”
The stumpy hoodrat, only about 5’8” soaking wet if he were a foot, was hand feeding a rock squirrel a Dorito chip, “cool ranch” flavor if he did not misremember the little man’s obsession with that particular flavor from the liquor store foray that precedes all serious hunting excursions into the Rocky Mountain fastness. The little critter was nibbling on the thing as old Ishmael, his boyhood friend from the long ago world before negroes from the coastal flatlands of some distant urban hell fed value-added “food” to once innocent creatures, drawled in his easy high desert way, “I told you, Wolf, this fellow’s a kindred spirit, found him hiking across U.S. Route 40 outside of Cheyenne, in those damned sneakers, with nothing but a bottle of Pepsi for supplies. That’s why I called you. None of our young people are interest in learning the old ways. This fellow here, he’s like us—just different.”
The Major snarled, “You mean because he’s a midget, or because Heavenly Father left him in the toaster for too long while he was frying up some eggs?”
As if the Almighty took offense to that statement, a gust of ruthless wind whipped up the canyon and picked that little chip monk up and whirled it around to be dashed to death thousands of feet below on the other side of that short stone wall. The little black, man let go of the corn hip which flew into eternity and with the same hand snatched the little creature out of the snow-devil that had grabbed it—for snow was gathering furiously all around—in August of all times.
“Well fuck me runnin’ Ishmael, I believe your lawn jockey played ball once upon a time. That dog ‘ill hunt!”
As the little man with cannonball shoulders cupped the rock squirrel between his ashen hands and set him down in the angle of the wall and the creature darted into a tiny crevice there, the Major addressed the object of his life-long friend’s curious benevolence, “Well, man, you up for the final hunt of two old poacher’s lives—you afraid a bears, grizzly bears?”
The little man turned and looked up at him, his ashen-tainted ebony face framed by a short white beard and pocked with two gray eyes and quipped, “I afraid of ebryting, Boss—specially pigs. So I spose a bear make no neva mine. I’m in.”
The Major extended his hand and they shook on it and he said, “Good, poaching is one thing. But I don’t litter and leavin’ your black ass out in this shit would qualify.”
He thought the hand was firm enough and continued with the interview as Ishmael looked worriedly about at the gathering blizzard, “Name?”
“Punk, Punk City Coon.”
“You shittin’ me, Coon?”
“No, Sir, I would never drop a dookie pale as your Vikin’-lookin’ ass.”
He grinned and slapped the little fucker on the left shoulder with his right hand and was pleased with how the little bastard rolled with it.
“You boxed, so you did.”
Coon just shrugged his shoulders and Ishmael drawled, “Awl, Wolf, go easy on the fella. He’s a flat-lander.”
But the Major wanted to know the quality of their hunting dog, and bored in, “Ever kill anything back there in that shithole, Baltimore is it?”
The little man nodded in the affirmative and the Major pushed, “Critters?”
“Rats, crows and a couple pitbulls once—neva clipped no seagull.”
“Why no seagulls?”
“Same reason I neva kilt no cracka, don’ need dey moanin’ ghosts hauntin’ ma black ass.”
The Major stood tall and grinned, “But you, despite your superstitions, have done in some a yer own tawny kind?”
Punk City Coon shrugged his shoulders, “All in a dayz work.”
“Well, I’ll be damned, Ish—we got us a huntin’ man after all!”
The Major then stood back and braced his legs, “Well, planning will need to occur in the truck else dis blow ‘ill knock us off the mountain. I’d say the Bear Tooth Mountains are closed behind us, and possibly ahead. Smart phones?”
The major and Ishmael both brought out there phones and looked at Punk City Coon and the Major became suspicious. He threw his phone over the precipice into the whirling wrack, as did Ishmael.
“Coon, we got us a rebuilt 1978 Diesel, with narry a computer component in it. These game wardens are busting us poachers by satellite now. So I’m about to pat your ass down.”
The small, dark man raised his hands as Ishmael, in his teddy bear bulk, drawled, “Sorry Punk, we got to be sure.”
The Major started from his ankles and narrated his finds by feel as he slid his big Norwegian-Lakota hands up the small frame, “Shank in an ankle strap—saw that a mile away… Thirty-two snub in left front pants pocket…Twenty-five auto in right front pants pocket—got a lot of friends out there, do you son… Straight razor in left side pocket… Butterfly knife in right side pocket—you paranoid fuck…Well I’ll be, sap gloves in your rap kangaroo pouch…My hell—you’ve got more friends than that grizz we gonna sick you on…and a kabar, Marine combat knife in his rear waistband… No wallet, no Identification—which is goddamned against the law…no phone—against the law…and a knot roll of money as big as his gorilla dick.”
The Major stood, pulled off the knit cab, checked in the hood for a wire, placed the hat back on the bald head, and said, “Ish, this man is being hunted as we speak, which will make of this week a capital adventure of men at once the hunter and the hunted—you brought the bacon to hang from his shoulders?” he said with a grin and they all laughed, rough laughter from old worn throats lost in the booming gusts of winter soaring up from the buffalo jumps below them and the ragged highway pass behind them, where snow stalked them like God’s own wrathful hand.
-1. not a typo
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posted: July 3, 2022   reads: 40   © 2022 James LaFond
Dog Foot Woman
Scene 12 of The Acts of Awes West
The serpent seemed to have left his lungs. His fever was broke. But the wheeze in his chest and the taste in his throat suggested that it had maybe lain an egg or shed some sharp-scaled skin down there. Determined to cough some of what was left down there up, he hacked, and up came some blood.
Mused he: ‘Done for, I suppose.’
The Jesuit, Praying Injun and Voyager had been gone a month now and he had lived well and fat as winter blew Her fury down from the North. The bison was fine eating and he had even regained the strength to shovel snow and bring up firewood, becoming something of a cook in his lonesome.
There had been a time when all he wanted was alone, to be away from folks so that they would not try and kill you or get killed on you or because of you—that being the worst event. In the recent past, over these twenty-some odd years of his time in service to Father, he had resented the visitors, had ached for them to go and stop needling Father for this and that length of lore or yarn of yore.
He had not realized until now, in his stark loneliness, facing some unknown sickness, how petty and jealously mean he had secretly been in his heart. What ailed him now was that nothing got by Father, and he must have known and the old man bore the weight all alone. Now he was alone and he missed those good old boys, the burly Jesus man, the narley Frenchman and the kindly Indian.
Hands folded before the fire, prayed he: ‘Father, you was a far better man than me, and even you had your company, your Medicine Crow, your visitors, en finally rotten old me. How can I carry your burden least way speak to the burden of others?’
No answer came from the crackling fire, from the shadowed corners of the tower or from that inner lonely space, which had been of late such a busy place.
Mused he: ‘Is that what we do when we die, think, and dream, and wonder and factor like some mad hatter?’
He was tired, felt worn in his bones. He longed for Father’s bed, having never slept in it, feeling unworthy. So he curled up in the robes, upon the pile of hides the voyager had brought for a soft sit by the fire, wolf, coyote, beaver, bison, wolverine, bear, musk oxen and caribou. He curled up on that cozy pile with the fire stoked hot, between firewood drying for its turn as fire food while the kettle gave off salty, marrow-boned steam that had him of a mind to wake.
Papa Doc Rew looked down from the cross above Red River Moore, built up on a muddy mound on that island the Voodooists had fortified against the counter attack from The Knights of Saint George. Noose, newly minted Sergeant of Rangers, had lead the pursuit and attack like Hell’s own bloodhound. Finally, the few Voodooists that surrendered were all put to the knife. Now he stood, bloody, muddy, battle-worn and forlorn, that he would not be able to slay the mastermind foe that had taken Indian Ben and Sergeant Sacks from him, his uncle and daddy so to speak.
The bald, black fiend grinned down at him, having had his own men crucify him like The Lord. Three boys had even been placed to playing dice at his feet and murdered. This accursed scene drew anger from him. He knew not the Bible, but was all sermoned up at church and knew this to be some kind of mocking blasphemy. The Knight Roar and Squire Knell had fallen and were being tended to. He stood holding his toothpick, his pistols and saddle guns all of them trusty irons empty. Wishing he had some padre or knight to factor up this situation, he stood snarling in vexation.
The ashen black corpse on the cross, however, turned out not to be dead, as his head lolled forward and his shoe polish sack of a mouth drooled, “Christ Man-dog, I take you God’s slain boy’s place! I will bar you from you heaven place!”
He said so through fetid drool, over once ruby and now ashen lips and a rage flashed in Noose, the sure swift hand of death he always held recourse to in his otherwise factor-prone mind. The great needle-like knife flashed in his hand against the lurid torchlight at dusk and sunk into the Voodoo Prophet’s side—and the black man sighed, like one who has achieved victory.
“Father, Medicine Wheel Man, wake, wake from your battle place...wake…”
He was shaken, and he stirred, sitting up with the help of little, itty-bitty hands, a soft angel’s voice in his ear, as great big wolf-like dogs prowled all about.
One of those great glaring canines looked at him from across the fire and its eyes blazed blue and he groaned, “O, my ole bones wouldn’ feed dat hungry fire, let alone you proper—what a beasty ye be.”
From besides him a little woman held the back of his shoulders and ascertained, “He is Fury, my lead dog. It is bitter outside. Might they warm by the fire?”
“A course, Milady, sled dogs such o’ dese is a sort likes a should neva be wasted—near a pony he is.”
The dogs—or where they wolves, he could not tell despite his own sure lore, these being bigger than any of either sort he had ever encountered, five of them, any one a match for a cougar or black bear. The lot might even account for a grizz after some doing—sighed and flopped about around the outer edge of the firelight against the tower walls, not keen to be too near the fire.
The woman got from his side and ambled to the kettle oddly with one of the wooden bowl ladells the Voyager had fashioned. He saw, that although she had a pretty little face with rosy cheeks and strawberry pursed lips, that her feet were abnormal. Where she should have knees was a backward knee of a four-legged critter, like a dog, bent inward like a dog-leg, down into a foot that must have been clubbed on both sides, for her mucklucks were as short as a large bull mule dear hoof or a fare-sized dog paw.
Admired he: ‘And yet look at how fine shaped and fawn-faced she be, like an angel on moccasined dog feet—could it be?’
Her gait was awkward and she noticed his look and smiled. To this he apologized, “Sorry, Milady, fer bein’ rude. I didn’ think you was real, but a fable like—iz you dream, or come ta see dis ole bag a bones true?”
She smiled and brought him the steaming spruce bowl of bone broth and spoke in a voice as beautiful and light as if a rocky mountain creek spilled over clean rocks and sang, “No dream am I, Father, though I often wished I were and might wake from this crooked fate. Dog Foot Woman is not the name my mother might have prayed. She was taken by a Wendigo. I was the issue. She died in birth and only the intercession of The Lady Saint of Whitefish Nunnery spared me from death by exposure as a monstrosity.”
He was in open-mouthed awe.
“You is da one dat Father walked ova yon round top ta speak wit when da wolves did howl—he’d neva let me escort ‘im.”
“Yes,” she whispered huskily. “He did not think you would understand and did not wish to trouble you from your devotion to God with the sight of one of His less favored creations. You had fought the Voodooist and might misunderstand in your heart.”
“You is beautiful like spring butterflies ova flowers. Tank ye fer vistin’ me,” he croaked, somewhat raspy in the throat.
She smiled and held the steaming cup under his nose for sometime, and after testing it with her dainty pinkie finger, for she was a little thing, a midget almost, she gave to him to drink and his chest burned and his heart did sink.
“No need to talk, Father. Lie back, on your right side. I will examine you.”
Croaked he, hollowly, “Father...word what neva ‘fore pass’ fro’ such angel lips—not but gallows-born boys eva spoke such o’ dis ole coon.”
“Quiet, Father, soothed the pixie song voice. She poked and prodded, listened and tapped all about, gave him some vile medicine to eat and laid a pile of the stuff in see-through pouches near him.
She finally kissed him on his ugly cropped ear [1] and whispered, “Father, you have cancer of the lungs. When the pain is too much, eat some of the laudinum paste, just one pinkie joint in measure. You must keep warm, so stay here. Do not take the paste before going for wood.”
“How long?” he croaked.
“Summer, Father. Ration out the paste and you should be able to enjoy the spring flowers. I cannot come this way until the first snow. So we will not meet again. It is my sore loss, you being such a sweet old soul.”
A tear dripped from his left cheek as he realized he would die all alone and it was all he could do to keep from bawling like a babe. It was bad enough that he just now for the second time in his hard life cried.
“Tank ye, MILADY!—I so wish ye were my daughter eben if I ‘ad ta be a Wendigo Ree.” [2]
She kissed away the tear, drank it in like a Fine Lady does wine, and she soothed in a grace-played fiddle of a voice, “Father, once Noose Gun, you have the love, prayers and devotion of The Lady Saint of Whitefish Nunnery—the adoration of the very Angel of Awes West. I am Her frail Factor. A dozen nuns sing for you into the rising and setting sun with the dawning of every night and the falling of every day, even as Our Lady prays pardon to Our Lord God Almighty, for those sorrow-gone acts of the gun. Bless you,” and a sweet, salve of a dainty kiss sealed his thin, cracked and bitter lips.
The paste took him to deep dream where no nightmares waited raking the flinty floors of hell with their savage hooves.
In the inner distance a great wolfish whine seemed to ask of its kind’s very goddess if it could dine.
-1. Condemned boys, runaway boys, who may be of any age, had each ear notched on the bottom for theft, on the back for running away and on the top for rogue status. The entire ear was removed down to the root for murder. Hence, Noose spent his every year since the tenth, without ears. Order Rangers were permitted to wear their hair just below the ear. Noose had to wait until graduating from pony boy to Ranger to grow his hair lower than his brow on back of side, in the traditional bowl cut of the servant class, intended to expose the ear.
-2. The cannibal wild men of the Winter Woods were said to be related to the Ree Indians, who did not deny the connection.
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posted: July 2, 2022   reads: 101   © 2022 James LaFond
'Don’t You Love Your Life?’
Lana Sol and Dawn the Doll Discuss Hobo Journalism: 4/3/2022, Denver
“Don’t you love your life? You travel to ten or more states and meet so many good people, like the people here, at this dive bar—we’ve adopted you, and we don’t want to give you back.”
-Dawn, 3/25/2022, Portland
“Thank you for all the pictures! I read your Homesick missive from Cascadia more than once. You are an incredibly brave person and your literary capabilities exemplar. Don’t know if I could be so candid. Am glad you’ve made such friends but understand that it leaves a puzzlement as to what the hell happened in the first X decades. In this 7th decade life’s clarity is still illusive. There is the German “Sehnsucht” defined as a wistful yearning and a hunger in the soul in the search for understanding. Whether that is ever achievable is just as mystifying. I will always be here for you if possible and know you would for me. Please have a good trip. No springtime illness either. Yours always, and with heartfelt regards, Lana Sol”
-By Text, Tuesday March 29 2022
To answer Dawn first, I dislike almost every aspect of traveling. I come to like most the places I stay so much that I don’t want to leave but have to. The one thing I hated the most about having a family in Baltimore as an unsuccessful man, was moving: from Magsman’s rental, to Jeff and Diann’es rental, to the house I tried to buy, and to the rental out of town when I left the house in Baltimore to the vultioneers. Now I move on average, every three weeks, sometimes every week.
Traveling also negatively effects my fiction and history writing by interrupting work for days at a time, since with masks and glasses on, I have not been able to write on the train for two full years. I use some 15 kitchens a year, and by the time I figure out where everything belongs, it’s time to go.
The upside is not content, because I have zero interest in writing travel articles. But the fact that I get to see locations enables me to set fiction in more varied places.
Meeting great people has been the big personal upside, however, it means that I will soon be away from them for almost the entire year, which is a negative.
The reason why I live this life style is it is the hand I have been dealt, not because I ever wanted to do anything remotely like this. I simply quit doing what I wanted to do and went with Fate. I am very fortunate not to count myself among the League of Extraordinary Cardboard Box Dwellers. In my 20s and 30s, when I found myself a bound slave to a woman who hated me and to companies that used me, I did have one travel fantasy, that I would, when my sons hit 18, backpack across the nation. Then on arriving at the Pacific I wanted to fill the pack full of rocks and walk in. The torn hip rotator fixed that fantasy as age set in to erase a dream. The funny thing is, I now travel to Oakland twice a year in hopes of my heart exploding with SaySay—and this thing just keeps ticking. It’s a curse I tell you, a curse!
So, I hate my life and despise my self, but treasure the people I have met as white trash blown by the Darwinian winds of Civilization.
Now, Lana is my longest standing patron and without her financial support I would only be able to see SaySay once a year, instead of twice—so thank you My Dear Dame.
Lana is a multilingual person with an idetic [spelled it five times and missed every one, never read it, only heard it spoken] memory who did what she could to teach me about English, Middle English, Old English, German and High German when I was working on Beowulf. I am deeply honored that she reads my history and that she finds me to be a competent writer, for I feel like a stumble bum with the English language.
I find myself cowardly inside. If I were as brave as I’d like to be, I would have stayed in Baltimore and moved down into the ghetto, renting a room from some young black chicks. I still would have had to carry everything I own that didn’t stink like yeti back hair every time I left my room. I missed my chance to be killed by the harm city writing process. It would have been like a war correspondent getting killed on Iwo Jima. Instead, I slunk away, the last of my scattered clan to flee before the Wakandan Impis.
I’m still so pissed about that cowardly act on my part that I tried to shoulder butt one of three young Wakandan Kangs [whose combined age would be less than mine] at Colfax and Uinta yesterday, and punked out a 300 pound Kang who wanted in front of me at the Latino liquor store two hours ago. The big burly spic behind the counter laughed at Mighty Joe Young as my old scrawny ass made him step back as I counted my cash.
Yes, I am brave in spots, but mostly because I was a coward for 10 years as a boy and now for 4 as a fleeing silverback thought criminal.
But, Lana, for a single-minded man who manages bravery in spots and would like to produce some memorable writing, to be complimented by a Lady from the Academy is a fine thing. As well, if there is something you need that I can provide, let me know.
As for spring, springtime in Denver is easy on the lungs and it took me zero days to acclimate to the altitude and hiked up lookout mountain two days ago without any parts falling off.
Thank you for making this feasible.
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posted: July 1, 2022   reads: 356   © 2022 James LaFond
The Great Man Discussed by a Gutter Gnome
The Brick Mouse is a switch hitter and seems to have beat me up with backhands from the orthoxed lead.
Hardlinks for the videos above:
07.01.22   Titus Marius — Looking forward to hearing about Turtle in part 3.
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posted: June 30, 2022   reads: 432   © 2022 Titus Marius
Training New Warriors
A Christian Soldier Consults the Hoodrat Oracle: 4/4/2022 Denver
“James! I need your assistance in training new warriors. I have a 21-year-old 6ft 3 240 pound former football player who wants to learn to fight but is permanently blind in his right eye. Has power but footwork and distance is terrible along with low confidence.”’
“I also have a fighter who is 5ft 6 170 and a decent fighter but is hesitant and lacks confidence. How do I build aggression and confidence in him?”
-Sergeant G., by text March 24 2022
The big boy, as a large football player, will be in big danger of a KO, as he will tend to push punches and bring weight forward. Priority #1 is making sure his good eye does not take damage. I would train him as a southpaw trap fighter with a focus on clinching against leg kicks and throwing a lead rear left straight against the chest of opponents. The jab just let him paw with on the high line and eventually develop the Semmy Shilt hyper pronated jab over the top after he steps out to his right and has no peripheral danger of being blind-sided with a hook or high kick.
Make sure you train the outward C-step around the lead left foot of the opponent.
His focus should really be on shielding kicks and upright grappling. This could by your Paul “the Polar Bear” Varlens. A lot of clinch work will increase his confidence and work to his strength. Have him practice some stick—not knife so much—so that he can learn how to use his rear left eye to track strokes from both side views. I have not been much impaired by my eye with the stick, like I have been with the knife.
Now for the short man.
You’re not going to turn this guy into Dennis. The quicker and safest gains are made grappling. So roll with this guy a lot and keep his skill set small and basic, which will increase his confidence. Don’t keep introducing new stuff as each new skill introduction will bottom him back down into the low confidence well within him. Make him drill 3 to 5 things.
For boxing, with a short fire plug that lacks confidence, you are looking at a disaster, him getting stalled out on the end of some slicker guy’s jab and turned into a punching bag.
I like to train such a boxer as a high work rate side-to-side counter puncher. Have him step into range to deal with a lead then slip in and to the side while trowing a punch combination.
Make sure this guy only drills combos, no single shots. The jab must always be a double jab. Doing that on the bag builds positive energy and doing it in sparring ups his chance of hitting, since he is going to get hit regardless. Build his confidence in countering and trading in light sparring, not hard sparring.
Increased functional combat cardio [not theoretical fitness cardio] is the biggest confidence builder for a fighter and that means relaxation in contact drills and sparring combined with fitness.
Study Willy Pep [especially against Sandy Saddler], Mickey Ward, Arturo Gatti, Haggler, Shayne Mosely and Duran.
Work on four standard combinations until he can pop them off on command: two 2-punch combos and two 3-punch combos.
Once he has those, instead of introducing another combo, combine these into 4 to 6 punch combinations.
This guy should do knife sparring to work on killer instinct.
Good luck, and if I run into anyone heading your way this summer, I’ll try and make a visit.
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posted: June 30, 2022   reads: 402   © 2022 James LaFond
Mister Grey Wonders about Our Most Lauded Quality: 3/29/22
The Amtrak conductor was correct. Since I have arrived at Jack London Square in Oakland, California, I have had no cell service. It could not possibly be the fault of Flip the Black Hero Phone, so I will attribute it to a higher power.
So, once I am back on the train in two days, Flip will flood with texts waiting in the ether to be delivered. Hence I am now addressing some texts for the crackpot mailbox received while leaving Portland.
“Christians always mention forgiveness and that you must do it. But some, [like Any Nowicki] say its only valid when someone genuinely asks for forgiveness. What do you think they really meant? It sounds like a built in way to not threaten those in power who fuck you over...very convenient…
-Mister Grey, Friday, March 25
My job as a historical novelist, which is what I have always wanted to do and am finally becoming, is to depict the feelings and actions of people of kinds and times that are alien to me with empathy and understanding and passion—from their view. I will so try to address this question from recent work to do with the poetics of Homer and The Song of Roland and four biographies of Amerindian war chiefs.
The Christian ideal of forgiveness is hierarchical, in that the mortal sinner is directed to repent before God, which is to adopt an attitude of surrender and supplication before the Highest Power, admit his guilt, and seek forgiveness for his transgressions. The forgiveness of the guilty repentant is Grace. This forgiveness is guaranteed so long as the repentant party acknowledges Jesus Christ as his Lord and Savior.
Like most things between God and man, men higher in the social order—and increasingly lateral in the social order as society dissolves—insert themselves between God and man and insist that the repentant sinner may not receive God’s Grace or Christ’s Salvation until he has first abased himself before his church fellows, his preacher, minister, priest or other confessor. This process appears to me very much as a gate-keeping usurpation of Grace. Indeed, Kings in earlier periods insisted on standing between God and man, and named themselves Grace incarnate.
For instance, Charlemagne, “Whose look was dread,” fell into folly when he entertained the ruse that Marsille the King of the Moors, would “come to Christ,” and declared that Marsille “might know redemption yet.”
The idea of redemption is based on being forgiven after admitting guilt. For this reason, with the reduction of Christians to “whites” and the elevation of Money to the place of God, poor English who committed the sin of debt under the protestant prosperity gospel, were known as redemptioners, persons without rights even to their own body until the price of their passage to the place where they would labor for their master for free was paid off with time served.
This is where the idea of one’s “debt to society” steps between God and man, and also between the injured man and his injurer. In civilization, a man never owns his own body. Rather he is the property of the State, from Prince to pauper, with the Prince being mourned “in state” and the pauper denied the right to suicide. Suicide remains a crime in most American municipalities, for the self-killing man is harming the tax base of the hallowed government that owns him.
In warrior societies, forgiveness may only be granted by the injured party, most typically by the relations of the slain man. This might be paid by the killer paying damages or even by him replacing the man he slew as son, brother or even husband!
Imagine killing Brad Pitt and having Jennifer Anniston demand you make good on her loss by mating with her.
The warrior society answer to forgiveness of action is payment, vengeance [very old Testament there] or exile, as with Ayran tribes. Patroclus was the Slave of Achilles as his penance for slaying a fellow of his own tribe and then going into exile among the Mymidons. He was an ancient redemptioner of sorts.
The supplication, submission and begging of forgiveness is not broadly social or pyramidally hierarchical in warrior society as it is in civilized society.
When Black Hawk’s friend trusted the white man who wished his son to come hunt for him, resulting in his son being recreationally tortured and murdered by the whites, the old man could not forgive his own failure to heed Black Hawk’s advice and fasted before God until he died. Black Hawk took payment from the whites by raising a war party and slaying some of them, thus enabling peace and forgiveness in his mind.
When Black Hawk failed to protect his own children from the whites, he gave away all worldly possessions, painted himself black, fasted and prayed for two years in hopes God would take pity upon him, and only then managed to forgive himself enough to permit his own reentry into society.
The practice of the warrior society of individual redemption and abased forgiveness is well reflected in the Christian belief in direct repentance and forgiveness between man and Christ. However, the insistence among most Christians that they must judge the sinner as truly repentant before he is permitted to be judged by Christ, comes not so much from Christianity, but from the 360-degree slave matrix within which that faith and all other civilized faiths of Antiquity were born.
Thus there was a certain understanding among warrior chiefs and some of their military officer foes, that they served “the same Master of Life,” and were judged by the same Power.
An interesting case was Geronimo, who never forgave the Mexicans for murdering his family and psychotically hunted them into old age. Likewise the Mexicans never forgave him his savage depredations and the U.S. Government never forgave him for insisting that he should be left alone so long as he refrain from attacking Americans.
Geronimo could not internalize the civilized idea that he should beg forgiveness for not begging forgiveness of the very party that attacked him. President Teddy Roosevelt got it. And even though the army over which he was Commander-in-Chief could not forgive Geronimo for not begging forgiveness of those who transgressed against him and his, The President gave permission for the old tribal leader, a POW for some 20 years, to tell his side of the story so that “the American People” might judge whether he should be forgiven for the greatest crime a subject of the United States of America could commit—self defense.
We now live in the media sinner and repentance world that swallowed that dour old Apache warrior, and we too are subject to the post-Christian ideals of crowd-forgiveness, by which our multitude of anonymous fellows judge us as a hysterical hive of petty micro-gods according to their own rancid jealousies and twisted hates.
I hope that helps.
My personal experience in forgiveness is one of relief, that once I stop hating and blaming the party that injured me and get on with acting rather than suffering, I have experienced great relief.
I also suspect, that in our current social media condition, that many alienated and “racially guilty” individuals might feel that abstract groupings of ideological enemies are to blame for their own suffering, and want some kind of abstract penance. To the extent that this condition persists, it would shock both Achilles and Geronimo, that some fat bitch nodding her head at a printed page or oracle a half a world away, barely capable thought let alone action, could be to blame for their condition—when one new that his enemies were Agamemnon and Hector and the other that his enemies were all Mexicans and certain soldiers.
To any tribal or civilized ancient, it would seem a bizarre proposition to entertain forgiveness of a party still actively seeking to harm us, which is the activity all of our rulers engage in. This notion is no less strange than to think that Christ would open the Book of Life upon his second coming and grant salvation to an unrepentant sinner involved in beheading Christians up until the very moment of his return, who yet spat in the face of Grace and declared for Satan.
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posted: June 29, 2022   reads: 466   © 2022 James LaFond
Musings on Fear News and Creep State Mind Control: 3/19/22
“What do you think about the halting of the plague narrative and an immediate same-day switch to news revolving around the war? Is that not proof that the plague narrative is false and now that a real event comes about it is swept away? Or perhaps, the war was engineered to take the eye of the people away from the unfolding evidence that these unprecedented plague measures, like quarantining healthy people, wrecking the economy and denying basic, cheap and proven effective medicines while pushing an experimental treatment has killed upwards of a million Americans?”
-British National
Wow, sir, what a fantastic stream of thought. I cannot take a drive for an hour with you without the insertion of the need to write an article above my pay grade in response to the conversation. First, I do not think that there is any threat that the American people will ever “wake up” and see reality, or call their vile shepherds to account for the manner of their sheering. Americans are not capable of perceiving actual real time physical events or of conducting even the most rudimentary level of thought, fact finding or critical thinking. Indeed, critical thinking has been ruthlessly persecuted in favor of ideological cheer leading, cultivated by every form of media since my childhood at least.
I would cite Gene Wolfe’s Shadow of the Torturer, here. The protagonist, Severian, an orphan boy raised in The Guild of the Seekers for Truth and Penitence, is dispatched by his ancient and nearly forgotten order to a far outpost of a billion person empire in a distant future. While on this quest, in his traditional garb, people regard him with terror and he is brought to speak to the commander of a bridge garrison.
This city of the future is so massive, that the main bridge spanning the River Gaol [which is the Amazon of a dying Earth] has millions of people traversing it a day—nigh millions squatting in its nooks and crannies—and is garrisoned by 10,000 men. When Severian asks why he has been detained, the commander informs him that panicking the populace must be avoided at all costs, for the hundreds of millions, once risen to revolt, must be an unstoppable wave of humanity.
Yes, Severian ends up using his trade, for crowd control, by performing public executions and entertaining the crowd in such a theatric manner that they fancy themselves being served by him, even though any one of their number could be denounced by their fellows and placed in a cell to be interviewed by the torturer who would then cut their head off on stage the next day.
In this, the most deftly handled science fiction composed in the 20th century, the century of Ideology and mass industrial warfare, Wolfe treats the individual and collective human condition in dynamic interaction; he sketches Reality, reality as people of Post Modern America can never experience it. For we believe only in good guy bad guy polarity narratives which have never mimicked reality throughout history, but are presented to us as reality from our cradle to our intubation chamber.
The disease narrative did not go away, but was maintained as the subtextual element in the ongoing, unending reign of fear that spans both narratives. The American mind can only consider one thing at a time. We have been collectively taught that only one important event or moral question or threat may be important to us at a given time. We have been conditioned.
We are retarded. No previous population of humans has been so blinded to reality than the gaslit media herd of Late Modernity. The real miracle of the Atomic Age was not the splitting of the atom, but the harnessing of that awful happening to terrorize a planet with fear of nuclear annihilation. We are creatures of fear, nursed at Fear’s raging tit—the TV, which now everyone of us has in the palm of our hand.
As soon as the Cold War was over the War on Terror was built and ramped up out of its ashes—recycling some of the same characters like any good pulp writer whose last story has failed to sell and then crafts another. As the War on Terror lost its grip in the wake of the last Afghan tribesmen being gunned down on the beaches of Miami and Asbury Park as they landed in their amphibious SUV’s and were defeated by Minute Men, new menaces must be created:
-2016, the Orange Man from Planet Permanent Tan usurped the Cuckmurican Throne…
-2020, Brovid Jiveteen and the Crucifixion of Floyd Christ brought down the Orange Man and increased fear to include most of the population, rather than the half who feared the interplanetary menace of the Orange Man.
-2021, The 10,000 man natzi gang rape of Orgazio Putez on January Sick in Boughtington Dee Cee shocked the world, but there just were not enough natzis to go around. So Brovid Jiveteen was amped up, new strains invented in the lab, and fear continued at the heart of the dimwitted beast that is America.
-2022, just as German paratroopers are deployed in Canada to arrest Canadian truck drivers, No.Ass.Today.Oleg, yanks on the leash of the great Roosky circus Bear and goads it out of hibernation to maw...really...that’s all we could come up with...YouGotGrain natzis fighting for a Geebrew hero president who used to be a cross-dressing standup comedian?
Bro, Brovid will be back, in new versions. I am predicting that the Domnicron Birus, that targets transgender Trekkies [look, every Star Trek fan is a closet Klingon] will be announced, scheduled, released, updated and the masters of fear will again take up our reigns in our very veins.
The point about the last paragraph, is that it would be easier for American Meet Puppets to believe the Trekkie Plague narrative once people start getting runny noses and coughs again. It is just hard to sell respiratory plague at home when no one knows anyone who is sick. It is easier to sell us a distant threat, a large scale conventional war in which one side has absolute air superiority and has yet to use two MIGs to take out a lead vehicle and the rear vehicle and then drop anti-personnel munitions and create a 10,000 corpse highway of twisted metal and death.
That an army that has supposedly lost over 7,000 killed in combat that has yet to produce a single grisly battlefield scene, would not call in serious air support, suggests that Doctor Evil is in on the fix too. What reporting I have seen on this war thus far reminds me of two video gamer nerds doing a pro wrastlin’ style “work” to entertain the slo-eyed media herd drooling in their gaslit stalls.
Like Theadore Sturgeon once said, “95% of everything is crap.” I would say that is likely true of the Domnicron plague and the Roosky War.
06.28.22   nc — Bravo!
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posted: June 28, 2022   reads: 524   © 2022 nc
The Naked Exercises
And Notes on Video Reference Analysis, Coaching and Commentary: 3/15/22
Pankration Programming
Hey James, 
Check out this video.  It breaks down the exercises and the way the exercises were programmed for a Greek training for Pankration.  The nuance of the routines is interesting to see as they programmed so that the fighters would be able to workout day after day by increasing and decreasing intensity.  Each day started with developing a program for the day based on how the fighter was doing physically and mentally each day.
Thank you, Banjo.
This is interesting in that I read all ancient sources except for one, and have not found any of this information that you summarize. The actual ancient literature on agonistics [1] from the period from 750 B.C. through 100 A.D. is limited to references in poetics, philosophy and epigrams. There were almost no descriptions—other then a few sentences by Plato and Paul—of how men trained for wrestling, boxing or pankration. This makes sense in that we do not devote a significant fragment of our literature to such everyday things that we do a lot. Driving a car, would be an example that fits.
So, unable to view the video, I am assuming that the training regimen that you summarize comes from The Naked Exercises, by Philostratus, circa A.D. 250, who also wrote Pictures in a Gallery and Love Letters to a Boy. The only version of The Naked Exercises I could find was a High German translation in calligraphy, which I failed to translate.
This must remain a hole in the Broken Dance, another reason why I could not complete that series of history books and never wrote The Boxer Dread.
If this is the source, I would give two cautions:
-When Philostratus lived, pankration was only practiced by a handful of professionals and the sons of top Greek-speaking priests and politicians.
-When he wrote, the order of Classical Antiquity stood on the clock of ages at One Minute to Midnight. In the lifetime of his children, the war arts of Homeric Hellas preserved through the sacred agons would be swept into eternity by the Germanic tribal invasions and collapse of the Imperium, that date being, I think A.D. 260, after which there are no more records of pankration champions. Boxing evolved a great deal from 750 to 330 B.C. and then devolved until the 200s A.D. and was resurrected briefly in the 300s and finally died in 514.
Philostratus may have been alive at the time Asclepiades of Alexandria fought as the most dominant pankratiast of all time, circa A.D. 196. Was Asclepiades the only undefeated panratiast over 800 years of sacred agons we know of because the field of competitors had shrunken so?
Or did he represent an apex paragon?
Might he have been both, a convergence?
He retired once because no one would fight him! He did state himself that he won contests simply by showing up, that no one would fight him, which would have been an absurd statement by the greats of the 400s B.C. and points to an extreme degeneration of masculine energy among the prize fighters of late antiquity. Recall that Asclepiades would have been excommunicated and marked a heretic by his faith if he killed an opponent before the altar of the god. How different is the fact that not an athlete in the vast Roman Empire would throw down in an MMA fight in A.D. 196, than the glorious victory in death by Arrichion lauded by Philostratus in 570 B.C. in a small regional gathering of Greek towns and micro-cities?
However, on the positive side, Philostratus was a curator of classical antiquity and did study the athletes from the ages gone by, using many sources that have disappeared with his own age. In Pictures in a Gallery, he describes the death of a Pankratiast named Arrikhion, in the mid 500s B.C., which placed him as a preserver of athletic records some 750 years before his own time.
I am inclined to think, that with the degeneracy of his age drawing a pal across these great arts, that he also tried to preserve the training methods slipping through the widening gaps in masculine society.
Not having read this source, and noting the very honest nature of ancient sources and their desire to preserve old ways rather than alter them as we do, fills me with a confidence that Philostratus penned a work of great value and clarity.
I would dearly like to see an English translation of The Naked Exercises.
Thank you, Banjo.
1. Training for the sufferings of the contest, as opposed to Athletics, which was the actual activity of prize-seeking that concerned all poetics references to ancient combat athletics.
06.28.22   nc — James, you dodged the Bantu bullet. It thought you were on the train!
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posted: June 27, 2022   reads: 565   © 2022 nc
A Wendigo Short Novel
Copyright 2021 James LaFond
A Crackpot Book
Lynn Lockhart Publisher
Written For Pulp Fiction Renaissance, Richard Barrett Audio Publisher
Dust Cover
In 2031, as winter roars down out of Canada into the Lower 48, three hunters of “Olden Stripe,” Major Wolf, Ishmael Boone, and Punk City Coon, all join forces in one final attempt to grasp the vibrant threads of their violent youths amidst the stormy events gathering in the winter of their misbegotten lives.
Can three senior shithole citizens, a retired warfighter, a retired big game hunter and a retired ghetto assassin, fathom, let alone defeat, the savage uprising of primeval forces gathering in the backwoods of Southwestern Montana as the world turns on its human defilers?
“I have been asleep at the wheel my entire adult life.”
For Bob, who is experiencing what no father would have to experience in a just world.
To the Reader
For the past year various children of civilization, now disowned by their cruel collective parent, have reached out to me by the scores, for advice on how to deal effectively with an increasingly predatory social matrix. Answering such queries, which I now find distasteful a decade into this post-economic career as an advisor to the persecuted and hated minority that is the paleface man, I still take such queries seriously.
This morning, as I opened up this laptop to begin writing Ditcher, a 96-page short novel that will take four days to complete, I had half of my day eaten dealing with such a request for survival advice. That duty discharged, in the form of the article at the back of this weird story book, I now had only 3.5 days to start and finish a novel. Hence, I have returned in my mind to a place I was in September, 2016, with two newly met friends, one of whom lives up the road from the camper where I reside for the next few days in a place that appears very much like the scene of the story that I conceived at a glance in 2016.
Inspired by my time with the soldier and the hunter five years gone, and by the time spent these last few months leading three dogs—one of a curious magical sort, with the ability to summon the others—in such wild, mountainous places, I write Uprising, a short novel hatched over a beer and a bowl of chili, served by a Odin’s own barmaid once upon a mountain-shadowed time, as Bob and Shayne looked across the street following my gaze and asked what I was writing in my mind and I answered, “The Romanian Babe, we wouldn’t let anything happen to her, would we?”
We all agreed that old men with drawn faces are the most likely champions of hospitable dolls in raw places.
-James, LaFond, Thursday, February 18, 2021, Cascade Mountains, listening to the raw wind wail down the mountain face, through the bowed cedars, howling like penitents of old…
To the Reader 5
Locations 8
1 Bear Teeth Close 9
2 Beartooth Pass 15
3 Cooke City, Montana 21
4 Whiskey Wise Woman 26
5 Toby, Tobias, Tobbison 33
6 Howlings 41
7 Roarings 50
8 Rendings 56
Interlude of Uprising 65
9 Sendings 66
10 Fendings 72
11 Ravenings 77
Afterword 83
Appendix 84
'A Small Sacrifice' 84
The Grey God 91
‘True Science Fiction’ 94
‘A Homeless Drifter’ 101
Back to the Stone Age 105
‘Cocked in Those Days’ 113
'Creativity has its Madnesses...' 116
Winter Wheat Watch 121
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posted: June 26, 2022   reads: 298   © 2022 James LaFond
Jesuit Brand Continued
Scene 11.5 of The Acts of Awes West
For days and weeks he supposed, he was made to sip tea, smoked like jerky, massaged and worried, walked limping around the inside of the tower with that Indian holding him up. Eventually he was given a pot for his waste and left be, finally well enough to make scat.
In and out of delirium he had laxly studied the three figures:
The Christian Indian was short and slight and tireless. This man brought in the wood and minded the hearth, nursed him and cooked.
The heathen French voyager was tall, lean, burly in full beard and brusk, never speaking to him, but about him to the Jesuit. This one spent most of his time on the roof and outside on skies or snow shoes, a hunter of no mean ability, having slain a buffalo cow, and bringing back the organs, fat and four hunches over the course of a day. The meat smoked in strips as the bones boiled in the kettle, from where he took his nourishment by the Injun hand.
The Jesuit was too big and hard by half to be a priest of the ordinary or learned sorts. He was handsome and kind-eyed and read versus from his black Bible as Ole Geaze faded in and out of consciousness.
One day he ate fat.
The next day he chewed a little piece of meat.
The second day after eating fat, he listened intently to the Lord’s Prayer and when the Jesuit closed the Good Book he spoke like the risen dead, “Thank ye, Padre.”
The Jesuit soothed, “Call me Brand, Father—the Sorcerer of Awes West should waste no breath honoring our petty hierarchies.”
He croaked, “I ain’ no father—not ta no livin’ soul. My Father, Medicine Wheel Man, I cairned up by The Wheel when we fell sick.”
The man smiled softly, “We have ascertained these things, have prayed at Medicine Wheel Cairn, have lodged here in Medicine Wheel Tower, have cooked from the very kettle that the Angel of Whitefish Nunnery brought here with a rough boy’s help some sixty years ago. She sends her regards—your time trace is known, the man once called Sergeant Noose Gun.”
“You be the sorcerer then—ta know all such old afrays.”
The priest smiled softly again, “The tale of Medicine Wheel Man’s disciple, gifted by the Comanche in return for a prophecy, has long been known. We have book-traced this place, your Father—once an ordained member of my order—and have curated the reports of Jesuits who have traveled here before. The Knights Trace keep winter truce every fourth year so that we may ski here. Never-the-less, you are Our Father, the eldest of us here, the keeper of Medicine Wheel Man’s bones and lore. You are now the Sorcerer.”
The voice creaking from his mouth sounded ancient, “Cain’t read ner write nor recite—jus’ a saddle broke war fool.”
The priest smiled softly and put aside his Bible, made praying hands, opened them in the asking way, and soothed, “We hoped to find Your Father alive, to ask of the Winter, perhaps you recall something he said on the matter of shortening summers, lengthening winters?”
Clearing his throat and hawking a lung butter into the fire he leaned forward and mused aloud, “Father said the worl’ were bein’ tilted crooked wise a ‘way from the sun by God. Said he, ‘A year on the God Count might be an age to men.’”
“Thank you, Father.”
He shook his head, pained at being addressed so, the only persons that had called him father before being pony boys got macheted by the voodooists.
“Forgive us—but were you not something of a sorcerer of war? We also hoped. Roy, my voyager [1] keeping watch above, knows of your exploits through Indian lore, deserter stories and, I took the liberty of translating your fever dreams for his opinion, he being akin to what you once were, before Medicine Wheel Man took you as a disciple.”
He shrugged and coughed emptily, “Ease droppin’ on me nightmares?”
The priest bowed slightly, “I am guilty of burglarizing your tormented utterances. In my defense, recognizing that the Holy Spirit and The Devil were battling for your soul, I did read the Bible over you in less afflicted hours and recited the Exorcist Creed when The Devil came on. As such, Talks by Night and I were privy to the spoken portions of your dreams. Roy, a great admirer of your past life, not speaking English, asked after your torments. We apologize, Father.”
He nodded reluctantly and felt abashed over strangers knowing so much about him, after 20 years of single-minded service to Father in hopes of erasing any connection to his past.
Vexed he: ‘Damned babbling Comanches!’
He found rough voice, “Please, tell da Angel Nun what were once da Lady o’ Roses dat she were like ta my own Mamma en dat I avenged ‘er man on dat Grizz Knight.”
Jesuit Brand seemed to already know these things based on his look to the Injun, but politely smiled, “Assuredly we shall as we return through Whitefish. We travel with this pass bestowed upon us by the Master of The Knights Trace at Whitefish.”
Saying this he displayed a badge by pulling the cord that held it around his neck under the rosary beads out from under his black vestment. The reading he could not make out with his sore eyes from this distance and could not fathom the letters at any rate. However, the Gauntleted fist Holding up a Saddle Gun, spoke to him of that storied order who held Awes West against these cross-ways Canadian Christians, the Czarists and Injuns of various wicked sorts such as Blackfeet, Comanche and Ree.
Admitted he: ‘Always admired Knights Trace—s’pose I comported combat more in dey way den accordin’ ta Saint George.’
“Father,” asked the priest, “we were—having ascertained the nature of Medicine Wheel Man’s disciple—chiefly interested in begging his indulgence to permit questions of you. You might note that I do not have the Bible memorized—that I must read passages—and that I am of a more physical type than usual. I have been tasked by Pope Ignatius the Ninth, with securing the Northwest against the Czarists and...others, in hopeful alliance or perhaps only the sufferance of Awes West and The Knights Trace. We seek martial council.”
His voice sounded sure and clear, as if he had become of a sudden less done, “Had hoped ta leave dat kine o’ thinkin’ all behine…”
“Understood, Father. We need trouble you know more. Your larder will be increased and a healer of another kind will be sent. Talks-by-Night says there is a problem he cannot mend. Your wisdom is needed.”
The man began to rise with his book, turning like he would be retiring upstairs to Father’s table where he no doubt read.
His voice seemed nearly strong, “I owes ya me life—what’s lef’ anyhow. Aks away, Padre.”
The priest regarded him keenly, nodded and spoke softly, with care, “Blackfeet and Ree are scouting for Czarist slavers.”
“Yer Christian Injuns ‘ad da worse part o’ da Injun Jesused out a dem. Ye needs Crow, Shoshone, Delaware, good hired. The Shawnee might ‘ave some loose knives, but dey suck up ta Sepulcher mighty tight.”
The man produced a pencil and began writing in the back pages of his Bible, writing with an obsession that he had mostly seen on miners panning for gold.
“Oh, yeah, saddle guns, two to a man if ye got da iron. Swivel guns slung on a pack ‘orse for wreckin’ dey block houses—dem Czarists love dey lille block houses what put dem ta bossin’ dem fish-eaters.”
The man smiled and a French voice carried down the ladder, the hard, bearded face and wolfish eyes of the owner beaming with questions on fighting Injuns. It turned out that between the French making so many Indian friends and their Indians becoming Christian that this Czarist trick of using wild Injuns against the French had their Jesuit drawers in a knot or two.
The questions came and went, in varying detail, with requests for amplification and time eased over for digression into accounts of this raid, that burned fort and so on, that he had half forgotten he was old and unwell as his voice carried like a resonant echo down life’s mournful well.
Finally, well into the night, eating meat, the four men sitting around the hearth, the voyager spoke in French to the Jesuit who asked, haltingly, “Winter drives deeper. There is some famine. We wonder, have the Wendigo come this far south?”
His mouth went lax and he swallowed the currently worried chunk of bison absently, “They come in bad times, Father said—neva seen one myself. Old Medicine Crow what attended ‘ere ‘fore me knew all ‘bout dem skulkers.”
The three men looked at him and each other with some fear and Jesuit Brand said, “They are not alone in our home. The Sasquatch have returned as Stonish Giants.”
He looked at the voyager and said, “This ole geaze is durn pleased to be off da trace. I don’ envy yer lot, son—shuck dem swords if ya still use ‘em and pack more firin’ irons, ‘eaviest bore, three pistols en two saddle guns to a man. Iron’s what made ma rank, en wet powder is what lost my sand unda Massacre Tree. Keep spare powder horns slung under a poncho ova yer coat.”
They smiled, grim and narrow, knowing that on earth other-worldly things were thirsting for the morrow.
1. Voyagers were Canadian scouts and guides expert in Indian languages, boating, snow-showing, skying and dog-sledding. They were the rangers of the french-speaking north.
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posted: June 25, 2022   reads: 306   © 2022 James LaFond
Jesuit Brand
Scene 11 of The Acts of Awes West
Waking cold under his bison robes, the soft sunlight filtering down from the ladder hatch above, reminding him of his imperfect building, brought the desire to die. The snake now rattled in his chest, his cough weaker than the wheeze, the loneliness colder than the north-sent breeze.
The last embers smoldered beneath the kettle, a mere shadow of deeper dark behind the sunbeam and its dancing motes, the last ash cast out from the almost dead fire.
Mused-mumbled he: ‘Demon of fire, ye like me expire. Ye hunger for much more clean than my thirst for such as can’t be understood by such as me.’
His lips worked raggedly, mouthing the words of his mind’s lyre that he was too weak to speak.
His breath, cold like snow, gave out across the beam of sunlight nearest and made a cloud among which danced the ashy motes…
Sergeant Noose, having lost and buried his command entire, woke from that cold camp. 38 years in the saddle, under the banner of Saint George, under the swords of knights good, bad and saint-like, living by the gun had of a sudden risen within he who had been regarded for 35 years as the hardest heart in the ranks; had bubbled up within him and dashed him to an earthly purgatory, spiritless and undone.
A trio of Comancheros were tracking him with middling skill and less will, greedy but wet-fingered of wit.
Noose of old would have turned and slew them.
Noose now suddenly old lacked the sand to even loose them.
Into Comanche Stand, the finger of Kansas belonging to the Dog Morning Band, he would head, cold camping, starving, limping of soul. It was spite, to lead these slave-trading whiskey-mongering turds into the den of the very wolves of all tribes.
Noose o’ Gun, youngest ranger made, would have chaffed under such orders.
Sergeant Noose, raised to that rank after the Battle of Little Rock, at age 21, where Old Sacks fell before the Voodoo Horde, youngest Sergeant raised, would have never given such orders.
But Sergeant of Nobody, born by the noose—failed his every charge under Massacre Tree—traced now like an old bull what lost his antlers before the rut, hang-headed and bent on dying on the lonesome loose.
Sunrise caught him sleeping, blazing light into his waking peepers and blinding him to what crept near.
A hand pressed to his chest—
Mused he: ‘A Comanche got the get-time woke of me?’
The hand was kind, questing after a life sign.
The chest the hand felt was sunken and rattle-torn, not the still deep chest of Sergeant of Nobody, leader of the Dead, deserter of The Order.
He coughed weakly and a strong hand pulled him up and began slapping his back, trying to loosen up the venom in his chest…
A rag in a broad hand cleared his mouth.
The bright cold of winter day shone and shone as the door opened and an Injun and a Voyager brought in wood, took out the kettle, brought it back full of snow and stoked the great hearth.
Groused he: ‘Blasted Canadians!’
At last he leaned upright propped by aspen logs covered with bison hide blankets. Across from him, seeming like a specter in the flickering firelight, sat a young strong man in middle years—no, not young, but way south of done. This man had a clean shaved face, wore a black cap, black robes, an ornate rosary, and held the Bible between his hands, broad hands incongruent for a book-reading man.
Above someone shoveled snow off the roof.
Next to him an Injun—Huron he thought, the slaves of the Jesuit heretics—tilted his lolling head forward and pressed a wooden cup of hot tea to his lips with the other hand, saying in soothing and French-accented English, ‘Drink Medicine Wheel Father, drink.”
Mused he: ‘I but be the broken son—not the Father.’
The Jesuit smiled slightly and kindly and said in deep, resonant tones, “Sorcerer, I have much need of your counsel. Please, live to speak on matters troubling and deep—heal and rest. I am Jesuit Brand. Talks by Night is a healer. We have brought medicine from the Pharmacists of Montreal, knowing your life has been so long and without comfort. Sleep, sleep deep.”
The Comanche had got the half-breed Comanchero scum a few days back near the Kansas Colorado line. Wyoming loomed leering in the sky as he began his night march with his remaining two ponies, having cut the big destrier loose to occupy the pursuers that would no doubt be on his trace after torturing the weakest of those he had witted and paced.
He would hide by day and ride by night into the very abandoned homeland of the Comanche who had left this wind-shaped place when the horse they found and rose from savage anon to ride as God’s very scourge upon impious Christian men.
On his last and final trace, whether murdered and despoiled or attaining that sacred high place, Deserter Sergeant o’ None felt in his belly growls and the wind’s hollow groans a chorus that told him that as a warrior he was done. His stomach for fight was all gone, and even his appetite for cunning flight was spent down like a ranger’s crib hand [1] as his trickster tracing degenerated into a flat-out run.
Was it the fifth day in Wyoming or the seventh?
Six seemed all wrong.
The sluggish blood in his veins rose in his temples like a drum and told him he was near, that the Medicine Wheel Man was up there to the right of the setting sun.
They were a mere hour back, within sight coming over that gray and black striped bluff of a mountain. Up ahead he could see the ponderosa stand where many a bitter man had been laid low 35 years gone, not only by his vicious hand, but on account of his unforgiving soul.
The last pony halted between his knees, his saddle and gear long shucked, his canteen empty and only the toothpick and Old Issue in his sash to remember his ways.
Those three were ragged as well, their pony string either eaten or left graze with the follow-up mob.
The world swam and the sun swelled as his arched and cracked lips drooled a puff of dust, “Girl, get dis ole geaze ta yon trees en ill monkey da res’.”
Not having the heart to put heels to her—him never being one for spurs, even when making sergeant and having them awarded as a lay squire’s due—he clicked that old pony boy’s click and the poor worn hooves of his final mount trotted lightly, her gait telling him that a gallop would break her.
He croaked, not even having the sand left to ride another mount into the dust, “‘At’s alright girl—if ye please I’d appreciate getting arrow shot jus’ ‘tween dem trees, where ole Paint laid her bones savin’ a wee boy for this rattle o’ groans.”
On she trotted, gingerly. His backward glance told him that the pursuers were taking their time, knowing his mount was done and saving theirs for their homeward return, content to take him afoot, three young lances to his one empty, ancient gun.
“Sorcerer?” whispered a deep rasp of kind concern, “wake from your far place.”
-1. The card game played by the Rangers of the Knights of Saint George, who are forbid to gamble, is cribbage, a game which uses pegs upon a small board to mark points in the manner of a race. The crib hand is the four cards reserved for the dealer for his extra count, though he counts last, permitting the other two players to peg in first across the finish. The three player aspect appeals to the frame of military mind held by the rangers, who conduct scouts and pursuits of fugitives, most often in trios and also organize their larger bodies in three parts. It is Order Doctrine, that so long as there are three men in the ranks, then that unit remains fully functional as an operational element.
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posted: June 25, 2022   reads: 302   © 2022 James LaFond
The Bully
A Twitter Friend of Lynn Needs Advice: 3/9/22
I spoke with my editor today and I learned that a reader needed bully advice for a son in school. I was not going to go to the bar and get online until next week. But I will go send this to her tomorrow.
I was bullied from age 5 to 12. My youngest son was bullied. My oldest son was bullied. This is what we did.
At age 12, I decided that bullying me was a capital crime and sentenced every bully thence to immediate death and attacked to kill. Bullies quickly disappeared. Humans know when you are trying to kill them as you snarl, and stab, and grab for their throat and quest for their nose with your teeth and claw at their tender eyes and try and rip off their nut sack.
My eldest son was being bullied and robbed and I handed him a razor to cut the negro throat. He looked at me in the hallway between the bathroom and his room and stepped away and said, “Sorry, I’m not you.”
I talked to the negro.
The negro sent four older cousins after me, who could not do me in, and after calling my wife and telling her I was dead, did not confront me again.
I talked to the negro.
His mother talked to me.
Realizing that the negro was moving drugs for his mother, I said, “Bitch, I will come down to your house with a gas can and a machete. Before you die, you will see me kill your boy, rape your daughter and eat your fucking dog!”
I headed for the machete and the negro had already begged my son to call me off—a bully no more. Some other negro killed him and I smiled.
If you are trash like me, you can do this.
My youngest son fought. I trained him and he beat up bullies at school. We then moved him to a nice area. I did do away with some negro bullies who chased him home once.
Psycho Dad helps.
Unfortunately, in the present state of things, your involvement will get you unemployed and legally persecuted. Unless you are willing to do time protecting your son, he will have to deal with it.
America is a bully nation, never fighting a nation its own size—ever.
America schools are geared to encourage and protect bullies and produce corporate and deep state bullies to bully the rest of us as adults.
If your son wants a good job and a university education, he will have to be a slave to bullies and get over it, doing what needs done to be a bully slave.
If your son wants a good education and job, and not be bullied, then he better be in the top 90% of physical specimens and devote himself to combat readiness and mind warfare against lesser creatures.
If he just wants not to be bullied, if that is indeed his priority, then he can fix it tomorrow.
Bully List
All who have bullied him are listed as mortal enemies, their crimes noted in a carry letter as serial and/or gang-stalking tormentors. These bullies should be pardoned in this letter, kept in duplicate at home and on his person. So long as these bullies do not strike again, he will not retaliate.
Retaliation is Punishment
One does not honor bullies by fighting them. All of their words are to be ignored. No word is to be spoken to them. If a bully insults or threatens, the list is amended by hand and also the master list at home and duplicated, pardoning verbal threats and insults until physical contact brings payment due. A bully is not punished unless he touches you.
If you do not have a weapon in hand and have no advantage against a larger bully or more numerous or dangerous party, differ punishment. The best time to punish is when the bully is seated in class. Stab him, bash him or gouge him in front of the teacher. I did this my first day of 9th grade, but did it standing as I was fit and large.
-a. Two sharpened pencils, one in the left hand held like an ice pick one in the right held in the hammer grip. Back fist to the face with the left hand and forehand stab to the face with the right hand—repeat.
-b. Walk to the teacher past the seated bully holding your heaviest book. Hand her the bully note out of the book. Turn and knock the bully teeth down their throat with two handed strokes of the book binding corner.
-c. Come up behind the seated bully and fish hook both eyes with fingers. Let the nails grow sharp for this. As he covers his eyes topple him over in between his chair and the next desk and chair. Hold onto the other chair and jump up and down on is head with your heels.
-d. Hand the note to the teacher then bend over the bully’s desk to face him and spit in his face. Then slap him and let the world know he is a bitch. Do not speak to him, ever, for any reason. He is a dog. He does not deserve your words. He is beneath even your insults. Attack his mind. Never stop staring at him. Stare at him all class long.
-e. Hunt the bully, following him and stalking him after school. Hide a screwdriver in the bushes and arm up and be ready to stab him in the guts over and over and over and gloriously over again! I did this to 16-year-olds when I was 12.
-f. Hand the teacher the note and do a running clothesline tackle of the seated bully.
-g. Climb onto the desk behind the bully and jump stomp his head face or neck, covering your head with your hands to keep from taking a head injury as you careen off of his head into other students and desks.
-h. With one piece desk chairs, if they still have them, tackle him from the side so he is pinned in the chair and then stomp his head.
-i. With two piece desk chairs, pick up your chair from the back of the classroom and come up behind him and beat his brains out with your chair.
-j. With table seating in class or at lunch, stand up on the table and walk up to him soccer kicking his teeth in.
Grab Defense
Have your dad grab you in various bully ways and you practice grabbing one of his fingers with both of your hands. Get dowel rods about as thick as adult fingers and practice breaking those rods between your hands. You can do this with bundled pencils and stacked popsicle sticks. When bigger people grab you or when grapplers grab you always break a finger—always! Work on your grip strength!
Sword and Shield
Always carry a sharp pencil in your dominant hand and as soon as you are slapped, hit, grabbed or otherwise violated by a bully stab his liver or spleen deeply and again. Use a book bag or book as a shield. If they take it from you, that is when they are stabbed, as they take the bully bait!
Day dream about stabbing and gouging and stomping. Kill the bully in your mind at least a hundred times a day. This will help prepare you.
Hammer Dagger
Keep multiple pens clipped to your shirt collar and pocket so that they can be reached while you are attacked and used to hammer fist into face and neck.
Meadhall Law
Sit alone. Do not sit with friends. If they have permitted you to be bullied, they are not worthy friends. Discard these people and keep your own company. Note that the bully sits with friends, a symptom of his mental weakness.
When the bully is seated among friends in the lunch room get your food tray, select a butter knife and fork, one for each hand. Carry the tray on the back of your hands over to the bully. Spill the tray on the bully and then stab his face over and over again with the fork and knife. Snarl and growl as you do this to keep from locking up. Never ever talk—strike the enemy!
Fill a sock full of pennies and jam it in your pants pocket. Go up to the seated bully and flail his head with the penny-filled sock.
Never stop attacking. Always attack until you are disabled.
Never threaten or speak.
Practice staring in the mirror, boring into the weak soul of the bully, and always eye the bully in person. Your eyes are weapons to a bully. Bullies are all mentally weak—all of them.
If a bully grabs you and pulls you into his face, head butt his nose with your forehead or just bite his nose off, tearing to the side.
Join a boxing gym and learn how to fight.
Never agree to fight, ever, outside of the gym.
You defend against and punish the bully, a subhuman creature who is unworthy of honorable combat.
Any person who threatens you harm and touches you, and who you then defeat, should have their thumb or trigger finger broken while they are in submission. Just grab it and break it.
The Bully Circle
When circled by bullies, you are screwed, so take one with you. Stab the smallest, weakest one first. Keep stabbing his ass! Even as they stomp and kick you keep stabbing his punk ass!
You can’t beat a bully circle, so mark them all on the list and punish them one at a time, always looking for the weaker ones first and getting them alone. Always attack the weak one, never the strong one. Save the strong one until you get better at dishing out punishment. He deserves your best efforts.
Stone Face
Practice not crying—never cry, ever, not even when your dad dies.
Stand in the mirror and hit your face as hard as you can with your fist and practice taking it and snarling back in the mirror.
Work on spitting large volumes of spit by saving it while you are being bullied and whenever a bully puts his face in yours spit full in it. Spit for the eyes and then punch for the chin or stab for the guts if you have your trusty sharp pencil. Spitting on people is a crime. That is one reason to do it, to sneer at the unjust laws that are dedicated to you being bullied.
Remember the enemies list. The greatest men in the world have kept enemies lists and exacted vengeance at their ease. When the bully is up for a fight and challenges you, ignore him. Then wait until he is lost in thought, thinking about how he’s going to have to listen to his whore mother get railed by her drug dealer again—then ruin what is left of his miserable day! The bully is a weak and miserable creature and it is your duty to torment and ruin and damn him upon the rocks of his own dismay. It is not always easy and you may wish to forgive and forget, but do not. Remember that it is your duty to break the bully, to render him into the kind of pathetic person that will turn to drugs to ease his pain and then die of an overdose.
Your goal is nothing short of making sure that the bully dies of a drug overdose before he fathers a child!
This is your sacred duty as an enemy of America the Bullyfull.
06.26.22   M — LaFond smashes it into the back of the net.
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posted: June 24, 2022   reads: 1318   © 2022 M
Andrew Edwards Interviews the Crackpot
Warhorse Podcast #31: An Affair of Honor Part Two
Below is Andy's work up for the podcast. I'd encourage you to go through his backlog, especially the James Bowery interview. Andy and I might be doing a written collaboration in the future. I can see my his graphic that i need to lose another 20 pounds.

Back for episode two of the James LaFond series. The Harm City Travel Guide, Urban Shaman and survival expert—not to mention noted historian, novelist, fighter, and coach returns. We open with another piece of speculative endophysics where we ask: can an out-of-tune CNS truly find concert/resonance with others? You can feel it around dogs. You can feel it when you vibe, jive, or otherwise sync with someone. So what are the real parameters besides "reasons?" And how does Castaneda harmonize with Rupert Sheldrake in theory or practice?
We cover the Ancient Greek etiquette of—xenia—in the context of The Odyssey and explore what all might have been lost, missed, or overlooked in terms of the deep mesh underlying western civilization, strangers, and the creation of a hero. The Odysseus Conversion is underway.
In our interview segment, James and I discuss his fiction, street experience, the Affair of Honor Appalachian Fightfest of 2022, and a great deal more. Once again, as your lawyer, I advise you to immediately, in earnest, visit for daily output and to shop his innumerable books.
Also in this episode/outro: the powerful daily practice (these are building blocks of ritual, the components for Building Into Time) of the Slav Squat and the deadhang. We pay tribute to the quiet passing of one of the world's greatest artists—Kelly Joe Phelps, and tie back to The Polytropos, The Wounded King, and—of course—spin to drop a meal-size addition into The Criminal of Purpose conversation by expanding into agility, dry-fire practice and how to make it much more interesting and applicable.
Free half:
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posted: June 24, 2022   reads: 712   © 2022 James LaFond
Summer Notes
The Crackpot Confession of a Computer Killer: 6/24/2022
I murdered my online computer in G-string New Jersey—worked it to death after a few years of toil.
I'll get another in the fall.
The site is scheduled with posts through September 6.
I have online access here at The Brick Mouse House until August 1.
There are 65 articles and 25 chapters of a novel written and ready to schedule.
Before I leave for the west in August the rest of 2022 should be scheduled.
If you have an article prompt send it to my email before end of July.
When I take a day four times a year and just schedule posts, I put crackpot mailbox posts first.
Below are notes, links and brief questions and comments from readers, some of whom are writers:

"By the way, I have started writing, too. But with your vision problem, are you able to read?"
Well, here's my Substack. Please don't overexert your eyes. Have a good weekend.
I can read 16 point Lucida Sans up to 2 hours a day now so can look at documents in that font.

Mon, May 23, 9:51 PM to me
James, you might recall the bicyclist (James Ponsi) who was stabbed to death by three "youths" back in 2016 in Waverly. One of the attackers was Prince Greene.
Despite his crime, Greene was released from juvi in short order, but did not pursue his dreams of becoming a doctor or honest grocery manager and coach:
Thankfully, his 10 year sentence for the 2018 crimes was suspended down to the ~9 months he had spent in pre-trial confinement. So, he was back out on the streets in early 2019:
While putting the Harm in "Harm City," he also seems to have racked up a robbery charge in 2020 (was not using his Brovid Jiveteen mask to full obscuring effect). Only 7 years suspended of a 10 year sentence:
As best I can tell, he's locked up for the time being on Madison Street:
Because the robbery was a violation of his probation for the 2018 crimes, he's having a hearing later this month:
You are are a father and a grandfather. I cannot imagine the grief of the Ponsi family that they lost their son to violence perpetrated by a monster, nor the rage they must feel if they've been tracking how the system has handled Greene subsequently.
As you noted in your coverage of the Ponsi killing, "nice guys die in Baltimore."
Unlike the Ponsi family, I will not be raising any nice guys.

Sun, May 29, 7:24 PM
Eine Denkpause: Davos - The Real White Supremacist Extremists
-B Sirius

Budding surgeon.
Thu, Jun 16, 7:46 PM (8 days ago) to me, Lynn

Ghost Hunters
Thu, Jun 23, 4:02 AM (1 day ago) to me
Hi James, I hope you're well. I was wondering if you had or had planned to release Ghost Hunters as a full book? I've been looking over your bookstore page and amazon listings and haven't been able to find it. Is it available for purchase? I've been hoping to read it ever since you mentioned it on Myth a couple years ago.
Best Wishes,
The book Ghost Snatcher might be in print this coming winter. My editor is working under a 71 book backlog. I sent Mike a copy. In cases of books that you know I completed, you can check the gaming page for How many Books are You Writing, which has book status updates, email me, and when I bump into a computer I haven't killed yet, and I find that you donated a small sum to my ghost fund, I'll send you the unedited pdf. I won't do this with history books, just travel and fiction.

Wed, Jun 22, 10:42 AM (2 days ago) to me
Thanks! I’ve read like 30 of your books might as well make it 31! Looking forward to the boxing book Lynn is putting out.
I haven’t read any of the Plantation America books - admittedly have been putting it off because I don’t want to learn what it has to teach - definitely an effeminate trait right in there. I’ll start with Cracker Boy in a coupla weeks.
I sent Marc Into Wicked Company, which is the easiest Plantation America book to read and a reasonable starting point.

Tue, Jun 21, 11:51 AM (3 days ago) to me
Thought you might find this of interest.
Don Quotays

Greetings from Portland Joe
Sat, Jun 18, 7:10 PM (6 days ago) to me
How was Man Weekend?
It was great, 14 men fighting and training and socializing. Next year it should be bigger and better and planned much further in advance. I wrote about a dozen article on it which should post in November.

Thu, Jun 23, 3:08 AM (1 day ago) to me
Hi James! I have been meaning to send more musings and thoughts on issues, hopefully I will send it soon. During my travels and in my life I will see something or experience and I will have a conversation with the crackpot in my head and I wonder what your thoughts would be on the subject. But maybe it is good I don't send it to save your eyes. I have been really enjoying your talks with that guy "in these going down" on youtube. I really hope you can make more hobo history videos. I really love the intro music to hobo history. Its a real pity that rusty and that other guy who I can't recall his name( the homeschooled guy who wears suits) stopped doing videos with you because I really enjoyed those talks. But at least you still have 20th century guys! Thank you for the free book! I will write to you soon ! Take care!
ps: I watched your recent sparring sessions, awesome stuff!
-Michael Collins
I can read 16 point Lucida sans.
I am supposed to do some hobo history with Incognegro who works on Extended CP Time. There are 15 episodes recorded that have not been released. So if we do one I'll insist on livestream, which means facebook, I think. Backfist Mick brought up your bully stories on Man Weekend and suggested you attend next year if you are State Side. He tooled me up in boxing.

Thu, Jun 23, 10:26 PM (10 hours ago)
It's an LTE, so missing some context:
I really enjoyed our dinner conversation at The Esoteric Cafe.

Rusty Vignettes
Fri, Jun 17, 2:24 AM (7 days ago)
Hi James and Lynn,
I saw on twitter from corsair21c (the last pirate) that apparently the rusty podcasts are gone, but i downloaded a few of them a while back. Please see the link here-
James LaFond
Wed, Jun 22, 11:16 AM (2 days ago)
Oh, thank you! Hope you are well, Oliver. Here is something I wrote during the plague 2 years back. james
4:37 AM (4 hours ago)
Thank you, I have been well and I hope you have been too.
The events of the past year or more has really made me appreciate your works and insights even more. They crystalised a lot of thoughts I’d been having and served as a touchstone and guide for me as I fumble my way through this world.
I recently read alienation nation and this sentence you wrote really hit hard as quite a few years ago I’d had the same thought thinking that I’d want to write a book pass some knowledge to any other souls out there that thought like I did and give them what little wisdom I could, little realising at the time how little I actually knew…
“As a thinker and writer I see myself as one in a long line of alternately hunted and shunned autonomous minds struggling to preserve what portion of the truth we may, in hopes of handing it off to others of the same ilk.”
So thank you again James.
-Optimist E. Lee
Optimist, thank you. It is an honor that my eccentric attempt to avoid insanity by writing for publication as a compulsion, has value to anybody.
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posted: June 24, 2022   reads: 719   © 2022 James LaFond
Will The Silverback Ivory Hoodrat Return to the Foe Den? 3/3/2020
“Hey James, I heard you were in Portland. You still planning to come back to Baltimore sometime this spring/summer?”
-The Brick Mouse
It is nice to be wanted at this socially degradable age.
My Portland host’s oldest son turns 13 in mid March. So I plan on staying for his birthday. Mother’s day is in early May, so I have to be back east to visit Mom by then.
Yetison One’s younger brother just beat up a schoolmate who attacked him. The single mother of this kid has been asking Yeti Waters for compensation for the beating handed her son by my prize Portland boxing pupil, Yetison Two.
Yetison One then said, about the defeated foe, “What kind of wimp brags about his mother being a stripper?
“Ding-ding-ding!” went the hoodrat conflict resolution meter as Yeti Waters and I began hatching a plot to compensate Stripper Mom by way of man-making services rendered for Yetison One’s birthday party…
So it goes.
Social obligations never cease to rear their darling heads.
Provisionally, in hopes of being assassinated by postmodern anarcho-tranz militants and thence earning enough media credentials to sell some books for Madam Lockhart, the Eastward migratory route looks like:
-March: Portland, Oregon
-March, last week: Oakland-Emmeryville, California
-April, first week: Denver, Colorado
-April, mid: Rural Missouri
-April, last week: Pittsburgh, PA
-May, 1st week: Lancaster, PA
-Mother’s Day: Harford County, MD
-May, mid: Northeast and East Baltimore
-May, last week: T&A, New Jersey
-June: unplanned, in the MidAtlantic
-July: unplanned, in the MidAtlantic
-July: Last Week, Ocean Citay, MD with Mom
-August: to points west…
I trust this helps my friends and readers and Creep State handlers in some way.
Thanks for the interest.
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posted: June 23, 2022   reads: 773   © 2022 James LaFond
‘How Are Things in Portland?’
The Brick Mouse Wants to Know: 3/3/2020
It is raining a lot in Portland, yanking the bad eye this way and that as the Grey God torments this worn out sack of bones.
Writing is going really well, as my surroundings are very familiar and I have very few contacts here and my host works a lot. I have been writing, sleeping a few hours, writing, sleeping, writing, exercising, etc.
Portland is an interesting study in terminal civil decline, which makes it a cushy place for someone who survived the Baltimore Drug War. The Drug War here is already over—everything is legal. Violent crime is ten fold what it was two years ago but less then 10% of what it is in Bantu drug war zones like Baltimore, Philly, Jamaica Queens, Camden, Detroit, Flint, etc.
It is getting steadily worse. But people are so Testosterone deficient in Portland that unless you go messing with tweakers in their tent cities, marching in protests, or are female or Asian, there is not much aggression to deal with.
Most of the males in Portland conform to the following Neurotypes:
-Fat or skinny, very few being fit, with hips generally wider than shoulders
-Masked outside,
-Gender questionable…
The dangerous minority are:
-Insane meth-head bitches with tattooed necks, rocking bodies and stone faces, like the whore I saw blowing reefer into a dead potted plant on a sidewalk in front of Bar Maven this morning, talking to the plant and trying to revive it.
-Frightening but peripheral tweaker apes in their camps. These guys are tooling up and I will never help Yeti Waters rob these savages again.
-The occasional light of skin kang learning how to be threatening to the most deracinated ghost people on earth, who generally regard this old cook as if I’m Dracula risen.
-Working class men who attend dive bars on the outskirts of town and work in the trades.
The women type like so, from most to least common:
-Good looking professionals with cucked slave husbands
-Working class women between 30 and 50 in desperate need of a real man, who work almost all of the registers and food counters.
-Lumpy lesbos and koolaid haired manhaters
-Underpaid sex workers who are not yet ugly
-Middle aged ladies who work for a living
-Segregated Latinas and Asians going about their business
-Native chicks who have outlived their men and are looking for white guys
-Light skinned Queans who are treated like royalty by all
If I were a young man I’d settle in Portland.
-Since I’ve lost weight, and have begun looking even older, numerous women in their late 30s have expressed an interest in me. This is an indication that there are more wombs aching to be seeded with yeti spawn than there are yetis willing to sire offspring. This would be a good place for a man in his prime to rescue a girl from and take her to the country for clean living.
If I were a cop or other kind of violent criminal I’d set up a racket here ASAP.
-Pimping could make a real comeback in Portland
-Good hitters are needed
-Security work gigs are expanding
-Good looking women are still relying on vaginal authority for protection from men, so you could bag a lot of mid-range bitches for sale in Morocco and a few beauties for the Israeli slave trade.
Graffiti I saw this morning that was new:
In Pink, by same hand on various buildings:
-End Civ
-Kill KKKops
In black, on side walks:
In white, on buildings
Florid gang style art is starting to get more common, but the nihilistic anthems are still the rule, with social justice themes lagging.
A police helicopter ran a tight search pattern over this garage today, for reasons unknown. Made it feel like Baltimore for a few moments, the thrill of rotors banking sharply just above tree top.
Most businesses are still doing much less then pre-covid business, exceptions being retail food, weed shops and liquor stores, indicating that many of these local service-oriented businesses are tax shelters or money laundering operations.
Mask cultism is less militant and more fashion and faux identity oriented, with the highest proportion of out doors mask wearing by Caucasians I have seen, anywhere, ever.
Portland is a great writing spot.
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posted: June 22, 2022   reads: 1108   © 2022 James LaFond
Portland Joe & The Brick Mouse
Addressing Muscular Tightness and Back Spasms in Your Prime: 3/3/2022
Back on Sunday, having just arrived in Portland, Joe and I were sparring when he showed early fatigue and described having tight legs when he saw me stretching between rounds.
Then, today, The Brick Mouse, preparing for a barbarian versus celestial tournament back in The Beast, informed me of back problems.
I then recalled that I had neglected this subject with my two most recent training partners. The Brick Mouse is in his late 20s, meaning Early prime, and Portland Joe is in his mid 30s, meaning late prime. This is at the same age at which fighters begin having trouble making weight and move up a class.
I have noted, in work and sports, that late 20s to late 30s is the age bracket were men who have back problems of a chronic nature, as opposed to accident trauma, develop these issues. Perhaps it has something to do with the emotional tension of entering the age at which a man is supposed to make his place in the world. At the same time, this is the age at which longtime participation in sports or labor, will begin to wear on a man.
31 was the year of my crippling back injury. By 36 I was more flexible and fit than ever, due to following a flexibility program recommended by Doctor Estwanix, [most likely misspelled] who was the Olympic Boxing Team doctor in the 1980s and an inventor of the MMA glove in the early 1990s.
First, 80% of lumbar back spasms in men, and many disc herniations resulting from muscular tension imbalance, correlate with tight hamstrings—the biggest muscles in your body yanking on the four smaller muscles meeting in your lower back and governing your hip rotation and flexion.
To lengthen the hamstrings begin with slow plyometric heel and toe raises for the lower leg, because the calves and shins will be involved to some extent and you want to eliminate that issue safely and early.
Below is what I developed in my late prime and still use today. If I stop doing this for a week, I am unable to walk.
Stand in a doorway and raise one foot off the ground and rotate it around the ankle, in both directions.
Rock slowly back and forth from toe raise to heel raise from pigeon toe to duck footed.
Hold onto the door frame and tilt to one side until the other foot clears the ground [not flexing your hip to achieve this foot lift]. Then rotate the leg around the hip in small circles.
Walk or walk in place for long enough to warm up your legs.
Touch the outer part of each foot to the door frame and then slowly bend over, grabbing your pants and then your thighs and knees, and try and slowly pull your face towards the space between your knees. Do this for 30 seconds after the point of relaxation and then repeat 5 times. The muscle lengthening Estwanix established in his clinic was, per set:
-1. 5%
-2. 10%
-3. 20%
-4. 40%
-5. 80%
-6. no additional benefit
After this, try doing a plyometric [bounce] stretch, very slowly at the minimum range you had before set 1. When you are stretched out after six months, you can do plyos at wider ranges and even replace the static stretches with plyos.
For instance, in summer time, I stand on the grass with my feet shoulder width apart and punch the ground between my feet alternately with each hand, and then advance to cross touching the toes.
Once stretched out with feet apart, end your session with a forehead to knees stretch with your feet together.
Backing it up to the injured state.
If you are really tight and or experiencing back pain, warm up by walking 20 minutes.
If you are injured to the point where you walk incorrectly replace the mechanical warm up with a hot bath.
Once warm, lay on the floor with a belt or towel held between both hands and one leg bent at the knee with the foot flat on the floor.
Pull the other knee back and drape the towel or belt over the arch of the foot. Then, holding this device in bother hands, straighten that leg out at a tolerable angle. Hold this angle for 30 seconds. Then relax and do 4 sets with the leg straight but relaxed as you pull back gently with the loop to increase range of motion with the active leg passively relaxed.
Once you can get your leg to 90 degrees, add the following stretch to lengthen the linkage between the hams and the lower back.
From the same prone position:
-leave the prone leg straight,
-turn your head to rest the ear on the floor on the side where the bent leg is,
-reach across your body with the hand you are looking away from and cup your knee,
-pull that knee across your body and the top of the prone leg until the hip hurts slightly and then hold
You can eventually advance this stretch to a hip adjustment like a chiropractor does. When my gait goes off from jarring, tension, or overwork, I am able to equalize my leg length by doing this.
A good stretch when warm, is to spread your legs just beyond shoulder width a foot out from the wall and slide down into a squat, resting the back against the wall to take leverage off the knees. This stretches the connective tissue over your coxic bone between your two hips, which is tight on most men who have chronic low back pain and tight hams strings. If your knees are good and you are not overweight, you can just do this ancient stone age fire-tending position as a sacrum stretch.
Look up yoga stretches for the ilio-psoas muscle and hips for additional flexibility and injury prevention.
Do not stretch before training, but afterwards.
The best warm up you can do for whatever type of combat training you do, is to use slow motion, relaxed motions that are the same as those you will be practicing for speed and power.
Side bends, waist rolls, standing alternating knee raises and boxing and FMA triangle footwork drills are all good low risk warm ups and warm downs.
06.30.22   Sam J. — "flexibility program recommended by Doctor Estwanix"

Thanks a lot for describing this. I looked all over for it when you first mentioned it but forgot about it. If you read this, is this all the exercises? Thanks again.
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posted: June 21, 2022   reads: 875   © 2022 Sam J.
How Retarded is the Crackpot?
Follow Up To Words: 4/10/2022, Missouri
1.  I have given my daughter unlimited access to audiobooks and have also helped you gain access to audio library books online.  I struggled with whether this was a good thing for my daughter, worried that it might remove motivation she needed to get her reading.  Now that I have learned more about dyslexia, I am so glad I let her listen as much as she wanted (and still do).  It would not have improved her reading to withhold them and the value of it for her vocabulary, general knowledge and understanding and enjoyment of literature has been priceless.  How do you think such a resource would have affected you in different times of your life?  Before you learned to read, or as an adult when you were first writing on your own, or when you were reading massive amounts in libraries?
2.  Much of your writing has involved interviewing people and then recounting their answers, much later, from memory or very scant notes.  How do you do this?  If you don't hear words when you are writing your own, do you hear the words of others in your memory?  
Lynn, I am so glad your girl is reading. The thing that made me want to read, and learn how to read, where I never bothered to learn math or science, which were both things I had often wished I understood, was hearing stories.
Our father used to tell us tall tales, for instance, about the time he led an expedition up the Amazon River and all of his men got eaten by Pirana fish. My mother read to me and this stoked me with a desire for me to read, for one who was weak and lost at all things in this life could listen as a silent cheering ghost to the stories of men, who seemed such better creatures than us children.
I wanted dearly to be able to read books on my own. Having heard stories—historical or fictional—stoked this desire. My special ed class combined this by having we idiots coached on reading the adventures of men, holding out a promise that we too might be men some day—we were all five of us boys. The men who adventured in the Sea Hunt novels numbered four, and I did not want to be the single one of us left on the mute shore.
I did listen to some audiobooks from libraries and The History Book Club, back in the 1990s. I did this while I was working with a walkman. Had I thought of using this for research while doing The Broken Dance reading, I would have listened to the ancients while stocking overnight at Store 48 in South Baltimore. This would have enabled a better grasp of such massive works as Cicero, Polybius and Herodotus.
I highly recommend audio books and use them extensively since my eyes have begun to fail.
I have two types of interviews: snap and epic.
The snap interview is with a person that I have never spoken to, in which I listen and place affirmative comments. In such an interview I will forget 70% of what they say and hopefully gain a grasp of how they talk. I will then, days later, usually after I get off the train, record those statements of there’s I can recall in the way they said them. What sticks in my mind is the most interesting recollections and the most quirky-worded uses of the language. Since a character speaking in a novel is only being recorded saying a fraction of those things he says during his mostly “off-stage” life in the novel, I find this exercise helpful.
Once I gain enough to overflow my memory, which is usually 1 to 2 hours of conversation, I will excuse myself and walk home from the bar or leave the viewing car and return to my coach seat. There, I will repeat the words of the speaker as thoughts in my mind, while their image sits silently. With outrageous characters like Travis from Dallas, I will print some quotes on the back of my train ticket. For a person who spews a life story, these quotes provide memory cues and hooks on which I can restructure his words. This restructured monologue will be severely abridged.
With someone who I have long known, or I have interviewed over the course of some time, I try and learn their speech pattern, their diction, their quirks. In the case of a biography like with Big Ron, Nero the Pict and Mom, I sit and type their words as well as I may and later use my memory of missed words and knowledge of their speaking style to amplify the monologue.
With people who I am socializing with like Corby and Ken in Portland, training with like Portland Joe, being guided by like Ozark Paul, I repeat their words as illustrated thoughts, as images of scenes with actors wandering like invisible thoughts upon them. Since I speak with them often, I can rebuild their recollections closer to their patterns of expression than mine. For instance, last dusk, as Paul drove me through a long mountain valley, describing Man’s actions as I witnessed the effects of them, and recalling Civil War battles in the area, I was busy imprinting the images of the countryside in my mind.
His words, this morning, echo silently in my head, “The best land is under the lake. Rich folk desired a place to fish and boat and otherwise carry-on, so the farmland had to go... [1} Mexicans have a good eye for land. Where a white person will see a piece of land with a good view and decide to build their for no other reason, a Mexican will buy land based on its potential use.”
-1. Having forgotten a very pleasant piece of verbiage Paul used to describe the invasion of the Ozarks by the elite, I have taken another statement of his from the day before yesterday, and inserted it out of order, illustrating yesterday’s half-remembered observation with Sunday’s most memorable verbal demonstration.
I hear Paul’s distinct and drawl-throated voice in the other room now. But that quality, the sounds, do not come to me when recalling his words, but rather the thoughts, the meaning, which I will try to reform according to his way of speaking at a later date.
The recalling of actions and words is done the same way I used to memorize my side of the story before parental inquisitions as a boy. If my brother and I got in a fight, and I knew he would tell on me, or planned on tattling on him, I would rehearse my memory of it in my mind, silently, over and over. If I had tried to do this out loud, he would have beat me up again.
Below is an email from Portland Joe who is homeschooling also. Just as I would forget many of his words spoken to me in person, I will redact those of his words that are off topic:
“Dearest James,
“Greetings and salutations. I hope all is well with you as you travel across the plantation.
“I nearly forgot when we last spoke that I was to send you a message about homeschooling. The details now escape me. Perhaps it had to do with finding more resources for your editor? Or maybe it was to provide me with resources? Here is information on the curriculum we use:
“Don't worry: it was developed by a man, even though there's a woman influencer who markets it. It's a rather simple formula: on school days a child must read for an hour or two, write an essay or perform copy work, memorize vocabulary from a book he has recently read and make progress in mathematics coursework. We are also trying to minimize sugar intake and "screens" intake. It took us a few months to implement it but I think it's working.”
“I also appreciate the spate of recent blog posts about our time together. They serve as excellent reminders of what we trained; thank heaven I don't have to rely on my memory. Your memory, on the other hand, is uncanny. Your recent post on table top war gaming was also inspiring; I'm looking for an entry level game for [oldest son] to see if I can get him hooked. And get myself hooked.
“Wishing you success in your endeavors and a measure of relief from modern life, we remain
“Sincerely yours,
-Portland Joe
I have had many interview subjects comment that I have a surprisingly good memory. This is because I repeat their spoken thoughts as ideas over and over again in my mind. Just as I work out problems of worldliness as if I am thinking to a silent walker by my side treading up a rocky hill, when I repeat Joe’s comments and questions in my mind, they are silent thoughts with him off to my left in the driver’s seat, as most of our post-training review is conducted while he drives us back to our meeting place.
This habit of repeating words and actions as thoughts was developed on Baltimore City buses weaving through that town and while walking on the adjacent sidewalks, as I replayed in my mind the actions of people trying to waylay me, words of invalidation spoken by wife and boss, sets and displays that could be rebuilt or rearranged when I got back to work, and punches I ate in sparring that might have been dealt with other wise. The fact that I walked simple routes by day and bussed by night, unburdened by the responsibility of not running over pedestrians or wrecking into other cars as I piloted a chariot of Modernity, provided me through my working years with 2 to 4 hours a day of visualization time. Duz might have thought I was brilliant for showing up at work with memorized plans for resetting an aisle or rebuilding the display scheme, or tweaking the staff schedule. But where he had only ten minutes of driving, in which he was actively using his mind for navigating a dangerous machine, I had an hour going and coming back as a bobble-head on the bus daydreaming about improving the inventory profile tomorrow.
This takes me back to Dad, who once lost everything on a handshake deal to promote a genius man’s memorization program. The venture was called Impact International, circa 1973. Dad believed in this method of improving your memory by listening to rhymes and word games and engaging yourself verbally. We three tykes would sit in the backseat of his 1968 Impala and chant along as the speaker on the 8-track audio cassette lead off the word games. Recently, I have been sketching novels [Haft, Last Whiteman, Sorcerer! and Ranger?] by writing one or two of roughly 20 scenes in my head, and then constructing a rhyming or long cycle poetic table of contents as a narrative cue to drive me into the story but barely written as a witness to something I want to believe has already been written by another.
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posted: June 20, 2022   reads: 940   © 2022 James LaFond
Sanctuary Road
American Dream Boat #11
On and on they ran, cars and trees thicker and houses thinner all the time, until there was this redneck-looking fellow sitting on an ancient Jeep Wrangler in his driveway, drinking whiskey and cradling a large gun, other guns strapped to his vest and leg. The man waved him over, “How ‘bout a drink, White Knight?”
Lenita was nervous, and would not walk into the driveway. But Dillon wanted an ally, needed an ally, but likewise did not trust this leering man, eyeing Lenita like a piece of fresh meat as she fixed her tits again and tied her shoe strings better, only to have a tit fall out and the man say, “Oh, My. We have a warrior with a prize,” and handed the bottle of whiskey with its harsh black label to Dillon, who had never drunk liquor, but knew it to be man food and wanted to parlay with this gunman.
“Ed, Milton is the name. Ed will do. Tap her light, just a swig and keep it in the mouth. Let it ease down and enjoy the burn—remindin’ you you’re alive.”
“Thanks,” he squeaked, his throat burning and head suddenly light, “Dillon, just Dillon.”
Ed then nodded, I’ll trade you Titty Chiquita for the whiskey and a Glock 10 millimeter with a full clip and a box of ammo. That is a good reliable weapon. And I will shoot dead the motherfucker coming after you down that road. Or you can pass, a fellow white man passing in the night of our kind.
Dillon paused and gawked, shocked, as Ed drawled “It’s up to you Son—you’ve got stones. But you’ve also got a hell of a piece of pussy there and no gun, so you’re dead within the weak, probably the day.”
Dillon thought hard as he knocked back a huge mouth full, swished it what little he could, then let it burn all the fear out of him on the way down, barely coughing a bit. He then looked at the man, at Lenita, tiny and beautiful, in tears and hiding her jostled tits behind her folded arms, took another big swig, downed it, handed the bottle back, and said in his best baritone, cracking not at all—first time that had happened, “Thanks Mister Ed, but her brother left her under my protection and I will die defending her.”
‘Funny how that comes so easy, drinking this rat piss.’
Ed Milton took the bottle, winked at Lenita, saluted Dillon and said, “You’re a fucking Aryan hero. Good luck to you, Mister Dillon.”
Dillon turned and took Lenita’s hand, for she had crept forward shivering and in stunned tears and then they jogged along, barely able to see the brawny beaner man limp-jogging with his bloody bat down the way behind them.
Lenita panted as they rounded the wooded bend, to see a black dude with a gaping bullet wound in his chest and wide startled eyes laying in the gutter, his dead hands clutching a video array, looking like a dead octagonal flower between his lifeless hands, “Dillon, you are a man. You have changed so much.”
His head was swimming with the whiskey and he pounded on for a quarter mile, making her keep pace and then, just when Rayzes should have made Ed Milton’s place, they stopped and listened.
A muffled redneck voice was heard.
The rattle of an aluminum bat on asphalt tinged out.
A rifle shot rang and then silence reigned.
He looked down into her beautiful eyes and said, “I’d like to just walk, knowin’ what happened back there. But a bus load of skinnies could come by at any time. We’ve got to run and cut down through the yards and into the words on the right if any vehicle sounds behind us.”
He went to run, pulling her along, and she stopped him, both of her little hands holding him back, looked up to him and said some sexy gobble-de-gooke in Spanish and then raised on her little toes and kissed him, Dillon’s first kiss in his young life. Dillon’s head swam and he kissed her back, as good as he could manage, maybe mashing her pouty lips against those big straight teeth a little, but he was new to this and in a hurry.
This ends the free posting of American Dream Boat. For the conclusion checkout Lynn Lockhart’s War on Reality at Substack, via the link at the top of the main page.
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posted: June 19, 2022   reads: 448   © 2022 James LaFond
Noose Continued
Scene 10.5 of The Acts of Awes West
Noose kicked her flanks with his worn boot heels, though she didn’t need it, knowing her work.
That damned Shawnee had dismounted behind his pony, taken out his saddle gun, that short half inch bored saddle musket, not much more accurate than a dueling pistol, and waited cool as could be, aiming over the saddle.
A grunt and rasp of steel could be heard back to his right.
Paint’s hooves pounded.
A saddle musket fired off to the right, not one of theirs but the bigger half inch bore of the Sepulcher rangers, who were armed for strapping heretic half-Injun foes rather than skinny Voodists or shorty Comanches.
Paint’s hooves pounded and he was clear for a shot as he leveled wheel right. But the Shawnee—who he could see sighting over the muzzle of his bigger gun was quite old, hair streaked with gray and wearing a brace of feathers down his long gray string of greasy hair—had him in his sights.
Paint hit hooves again and he knew he would eat heavy led in the chest—could already feel the crushing of his breast under the sizzling ball of lead—as soon as her gallop took all four feet off the ground.
Willed he: ‘Comanche trick!’ [1]
And Noose swung left almost out of the saddle, his right knee braced against the pommel, his head and arms hanging down by his left stirrup, which his boot was still in, his knee bent clear to his left ear, his head arrest almost on that knee, leveling his pistol at that goddamned Shawnee.
Two cracks and two booms punched the air like God’s own thunder, smoke and sparks showering his face.
Paint did nay piteously as she reared rightward and fell leftward, a great wheeze issuing form her beautiful breast.
Another horse gave out in sound resignation as Noose rolled left, crouched up on his left knee, holstered wheel right and stood in a stalking walk that begin before he was upright, walking at the old Shawnee.
The old boy was standing behind his dead pony, which had taken Noose’s shot in the ear and fell dead.
The man tossed away his empty saddle gun and drew his knife and tomahawk, a wicked light ax with a spike upon the back. The man had a light blue jacket, not a buff, with the brass buttons replaced with rawhide ties and loops and left open to show his blue shirt on the warm summer day in Wyoming. He waited and stood, narrowly, making no attempt to flee and take a horse.
That meant that the fight to the right had been decided, that either the Sepulcher’s had won and were covering Noose with or loading their guns. Or Sacks and Ben had won and were mounted and the old boy knew he could nor out-ride these much younger men.
Whoever was over there, watching, loading, aiming, Noose had the sense that it was between them, him and the old boy. It was not in Noose’s make of mind to even want to look right to see what he might. He had eyes only for the narrow-eyed and sanguinely serene old Indian. The fellow had taken many scalps by his feathers.
The Knights of Saint George did not take scalps, though their rangers did, and wore them proud. The Knights Sepulcher dedicated scalps to their saints, many previous leaders of the order or even ancient Templars. For each scalp dedicated a ranger wore a stripe on his jacket sleeve, a knight wore a stud in his boot cuff and an Indian scout wore a feather.
Scrutinized he: ‘Old boy killed a mess a heretic braves.’
His boots sounded dull and lonely in the silence violated by his breath and his step.
His left arm hung useless.
He drew Old Issue from his front sash, with an inward pull as Issue was sashed to draw from his left, as he walked, leveled it, walked up to the horse’s fresh fallen form, between its as yet unstiff legs and cocked the pistol, having waited to cock it for emphasis. The Order gave bounties for Indian captives that could be put to The Question by the Truth Finders.
The old boy looked down at him, licked his cracked lips, and rasped from old ravaged lungs, “Wee Wendigo, whose gun is never empty—shoot. I would wear no chains under The Question.”
Their eyes drank each other’s thoughts and Noose pulled the trigger with some reverence and it clicked, the powder having jostled loose from the priming pan.
The old boy’s eyes widened with something like terror, rather than opportunity, and he swung his tomahawk, too slow, to wide…
Noose ducked as he flipped the pistol in his hand and slide-stepped left towards where his off hand dangled numb and done, smashing upward with the heavy iron butt of the pistol and cracking the lean elbow of the old boy.
The tomahawk flew forward and past where Noose had been as the old boy winced and buckled silently.
Noose was now standing behind the old boy’s right shoulder, his pistol chambered for the back hand as the Shawnee attempted to twist and turn upward with a thrust of his knife.
This taker of nine scalps was too old, to slow and out of position. Noose brought the pistol butt of Old Issue down on the back of his skull, which felt soft under the iron when it thumped in a squishing way.
The man fell face forward in a lax attitude that whispered of death.
Issue was resashed.
Noose drew his toothpick, that wonderful twenty-inch needle of a razor, knelt to lift that brown and gray scalp, which looked like black hair greased from afar, but was the scalp of a half-breed or quarter breed, perhaps from a mother with hair colored red.
The hair was pulled tight and twisted at the crown with his two long right hand fingers—his left hand dead. He stepped upon that scalp lock with his left boot and traced a circle around the base of the taught hair with the point of the blade. Resashing the toothpick, he grabbed that scalp lock and yanked.
The popping sound of the scalp-taking and the silence of the still Shawnee, at once assured him that the man was dead and brought him back to his senses.
Sashing the scalp, he stood and looked across at Ben and Sacks standing behind the kneeling page, every other soul dead and fled.
Walking up to these two men, hollow and echoing inside, Noose stopped and faced them both.
Ben nodded to his scalp, “Much honor—he was Twist-a-trace.”
Noose glared down at the page, who looked up at him with watery eyes of dread and then looked up not asking, but curious into the eyes of Sacks, absently wondering what his order would be.
Sacks regarded Noose with not a bit of boss about his manner and said, “Ranger Noose, youngest ever of your rank. This is Page Brant, our new pony boy.”
Noose looked down at the coward and was amazed that the Sepulcher page recited the Oath to him, kneeling with his back to Sacks:
“For the Love of Saint George,
Unto the Valley of the Shadow of Death,
By the Light of Saint Martial,
With my every living breath,
God’s will be done,
For Jesus Christ, His only begotten Son.”
Sacks slapped Page Brant on the shoulder and chided, “A quick study of the Rule is he. We let it be knowed that Noose O’Gun was a stickler for an oath true sung.”
Brant looked all around into each hard face before rising, to which Sacks said, “Brant en me I’ll bury Our gent o’ Sire. Ben, you fix that left gun arm.”
The arm was more numb than broke, though Ben said the front bone was cracked up high as he wrapped it and spoke brief words of council:
“Twist-of-trace had much medicine. What did he name you?”
“Wee Wendigo.”
“‘Pale young killer from the dark place,’ he say. You name be made. To keep it you way among men be mazed. Scout every trace and always remember the cabin door.”
With those words Indian Ben, old for a scout ranger and wise, in full middle years, tapped Noose’s jacket and shirt where the dream catcher from Medicine Wheel Man’s bed post hung and whispered as the shovels scraped in the background, “Medicine Father shield you this. Forgot him no.”
“Father,” drooled he, over slime-caked beard, the fire barely kissing his sunken face, the remaining fire wood beneath the anvil and kettle glowering like a collapsed face.
To the right, to steps away, halfway to the wind harried door, were stacked seven more split fir wedges of firewood… impossibly far away…
-1. Rangers of Saint George had long ago learned this from the storied Comanche.
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posted: June 18, 2022   reads: 456   © 2022 James LaFond
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