Odin88
07-23-2009, 03:30 PM
NIGHTMARE
White Power - Chapter 11
NIGHTMARE
It's hot. The night atmosphere is heavy and oppressive. All the windows are open. You can
hear a siren a few blocks away, the kids screaming in the street and even the drunken voices
of the O'Malleys in their usual argument. But no breath of air comes through the windows. You
lean back in your squeaky wicker chair, tee shirt wet with perspiration. Even the little fan
oscillating back and forth just emphasizes the brutal heat and sweatiness of the air when the
fan momentarily brushes you.
You turn on the TV and take a gulp of beer out of the cold can.
It seems like only another hot August night - only somehow this one's different. You can feel it.
There's an air of tension, expectancy, foreboding.
The news has been bad. But then it's been bad ever since the riots began way back in June.
You've gotten used to the riots every summer, since 1963. Now, in 1971, the summers are
expected to be periods of almost open warfare between Blacks and Whites. Even the winters
aren't real truces any more, as they used to be in the sixties.
There are outbreaks of the Black-and-White war even in the coldest winter months. But always
the harried authorities have managed, somehow, to restore some kind of order. By the Whites
staying out of black areas, they have managed to keep working and to keep up some pretense
of civilized life.
But this year the riots have been almost constant. The TV in front of you has just shown
dramatic pictures of what's going on in other cities: the searchlight stabbing into the city night,
highlighting black faces distorted with hate, fighting the police and national guard troops, the
gunfire and the blazing buildings where Molotov cocktails have sent up whole blocks in
flames.
However, it's been quiet in your city, now for almost two weeks. The cops and the soldiers beat
down the last uprising by the Blacks before it got out of the Negro area only a few blocks.
The TV newscaster is telling how another boatload of black saboteurs fresh from guerilla
training in Cuba has been intercepted alter a running gun battle in the Caribbean and has been
prevented from landing in Florida.
You are sick of it! Sick to death of this eternal trouble with these black mobs and Communist
agitators, raising hell, raping, killing, rising up and burning, looting and threatening whole
cities.
You turn off the TV.
You gaze up at the ceiling in the growing darkness, wondering where in hell it will end, how it
will end. The heavy, hot air of August is laden with sounds of automobile horns, kids shouting,
neighbors hollering and somebody practicing the piano nearby. More sips of beer, getting
warm as you reach the bottom of the can. You want to get your mind off the damned niggers,
for a change. You turn on the light to read the Western paperback you bought on the way
home.
Then you hear it.
At first you think it's some kind of crowd cheering at a ball game. There's the sound of a
tremendous number of people shouting, a long, long way off. But somehow it's different from
any sports crowd. There's a vicious, deadly sound to this roaring mob. You get up from the
wicker chair and go to the window. Over the black silhouette of the brick apartments to the
east, you see the familiar glow. Fires!
So it's started again!
Why can't they kill all those black bastards, once and for all, and put an end to this crazy
business! To hell with it! You won't watch, this time. You close the window, go back and turn
the TV back on. Maybe you can get your mind off the everlasting nigger trouble by watching
some movie or comedy show.
With the window shut, it seems for a moment you've gotten away from the damnable nigger
hell.
With the TV on, you can't hear the mob or the occasional gunfire.
You get another cold beer and try to relax in the glow of the TV tube. Just as you get interested
in a Western, the damned thing goes dead on you. You get up to wiggle the plug. Sometimes
you can fix it that way. Then you notice that the fan is off, too. Must be a fuse. So you go into
the kitchen and look into the fuse box with the flashlight.
No fuses are blown.
But by then, you're already beginning to notice all the lights are off, even the street light which
usually shines into the kitchen window. It's really black! You're not used to such total
darkness, such absence of any glow or reflected light at all. It gives you an eerie feeling.
You stick your head out the kitchen window. Outside there is something new, something evil.
You don't know what it is, but it grips your heart with fingers of ice.
It's silent in your neighborhood. No more kids shouting, no more piano practicing, no more
quarrelling at the O'Malley's - nothing, - just silence. Dead, empty, heavy silence. The quiet
lends impact to the distant sounds of the mob down in the central part of the city. In the silent
dark, in which you can see nothing, the sounds of the black mob down there are amplified and
emphasized until they seem to be coming at you.
In the darkness outside your window, you hear Jack Morgan, who's been drinking beer on his
front steps, hollering to his wife, upstairs, "Don't worry, honey, it's just a power failure. They'll
have it on in a little while. Keep your shirt on."
A kid begins to cry - then another. There is an excited, but hushed, buzz outside as the
neighborhood tries to adjust to the total darkness.
Everybody is listening to the sound of that black mob in town, but reassuring each other that
the authorities will soon put down the rebellion, as they always have.
Then you hear Mrs. Johnson calling to a neighbor for some water. "Something's wrong with
mine," Mrs. Johnson hollers, "I can't get any water to fix the baby's bottles."
Then, from most of the neighbors all at once, you hear that everybody's water is off. You
realize that something must be seriously wrong, and pick up the phone to call the cops. At
least you can report that the water is off in your neighborhood.
The phone's dead!
Remembering your transistor radio, you turn it on.
". . . . the public is asked to remain calm, until the National Guard can restore order. Stay in
your homes and do not panic. There is nothing about the present emergency any different OH,
MY GOD! Oh ----ahhhh."
Over the tiny speaker in the radio comes the unmistakable gurgling sound of a man gasping
his last breath. Just before the station goes off the air, you hear "How you like that, you White
Mother- f---er!"
You lean out the window. "Did you hear that!" you holler to the neighborhood in general. "Hear
what?" comes from a dozen throats.
"I just turned on my pocket-radio and heard what sounded like an announcer gettin' killed,
right on the air. Then they went off!"
"Try another station!" somebody hollers.
"I already have," comes from somebody else. "They're all off."
"I'm gettin' my guns," you holler.
"Better be careful," shouts a neighbor, "you know the new laws on guns!"
"To hell with the new laws," you roar. "If those black bastards come messin' around here,
they're gonna get shot. I don't care if they throw me in jail for it. I'm not gonna let those filthy
niggers shoot up and burn this place, and hurt our women!"
But before you can grab your hidden guns and get out front, they are here!
A car comes screeching around the block, tossing Molotov cocktails and firing automatic
weapons! In the glare of the flaming gasoline bombs you see the white eyes in the black faces.
But even if you couldn't see them, you'd know what they are by their filthy language! As usual
they are drunk and roaring typical black curses on all White people - liberal, rich, poor,
rightwing, Klan -any White man.
As the carload of black terrorists disappears, still firing, you can hear the screams of the
dying, and the expressions of horror from people whose loved ones have been shot to death.
You grab your old Marine Corps M 1 and the .38 and take the steps, even in the dark, three and
four at a time.
Outside, in the flickering light of the fires, surrounded by moans and prayers of your
neighbors, you find a little group of men who have had enough service experience not to
panic. They have their guns ready, and are trying to decide what to do.
You suggest that somebody be sent to the police station over on Grand. They all agree. A kid
with two pistols volunteers. He disappears into the dark. You don't know the cops are all dead.
Just as you are discussing where each guy will be posted, another carload of the bastards
comes roaring back toward town from the suburbs, blasting away. You hit the deck, slam
home the bolt of the old M 1 and feed a surge of satisfaction when the old rifle rattles off each
round at the black terrorists. You can hear one of the sons-of-bitches scream as he's hit!
Reminds you of the war! But then you remember - this is home! This is where your wife and
kids live.
And that brings a new and horrible thought!
The wife and kids are visiting across town. What's happening there?
Your heart stops for a moment. But then fury surges up within you. If they've touched Janie
and those little kids!
You begin to consider your position.
No lights, no water, no phone, no radio - few guns, fewer who know how to use them and have
the guts to use them no organization! And very little ammo!
While you're thinking about all this, a matter of only minutes since the first attack, here come
three more cars! You blast away with the M 1. You hit another one! But the rest of the guys are
firing away at nothing, wasting the few rounds of ammo you've got!
You yell at them to cease-fire! It's too late. They're all out of ammo.
The groans and crying and prayers of the people who are hit have demoralized most of the rest
of the people. Surprisingly, a lot of the women seem tougher than the men, and are doing their
best with torn skirts and shirts for bandages and what comfort they can provide with words.
Many of the men, especially the younger "jive" generation with the long hair and the stoop
shoulders, are acting like a bunch of teenage girls, screaming and screeching, begging
somebody to "help" them. "Help" them! You'd like to "help" them, with a good kick in the ass.
Now it's no longer dark. The whole neighborhood is blazing.
The fires set by the flaming gasoline are burning viciously. There's nothing to stop them. No
fire department - not even any water.
The night was already oppressively hot. Now, with many houses roaring infernos of flame, the
heat makes your skin shrivel.
Already, many others are moving onto a vacant lot trying to get away from the searing flames.
You hear a man and his young wife screaming at each other, a few houses away. She is trying
to run back into their house to get something, before it burns up. He is holding her while she
struggles and screams. Their kids huddle around her, crying.
She never gets to go into the house.
A carload of blacks see her in her nightgown, as they go by. They shoot her husband and her
kids. They grab her and drag her screaming, into the car, laughing insanely and boasting to
each other what they are going to do. And you can't do a damned thing with empty guns.
Within minutes, two more carloads of the black devils roar into the neighborhood. But these
don't keep going -shooting - like the others.
They get out to loot - and rape!
Most of the men around you have long since scrambled off to hide in terror. You can do little
else, yourself.
>From under a bush on somebody's lawn, shaded from the worst of the blazing heat and light,
you watch the black savages grabbing everything they want - radios, TVs - and women! God,
you never thought you'd see a sight like this!
You'd read about it happening far away in the Congo and other places, but always thought it
was something you'd never see here.
Now you are forced to watch, helplessly, while six of the black animals rip the clothes off the
little teenage O'Malley girl and rape her, one after the other - after murdering her mother, father
and brothers. At first, she screams and struggles desperately. But after two or three of the
lustful black beasts have beaten her and had their way, she lies whimpering. Then there's no
more whimpering.
All night the horror continues. The houses burn to black ruins. And still they burn.
The carloads of Negroes roam at will through the neighborhood, looting, murdering the
wounded just for pleasure - and raping!
You are helpless! Beaten
Finally, about three a.m., things slow down a bit. You crawl out and call to some others still
alive. "Where the hell is the National Guard?", you keep repeating to each other, dazedly,
stupidly. "Where in the hell is the God-damned Guard?"
You are the only one with enough experience and leadership to try to do anything at all. You
suggest gathering the wounded and helpless and trying to get them all together behind a pile
of old bricks and stone in the vacant lot. The wounded are crying, really crying for water. But
there is no water. Nobody thinks of food, yet. That will come later. But for now, everybody is
just trying to survive. And every moment, you can hear the roar of the huge mob in the central
city moving out, getting nearer!
The others agree to try to get the wounded down behind the brick pile. But before you can
finish the job, you hear a new noise, - the clanking, motor noises you remember from the war:
TANKS!
The Guard! At last!
"It's the National Guard!" you shout to the others. 'I can hear the tanks!"
They all listen. A feeble cheer goes up as they all hear the tanks.
Just in time, too, because now the black mob is within blocks! You can imagine just what it
would be like if that black swarm of bloodthirsty Africans gets here to finish off the remaining
survivors! Now the tanks are moving in to restore order at last!
You feel, for the fist time, that you will survive. And you resolve never to be caught like this
again, never to be disorganized, and so poorly armed! If the bastards ever try to do it again,
gun laws or no gun laws, you resolve to be ready!
The noise of the tanks gets closer - closer. Now you can see them! Thank God!
The iron monsters are clanking along the streets, clearing them, with infantry troops moving in
behind them in full battle gear!
My God, what a beautiful, delicious, gorgeous sight!
Nothing ever looker so beautiful! Slowly, in a daze, those able to walk begin to move out from
behind the brick pile.
The tanks and troops uncover a swarm of blacks hiding in a construction project. The infantry
troops move in to round them up. The tanks stop.
But what's this! What the hell!
What are the tanks doing now?
They're turning! They're not waiting for the infantry to finish off the black terrorists in the
construction project - they're turning back! My God! Don't they know there are hundreds of
White people out there helpless?
But they're not just "turning back!"
The tanks have swiveled around their guns and, are going at their own infantry troops! What
the hell! And while you're still stunned, the tanks open up with machine guns on their own
infantry and mow them down, hundreds of them!
Then the top of the lead tank pops open - and you know why.
A big black head comes out, grinning!
Now there is silence among the little band of men, women and children behind the bricks. They
are too stunned even to curse. Nobody needs to explain.
They realize now what has happened.
The great majority of the blacks in the armed forces and the National Guard have joined the
black rebellion.
Now the mighty technical weapons of the United States are in the hands of black savages, only
a few generations removed from animal life in the jungle. Rockets, tanks, nuclear bombs - all
that White genius created to protect itself, stupidly and treasonably turned over to the enemy
himself in the name of "brotherhood" and "equality!"
You use the last reserves of your will and energy to herd the tiny band of your surviving
neighbors down into an abandoned cellar under the bricks and wreckage.
Now you are alone, against a world gone mad
No water, no food, no ammunition, no communication, no medicine! Nothing!
But you aren't going to give up, yet.
Maybe it's only local. Maybe the Army, or the Marine Corps, or somebody will be able to get
control of this revolt of the jungle.
If only you can hold out, maybe help will come.
But the tanks are followed, now, by swarms of blacks streaming out of the city, drunk with
whiskey and blood -acting precisely as their kind of people have acted from time immemorial
in the African jungles, with animal ferocity and bloodthirstiness! Every White soldier and
National Guardsman in the area is dead, many mutilated -taken by complete surprise by their
own black "comrades!" Day dawns hot, more horrible than the night, filled with smoke and
flames, Dozens of moaning Wounded lie all around you, crowded down in there under the
rocks and bricks. The cries for water, particularly from the kids, are endless and heartbreaking.
But there is no water.
You can do nothing.
About eight o'clock things have become fairly quiet in your neighborhood. Only the crackling
arid snapping of the fires all around can be heard.
Then you hear a wail from the street.
Your peek out - and see one of the Negroes you shot last night, crawling, moaning and crying
for help.
You dare not move.
But suddenly one of the bravest of the women'folk, a woman who has been comforting and
bandaging and helping the wounded and dying all night long, dashes out from under the
shelter She runs toward the black man in the street.
You watch with horror while she plunges a big kitchen knife, again and again and again into
the quivering black body!
You recognize her. It's Mrs. Moody - the liberal! She's contributed hundreds of dollars to the
blacks, helped them endlessly, marched in their picket lines, sat-in with them and even gone to
Mississippi to register them as voters. Now you watch her out there, finally asserting the
animal wisdom God gave her to protect her own! Last night her husband and kids were
murdered. Mrs. Moody is no more "liberal." Now she's a member of the great White Race -a
fighter! But it's too late!
At ten o'clock, you see more blacks roaming around the neighborhood, picking over the ruins,
kicking the dead, ripping the clothing off females and laughing insanely at their unspeakable
atrocities - just like the Mau Mau brothers in Africa!
For the whole day you manage to survive and keep the little group together.
But several die, and the thirst becomes unbearable for all of you.
About seven o'clock, when the summer night is still hot with sunshine, you have to watch a
little girl die in her mother's arms. She keeps crying for her "Mommy," and her mother keeps
crooning Mommy's right here, darling, right here! I'm right here!". and sobbing softly, rocking
the little curly headed kid back and forth, back and forth, until the little head falls sideways.
Your eyes fill with tears, and your heart with rage, at the idiots and political rats that brought
the greatest nation on earth to this and all in the name of "brotherhood" and "progress."
Progress! At about eight, you can hear a sound truck in the distance. For a long time it cruises
around and you can't figure out what it is saying.
Then it begins to move into your neighborhood, and you can hear the message rasping from
the loudspeakers:
"This is the new Socialist Democratic People's Government of the United States. We have
overthrown the racist "hate" government of the United States. United Nations Ambassador
Alfred Goldberg has already recognized the new People's Democracy.
The Armed Forces and the National Guard are in our hands. United Nation's Chinese troops
are now landing at all airports to assist the freedom-loving People's liberation army in
restoring order. Resistance is useless. Nothing can move without our permission in the entire
nation. You are ordered to come out of hiding, and report to the nearest registration point for
movement to prepared refugee areas where you will be fed and then put to work. After nine
p.m. tonight, all those who have not checked into registration centers will be shot . . . . This is
the new Socialist Democratic People's Government of the United States. The Armed Forces
and the National Guard of the United " -and the truck went on out of the neighborhood, playing
it's message of doom for our nation, over and over.
Your eyes blurred with tears, you watch most of the people stumble up out of the hiding place
and begin to wander around looking for the "registration points." You have found one round to
put in your .38.
You point it at your head . . . then you notice a pretty young girl looking up at you, a silent
prayer in her eyes. You hand her the pistol and stumble out of the hole before you hear the
explosion.
What I have written is no hysterical pipe dream of an alarmist.
Precisely this sort of thing is planned, in detail, by the enemy - and has already been put into
White Power - Chapter 11
NIGHTMARE
It's hot. The night atmosphere is heavy and oppressive. All the windows are open. You can
hear a siren a few blocks away, the kids screaming in the street and even the drunken voices
of the O'Malleys in their usual argument. But no breath of air comes through the windows. You
lean back in your squeaky wicker chair, tee shirt wet with perspiration. Even the little fan
oscillating back and forth just emphasizes the brutal heat and sweatiness of the air when the
fan momentarily brushes you.
You turn on the TV and take a gulp of beer out of the cold can.
It seems like only another hot August night - only somehow this one's different. You can feel it.
There's an air of tension, expectancy, foreboding.
The news has been bad. But then it's been bad ever since the riots began way back in June.
You've gotten used to the riots every summer, since 1963. Now, in 1971, the summers are
expected to be periods of almost open warfare between Blacks and Whites. Even the winters
aren't real truces any more, as they used to be in the sixties.
There are outbreaks of the Black-and-White war even in the coldest winter months. But always
the harried authorities have managed, somehow, to restore some kind of order. By the Whites
staying out of black areas, they have managed to keep working and to keep up some pretense
of civilized life.
But this year the riots have been almost constant. The TV in front of you has just shown
dramatic pictures of what's going on in other cities: the searchlight stabbing into the city night,
highlighting black faces distorted with hate, fighting the police and national guard troops, the
gunfire and the blazing buildings where Molotov cocktails have sent up whole blocks in
flames.
However, it's been quiet in your city, now for almost two weeks. The cops and the soldiers beat
down the last uprising by the Blacks before it got out of the Negro area only a few blocks.
The TV newscaster is telling how another boatload of black saboteurs fresh from guerilla
training in Cuba has been intercepted alter a running gun battle in the Caribbean and has been
prevented from landing in Florida.
You are sick of it! Sick to death of this eternal trouble with these black mobs and Communist
agitators, raising hell, raping, killing, rising up and burning, looting and threatening whole
cities.
You turn off the TV.
You gaze up at the ceiling in the growing darkness, wondering where in hell it will end, how it
will end. The heavy, hot air of August is laden with sounds of automobile horns, kids shouting,
neighbors hollering and somebody practicing the piano nearby. More sips of beer, getting
warm as you reach the bottom of the can. You want to get your mind off the damned niggers,
for a change. You turn on the light to read the Western paperback you bought on the way
home.
Then you hear it.
At first you think it's some kind of crowd cheering at a ball game. There's the sound of a
tremendous number of people shouting, a long, long way off. But somehow it's different from
any sports crowd. There's a vicious, deadly sound to this roaring mob. You get up from the
wicker chair and go to the window. Over the black silhouette of the brick apartments to the
east, you see the familiar glow. Fires!
So it's started again!
Why can't they kill all those black bastards, once and for all, and put an end to this crazy
business! To hell with it! You won't watch, this time. You close the window, go back and turn
the TV back on. Maybe you can get your mind off the everlasting nigger trouble by watching
some movie or comedy show.
With the window shut, it seems for a moment you've gotten away from the damnable nigger
hell.
With the TV on, you can't hear the mob or the occasional gunfire.
You get another cold beer and try to relax in the glow of the TV tube. Just as you get interested
in a Western, the damned thing goes dead on you. You get up to wiggle the plug. Sometimes
you can fix it that way. Then you notice that the fan is off, too. Must be a fuse. So you go into
the kitchen and look into the fuse box with the flashlight.
No fuses are blown.
But by then, you're already beginning to notice all the lights are off, even the street light which
usually shines into the kitchen window. It's really black! You're not used to such total
darkness, such absence of any glow or reflected light at all. It gives you an eerie feeling.
You stick your head out the kitchen window. Outside there is something new, something evil.
You don't know what it is, but it grips your heart with fingers of ice.
It's silent in your neighborhood. No more kids shouting, no more piano practicing, no more
quarrelling at the O'Malley's - nothing, - just silence. Dead, empty, heavy silence. The quiet
lends impact to the distant sounds of the mob down in the central part of the city. In the silent
dark, in which you can see nothing, the sounds of the black mob down there are amplified and
emphasized until they seem to be coming at you.
In the darkness outside your window, you hear Jack Morgan, who's been drinking beer on his
front steps, hollering to his wife, upstairs, "Don't worry, honey, it's just a power failure. They'll
have it on in a little while. Keep your shirt on."
A kid begins to cry - then another. There is an excited, but hushed, buzz outside as the
neighborhood tries to adjust to the total darkness.
Everybody is listening to the sound of that black mob in town, but reassuring each other that
the authorities will soon put down the rebellion, as they always have.
Then you hear Mrs. Johnson calling to a neighbor for some water. "Something's wrong with
mine," Mrs. Johnson hollers, "I can't get any water to fix the baby's bottles."
Then, from most of the neighbors all at once, you hear that everybody's water is off. You
realize that something must be seriously wrong, and pick up the phone to call the cops. At
least you can report that the water is off in your neighborhood.
The phone's dead!
Remembering your transistor radio, you turn it on.
". . . . the public is asked to remain calm, until the National Guard can restore order. Stay in
your homes and do not panic. There is nothing about the present emergency any different OH,
MY GOD! Oh ----ahhhh."
Over the tiny speaker in the radio comes the unmistakable gurgling sound of a man gasping
his last breath. Just before the station goes off the air, you hear "How you like that, you White
Mother- f---er!"
You lean out the window. "Did you hear that!" you holler to the neighborhood in general. "Hear
what?" comes from a dozen throats.
"I just turned on my pocket-radio and heard what sounded like an announcer gettin' killed,
right on the air. Then they went off!"
"Try another station!" somebody hollers.
"I already have," comes from somebody else. "They're all off."
"I'm gettin' my guns," you holler.
"Better be careful," shouts a neighbor, "you know the new laws on guns!"
"To hell with the new laws," you roar. "If those black bastards come messin' around here,
they're gonna get shot. I don't care if they throw me in jail for it. I'm not gonna let those filthy
niggers shoot up and burn this place, and hurt our women!"
But before you can grab your hidden guns and get out front, they are here!
A car comes screeching around the block, tossing Molotov cocktails and firing automatic
weapons! In the glare of the flaming gasoline bombs you see the white eyes in the black faces.
But even if you couldn't see them, you'd know what they are by their filthy language! As usual
they are drunk and roaring typical black curses on all White people - liberal, rich, poor,
rightwing, Klan -any White man.
As the carload of black terrorists disappears, still firing, you can hear the screams of the
dying, and the expressions of horror from people whose loved ones have been shot to death.
You grab your old Marine Corps M 1 and the .38 and take the steps, even in the dark, three and
four at a time.
Outside, in the flickering light of the fires, surrounded by moans and prayers of your
neighbors, you find a little group of men who have had enough service experience not to
panic. They have their guns ready, and are trying to decide what to do.
You suggest that somebody be sent to the police station over on Grand. They all agree. A kid
with two pistols volunteers. He disappears into the dark. You don't know the cops are all dead.
Just as you are discussing where each guy will be posted, another carload of the bastards
comes roaring back toward town from the suburbs, blasting away. You hit the deck, slam
home the bolt of the old M 1 and feed a surge of satisfaction when the old rifle rattles off each
round at the black terrorists. You can hear one of the sons-of-bitches scream as he's hit!
Reminds you of the war! But then you remember - this is home! This is where your wife and
kids live.
And that brings a new and horrible thought!
The wife and kids are visiting across town. What's happening there?
Your heart stops for a moment. But then fury surges up within you. If they've touched Janie
and those little kids!
You begin to consider your position.
No lights, no water, no phone, no radio - few guns, fewer who know how to use them and have
the guts to use them no organization! And very little ammo!
While you're thinking about all this, a matter of only minutes since the first attack, here come
three more cars! You blast away with the M 1. You hit another one! But the rest of the guys are
firing away at nothing, wasting the few rounds of ammo you've got!
You yell at them to cease-fire! It's too late. They're all out of ammo.
The groans and crying and prayers of the people who are hit have demoralized most of the rest
of the people. Surprisingly, a lot of the women seem tougher than the men, and are doing their
best with torn skirts and shirts for bandages and what comfort they can provide with words.
Many of the men, especially the younger "jive" generation with the long hair and the stoop
shoulders, are acting like a bunch of teenage girls, screaming and screeching, begging
somebody to "help" them. "Help" them! You'd like to "help" them, with a good kick in the ass.
Now it's no longer dark. The whole neighborhood is blazing.
The fires set by the flaming gasoline are burning viciously. There's nothing to stop them. No
fire department - not even any water.
The night was already oppressively hot. Now, with many houses roaring infernos of flame, the
heat makes your skin shrivel.
Already, many others are moving onto a vacant lot trying to get away from the searing flames.
You hear a man and his young wife screaming at each other, a few houses away. She is trying
to run back into their house to get something, before it burns up. He is holding her while she
struggles and screams. Their kids huddle around her, crying.
She never gets to go into the house.
A carload of blacks see her in her nightgown, as they go by. They shoot her husband and her
kids. They grab her and drag her screaming, into the car, laughing insanely and boasting to
each other what they are going to do. And you can't do a damned thing with empty guns.
Within minutes, two more carloads of the black devils roar into the neighborhood. But these
don't keep going -shooting - like the others.
They get out to loot - and rape!
Most of the men around you have long since scrambled off to hide in terror. You can do little
else, yourself.
>From under a bush on somebody's lawn, shaded from the worst of the blazing heat and light,
you watch the black savages grabbing everything they want - radios, TVs - and women! God,
you never thought you'd see a sight like this!
You'd read about it happening far away in the Congo and other places, but always thought it
was something you'd never see here.
Now you are forced to watch, helplessly, while six of the black animals rip the clothes off the
little teenage O'Malley girl and rape her, one after the other - after murdering her mother, father
and brothers. At first, she screams and struggles desperately. But after two or three of the
lustful black beasts have beaten her and had their way, she lies whimpering. Then there's no
more whimpering.
All night the horror continues. The houses burn to black ruins. And still they burn.
The carloads of Negroes roam at will through the neighborhood, looting, murdering the
wounded just for pleasure - and raping!
You are helpless! Beaten
Finally, about three a.m., things slow down a bit. You crawl out and call to some others still
alive. "Where the hell is the National Guard?", you keep repeating to each other, dazedly,
stupidly. "Where in the hell is the God-damned Guard?"
You are the only one with enough experience and leadership to try to do anything at all. You
suggest gathering the wounded and helpless and trying to get them all together behind a pile
of old bricks and stone in the vacant lot. The wounded are crying, really crying for water. But
there is no water. Nobody thinks of food, yet. That will come later. But for now, everybody is
just trying to survive. And every moment, you can hear the roar of the huge mob in the central
city moving out, getting nearer!
The others agree to try to get the wounded down behind the brick pile. But before you can
finish the job, you hear a new noise, - the clanking, motor noises you remember from the war:
TANKS!
The Guard! At last!
"It's the National Guard!" you shout to the others. 'I can hear the tanks!"
They all listen. A feeble cheer goes up as they all hear the tanks.
Just in time, too, because now the black mob is within blocks! You can imagine just what it
would be like if that black swarm of bloodthirsty Africans gets here to finish off the remaining
survivors! Now the tanks are moving in to restore order at last!
You feel, for the fist time, that you will survive. And you resolve never to be caught like this
again, never to be disorganized, and so poorly armed! If the bastards ever try to do it again,
gun laws or no gun laws, you resolve to be ready!
The noise of the tanks gets closer - closer. Now you can see them! Thank God!
The iron monsters are clanking along the streets, clearing them, with infantry troops moving in
behind them in full battle gear!
My God, what a beautiful, delicious, gorgeous sight!
Nothing ever looker so beautiful! Slowly, in a daze, those able to walk begin to move out from
behind the brick pile.
The tanks and troops uncover a swarm of blacks hiding in a construction project. The infantry
troops move in to round them up. The tanks stop.
But what's this! What the hell!
What are the tanks doing now?
They're turning! They're not waiting for the infantry to finish off the black terrorists in the
construction project - they're turning back! My God! Don't they know there are hundreds of
White people out there helpless?
But they're not just "turning back!"
The tanks have swiveled around their guns and, are going at their own infantry troops! What
the hell! And while you're still stunned, the tanks open up with machine guns on their own
infantry and mow them down, hundreds of them!
Then the top of the lead tank pops open - and you know why.
A big black head comes out, grinning!
Now there is silence among the little band of men, women and children behind the bricks. They
are too stunned even to curse. Nobody needs to explain.
They realize now what has happened.
The great majority of the blacks in the armed forces and the National Guard have joined the
black rebellion.
Now the mighty technical weapons of the United States are in the hands of black savages, only
a few generations removed from animal life in the jungle. Rockets, tanks, nuclear bombs - all
that White genius created to protect itself, stupidly and treasonably turned over to the enemy
himself in the name of "brotherhood" and "equality!"
You use the last reserves of your will and energy to herd the tiny band of your surviving
neighbors down into an abandoned cellar under the bricks and wreckage.
Now you are alone, against a world gone mad
No water, no food, no ammunition, no communication, no medicine! Nothing!
But you aren't going to give up, yet.
Maybe it's only local. Maybe the Army, or the Marine Corps, or somebody will be able to get
control of this revolt of the jungle.
If only you can hold out, maybe help will come.
But the tanks are followed, now, by swarms of blacks streaming out of the city, drunk with
whiskey and blood -acting precisely as their kind of people have acted from time immemorial
in the African jungles, with animal ferocity and bloodthirstiness! Every White soldier and
National Guardsman in the area is dead, many mutilated -taken by complete surprise by their
own black "comrades!" Day dawns hot, more horrible than the night, filled with smoke and
flames, Dozens of moaning Wounded lie all around you, crowded down in there under the
rocks and bricks. The cries for water, particularly from the kids, are endless and heartbreaking.
But there is no water.
You can do nothing.
About eight o'clock things have become fairly quiet in your neighborhood. Only the crackling
arid snapping of the fires all around can be heard.
Then you hear a wail from the street.
Your peek out - and see one of the Negroes you shot last night, crawling, moaning and crying
for help.
You dare not move.
But suddenly one of the bravest of the women'folk, a woman who has been comforting and
bandaging and helping the wounded and dying all night long, dashes out from under the
shelter She runs toward the black man in the street.
You watch with horror while she plunges a big kitchen knife, again and again and again into
the quivering black body!
You recognize her. It's Mrs. Moody - the liberal! She's contributed hundreds of dollars to the
blacks, helped them endlessly, marched in their picket lines, sat-in with them and even gone to
Mississippi to register them as voters. Now you watch her out there, finally asserting the
animal wisdom God gave her to protect her own! Last night her husband and kids were
murdered. Mrs. Moody is no more "liberal." Now she's a member of the great White Race -a
fighter! But it's too late!
At ten o'clock, you see more blacks roaming around the neighborhood, picking over the ruins,
kicking the dead, ripping the clothing off females and laughing insanely at their unspeakable
atrocities - just like the Mau Mau brothers in Africa!
For the whole day you manage to survive and keep the little group together.
But several die, and the thirst becomes unbearable for all of you.
About seven o'clock, when the summer night is still hot with sunshine, you have to watch a
little girl die in her mother's arms. She keeps crying for her "Mommy," and her mother keeps
crooning Mommy's right here, darling, right here! I'm right here!". and sobbing softly, rocking
the little curly headed kid back and forth, back and forth, until the little head falls sideways.
Your eyes fill with tears, and your heart with rage, at the idiots and political rats that brought
the greatest nation on earth to this and all in the name of "brotherhood" and "progress."
Progress! At about eight, you can hear a sound truck in the distance. For a long time it cruises
around and you can't figure out what it is saying.
Then it begins to move into your neighborhood, and you can hear the message rasping from
the loudspeakers:
"This is the new Socialist Democratic People's Government of the United States. We have
overthrown the racist "hate" government of the United States. United Nations Ambassador
Alfred Goldberg has already recognized the new People's Democracy.
The Armed Forces and the National Guard are in our hands. United Nation's Chinese troops
are now landing at all airports to assist the freedom-loving People's liberation army in
restoring order. Resistance is useless. Nothing can move without our permission in the entire
nation. You are ordered to come out of hiding, and report to the nearest registration point for
movement to prepared refugee areas where you will be fed and then put to work. After nine
p.m. tonight, all those who have not checked into registration centers will be shot . . . . This is
the new Socialist Democratic People's Government of the United States. The Armed Forces
and the National Guard of the United " -and the truck went on out of the neighborhood, playing
it's message of doom for our nation, over and over.
Your eyes blurred with tears, you watch most of the people stumble up out of the hiding place
and begin to wander around looking for the "registration points." You have found one round to
put in your .38.
You point it at your head . . . then you notice a pretty young girl looking up at you, a silent
prayer in her eyes. You hand her the pistol and stumble out of the hole before you hear the
explosion.
What I have written is no hysterical pipe dream of an alarmist.
Precisely this sort of thing is planned, in detail, by the enemy - and has already been put into