Monday, 27 March 2017

The Neighbours

[Media prompt] Get to know your Muslim neighbour event Sunday.
The Neighbours

Elena yawned, rolling over to look out the window. Dawn was breaking, the rising sun turning the tops of scattered dusky clouds luminous white. She stretched and sat up, pausing for a moment before placing her feet gently on the wooden floor. It was Sunday, Margarita’s day off, and she would need to prepare breakfast.

The children were watching television when she came downstairs. She told them to turn down the sound. “You’re father’s still asleep,” she said, untying a packet of sliced bread. Elena felt a twinge of anger they were watching South Park, but she bit her tongue. “Toast okay for you kids this morning?”

After breakfast, Elena went back upstairs. Despite it still being early, she longed to crawl back under the covers. After she showered and dressed, she shook her husband awake. “You need to get up, we have the Muslim meet and greet next door.”

Before they left the house, her eldest said, “I’m not going over there, Muslims are creepy.” Elena looked at Tobias, her eyebrows arching. “We don’t talk like that in this house,” she said, breathing deeply to remain calm. “Muslims are as American as we are.” The boy looked at her: “Then why do they always talk about Sharia law and not American law?”

She had briefly thought of putting on the pink pussy hat she wore in the Washington march, but decided against it, wearing a scarf to cover her hair instead. “You should buy a hijab,” said her husband; “You'd look great.” Both the children groaned. “There’s no way I’m wearing a jab,” said the youngest. There were words between them, but by the time the four of them arrived at the Ibrahims, Elena had regained her composure.

Mr. Ibrahim opened the door, welcoming them to his house. “As-salāmu ʿalaykum,” said Elena. “Ooh, it smells delicious, doesn’t it?” Mrs. Ibrahim took Elena and her daughter into the kitchen with the other women. “Isn’t this fabulous?” she said.

All Elena's immediate neighbours attended, except for the Bornemans, who had erected Trump signs at the end of his second term, and did not possess the kind of cultural sophistication required to appreciate Arabic culture. Elena ensured she mixed with Mr. and Mrs. Ibrahim’s friends, noting that, compared to her husband, African men seemed so manly.

When everyone had finished lunch, and the guests were sipping mint tea, a Somalian man with a jagged scar across his face pulled an AK47 from behind the sofa and, using a single bullet for each victim, shot nine unbelievers.

The great kafir cull had begun. 

Sunday, 26 March 2017

Revoke his prize: All the Names by José Saramago

Saramago wrote All the Names in 1997, the year before receiving the Swedish Virtue Signallers’ Prize for Leftist Scribblers, which as everyone knows chooses recipients on the basis of political ideology and not literary merit. But they made a mistake with this guy; he's not the vibrant-hugging anarcho-communist everyone thinks he is.

For a start, there’s not a single Muslim, transgender, queer, bisexual, lesbian, gender fluid, refugee, border hopper in the whole book. Even worse, all the characters are Portuguese natives who take their jobs and role in the community seriously. There’s not a single act of rebellion against white privilege, and women have babies and obey their husbands. The man was clearly a white cis male supremacist.

In light of this, I have no doubt that leftists are burning effigies or, better still, lopping the head off his commemorative statue as I write, and with some luck are melting it down to make ‘she persisted’ buttons for Islamic terrorists organising Sharia law marches in America.

I trust the League of Swedish Pansies has learned its lesson and refrain from making fools out of us again.

Saturday, 25 March 2017

The Vacation

[Media prompt] Canada passes M-103 motion against Islamophobia.
The Vacation

When Monica from the front desk ushered in a detective, Frank Carter held his breath and waited. The last time he’d had the law in the hotel was when the Honourable Member for Papineau raped one of his housekeepers. They’d had Mounties crawling over the place for days after that one, and it killed business for months. Before that it had been Alejandro, one of the bellboys minting money by storing the Liberal Party’s coke stash in the kitchen cold store. Right under his nose, which is what made him mad. But today it was routine, the detective asking about a couple from Saskatchewan booked in for the weekend. 

"It’s a goddamned shame is what it is," said the detective. "Their first time in Ottawa, first holiday since getting married, here for their tenth anniversary."

Frank pulled up the record. "It's room 1146. Come on, I’ll take you there myself."

"Well, one of them was neat," said the detective, peering into the bathroom before walking into the room. 

The bed covers were pulled up, the pillows fluffed, everything in its place. Even the remote was back in its box near the television. 

"I’m guessing this is not the norm," the detective said, opening and closing the bar fridge. 

"No, it’s not," said Frank, "it happens though."

Look at this," the detective said, picking up a note on the desk. "Dear Maria. Is that that really one of the housekeepers?"

Frank nodded; it was a rare guest who took the trouble to learn, let alone remember, a housekeeper’s name. 

"Dear Maria, no need to clean in here today. Take the time to put your feet up and call your daughter. We are going early to Church to pray for her. Please take the attached as a token of our appreciation for the amazing job you do."

The detective turned the letter over, finding a twenty attached. 

"Definitely not the norm," said Frank, before the detective could ask.

After the detective left, noting nothing else about the room other than the Bible open at Colossians, Frank went back to his office and checked the morning’s news. There it was, all over the screen; Dale and Katie Mann from Ashby, Saskatchewan, found with their throats slashed in the alley behind Christ Church Cathedral on Sparks Street. He was about to shut his browser when he saw a tweet listed in the search results: <Whites, breeders, Bible thumpers, kids. What’s not to like? #DeathToAllWhites #CanadaForMuslims> He hesitated before clicking on the hashtag, but curiosity got the better of him. Tweets scrolled down his Twitter stream.

<Two down, two million to go. #ShariaLawNow>
<Fun with fundies. #TheProphetPBUH>
<The correct way to end Christian white privilege. Good riddance. #OttawaCaliphate>
<What a pity; no more crucifixes these days. #IslamNow>

There was no end to it. After a couple of minutes he’d had enough and needed fresh air. On his way out of the hotel, he stopped for a moment at the front entrance. 

"It’s an act of terrorism," he said when Mohammed the doorman asked him whether he’d seen the story about their erstwhile guests.

"Hey," said Mohammed, "you can’t say that to me. It’s Islamophobia. And that’s a crime."

Friday, 24 March 2017

The Department of Genetic Chauvinism

[Media prompt] If babies were randomly allocated to families would racism end?
The Department of Genetic Chauvinism

The windows of the Department of Genetic Chauvinism afforded staff like Ivan a splendid view across the Plaza, exceed only by the outlook from the offices of the Social Construct itself. Not that Ivan had ever been provided the opportunity, the honour, of gazing from within the Construct’s hallowed interior over the Great Plaza of the People; he could only dream of such a thing. But he had heard, they had all heard, that on a clear day one could see all the way to the Office of the Chancellor herself, situated atop the Peak. Looking out of the window, the Plaza spreading before him like a satin sheet, Ivan sipped his vitein, reflexively supressing the innate sense of pride, the unalloyed joy, of having his life map lead to the chair in which he sat. He did, though, allow himself a slight tingle before turning back to his screen.

Here, too, Ivan bathed in the satisfaction of his rank in the new society, an advanced, modern civilisation, built on, indeed arising from, the horrors of the Great Struggle, like the mythical phoenix reborn from ashes. Reasserting his will, purging himself now of all extraneous feelings of pleasure, pushing them from his mind, Ivan focused his eyes on the screen, concentrating fully on case before him. It was a difficult one, and would require all of his not inconsiderable skill, his acumen, acknowledged by the director only that morning as among the best she had ever seen.

Upon his arriving at the office that morning, the director had requested Ivan’s presence in her cell. The word immediately had not been appended to the memo, but it was, in its absence, unequivocally implied. We have a situation, said the director, no sooner had he closed the door. A thrill of excitement, abundantly sexual, he noted later, coursed through his body, but he expertly concealed it. Seated, his back straight, boots together, he listened as the director outlined the grievous situation confronting them, her tones hushed, as was befitting. When he walked back to his work station, his heels clicking on the floor, the admiration of his colleagues bathed him as though in honeyed milk.

Now, after several hours of painstaking intellectual labour, inching ever closer to the truth, closing in on a solution, Ivan was on the verge of success. As the fog cleared, and the enormity, the sacrilegious nature of it, hove into view, he was aghast. Ivan checked, and then checked again, but his work was methodical, his conclusions unassailable. For generations, how many generations he had yet to determine, the family assigned to him for investigation had, through philanthropic handouts of an immense scale, beyond Ivan’s comprehension, circumvented the Laws on Genetic Chauvinism, which stated, inter alia, “no couple shall under any circumstances preserve the paternal bond between natural parent and child.” Raising one’s own children was unheard of since the Great Struggle. But there it was, as plain as the fantasy of maternal bonding; the Clintons had never given up a child for random allocation. Ivan smiled; they would be in the hands of the Social Construct by evening, and it would not end well. 

Thursday, 23 March 2017

The Ukrainian

[Media prompt] Why American farmers are hacking their tractors with Ukrainian firmware. 
The Ukrainian

It was raining, Dale Mann had eight hundred acres left to plant, and his John Deere, purchased new last summer, sat like a diseased vegan’s turd in sludge. So let me get this straight, he said into his phone, the temperature in the tractor cab converging with winter outside, you sell me a piece of equipment with firmware that nobody but you can touch, and now you can’t get a man out here to get it running again for three days? He turned off his phone and sat in the dark for a minute or two, gripping the steering wheel hard, his head lowered and looking at half dried clumps of mud on the floor. Putting on his coat, he climbed down to the ground, shut the door, and started walking back to the gate. They’d had the best rainfall for the start of crop planting in years, and as he trudged towards his truck, his boots heavy with wet dirt, he cursed every diagnostic program and data link driver in Kansas.


Anatoly Antonov wasn’t much to look at, and because he kept to himself and was no bother to his neighbours, he didn’t attract undue attention. Everybody in Ashby said he was Russian, but that wasn’t true; he was Ukrainian. Not that it mattered. In the Kansas southwest, who could tell the difference? Anatoly lived out of town, about five miles or so, in the old Carson place, the farmland sold off to neighbours who didn’t want or need the house. When they thought about him, which wasn’t often, folks sometimes said he must be lonely out there on his five acres. But Anatoly wasn’t lonely, he was alone. And he liked it that way.


Dale had never paid attention to talk of tractor hacking, but he clicked on the link Tuf White sent him and did exactly as he was told, which was to buy a twenty-five dollar dummy diagnostic part, for which he received in return a code to join a secret forum. As he scrolled through threads advising farmers with vegan turds like his own, he felt his spirits lift. It was all there, license key generators, speed-limit modifiers, reverse-engineered connector cables; the whole shebang. Hey, honey, he called out, looks like there’s a guy in Ashby who can solve this. Dale’s wife came into the office from the kitchen, wiping flour from her hands on a tea towel. That’s great, she said, putting her arms around his neck; about time we had some luck.  


Anatoly drove out with Dale to the stranded tractor, put his laptop on the hood of his truck, and stood silently while he navigated a hacked version of the John Deere Service Advisor. It was an overcast day, but the rain had stopped, and a dry wind blew across the prairie. Well, there’s your problem, he said, pointing at the screen; it’s easy enough to fix, except those goddamn log leapers’ll charge you one thirty an hour to drive out here to plug in a cable so you can. He went to the back of his truck and rummaged around for a part. Dale squatted and dug his fingers into the dirt. Should have had this crop in by now, he said, rubbing a clump of soil between his hands. I’ll have it running in an hour, said Anatoly. And he did. I transferred another five hundred to you, said Dale, speaking up so Anatoly could hear him over clatter of the engine, for that other … service. Anatoly nodded and got back into truck. It’s fully funded now, he said, and drove off. Dale climbed up into the cab, hoping he wasn’t throwing money away.


With the crop in and rains forecast all week, Dale sat down for dinner feeling confident for the first time in years about the farm. His wife turned on the news. A report just in from Moline, Illinois, said the news anchor, his hand cupping an earpiece. Sam Allen, the CEO of John Deere, has been found dead in his car. The police say there are no suspicious circumstances, and are treating it as suicide. Dale smiled. It wasn't often you found a man as good as his word these days. 

Wednesday, 22 March 2017

The Male Eunuch

[Media prompt] Europe’s first sex robot brothel forced out of base as prostitutes complain of competition.
The Male Eunuch

Everybody laughed when Maria said she wasn’t going to take it lying down. Kneeling down, said Luciana, what about kneeling down? This was at a meeting in May, and since then two more bot brothels had opened, another two or three rumoured. Now it was August, and every women in the room was desperate to take it lying down. They don’t listen, they don’t caress, said Maria, they can’t even look at you. What the hell is wrong with men? Jimena, a radical leftist feminist, who’d been on the game for over thirty years, stood up. It’s just another systemic patriarchal strategy to objectify us, she said; the bourgeoisie want to strip us of our rights. These bots denigrate us, and men are made to see us as sex objects. Nobody responded, and the meeting broke up shortly after. We have to fight, said Jimena to the women departing, but they just sighed and went home, a cloud of depression hanging over each one of them.

Not long afterwards, Maria asked one of her regulars about it. I don’t know, said the man, who owned a high end jewellery store, I haven’t really thought about. He lit a cigarette, and walked to the window. He looked down at the people walking by in the street, feeling for a moment like a king who could do as he liked. I thought I understood men, she said. The man sat on the edge of the bed, running his smooth hands over her thigh. You do, he said, leaning forward to kiss her on the head. But young men, he said, his train of thought dissolving in the air. He put on his shoes and jacket, leaving some bills on the table by the door.

Young men, said Maria at the next meeting; young men are the problem. Luciana asked what she meant. None of my regulars over fifty-five is interested in bots, she said. Not one. I asked them all. And then I went to see who goes to a bot brothel. Everyone was listening now. None of them had expected this. Well, said Sofia, who? Maria opened a notebook and put on her glasses. It’s like this, she said. Almost all are under forty, and most are under twenty-five or thirty. A lot come in groups, so I think for them it’s a kind of joke, just to see what it’s like. She looked up and took off her glasses. But the main thing is this, she said. A bot doesn’t judge.

Well, you’d have thought Maria threw a grenade. I’ve never judged a man in my life, said Jimena, though most of them bloody well deserved it. The nerve, said another, I’ve never said anything about pot bellies, body odour, degeneracy, equipment that wouldn’t satisfy a midget. It was as though Franco had walked into a Trotskyite study group. After the hubbub died down, everyone satisfied their whorish dignity was intact, Maria continued. I talked to a lot of them, she said, and this is what they said. She put her glasses back on and flipped a page with a tongue moistened thumb. Here you go, she said, finding her place. Bots don’t look us as though we’re losers. Maria looked up, then back down at her notes. Bots don’t look at the clock, bots don’t sigh, bots don’t make us feel like cheaters, and bots have better bodies. The clamour of voices started again, and Maria closed her notebook. God damn snowflakes, said Jimena, I’m going to fix this.

After Christmas, the city of Barcelona, bowing to pressure from the Association of Sex Professionals, legislated that the bots could stay, but that every man must, by law, visit a hooker twice for every visit to a bot. Maria was not surprised when young men stopped visiting bots and went back to pleasuring themselves to online pornography. But she kept her lack of surprise to herself. Her older clients tipped better anyway.

Tuesday, 21 March 2017

A whore’s requiem: Butterfield 8 by John O'Hara

In the early 30s, Gloria Wandrous is a single girl in New York with a fast life; mink coats, a good deal more booze than is good for you, a speakeasy for every occasion, gratuitous sex with wealthy married men, and a kiddie fiddler in her past.

Today she’d be working towards a degree in womyn’s studies and call herself empowered. It wouldn’t be a mink coat; she’d steal bling. She’d be on drugs, prescribed for anxiety and otherwise, hang out in the sort of place where poets shout loudly at an audience of three, bang black rappers, NBA stars and footballers, and have a kiddie fiddler in her past.

Lost in Tiananmen Square

[Media prompt] Beijing installs facial recognition in toilets in a bid to combat tissue thieves. 
Lost in Tiananmen Square

I was halfway across the Tiananmen plaza, a stiff wind peppering my face with sand and grit, when I realised I couldn’t see the edge anymore. Even Mao’s shining forehead had disappeared in the gloom. A comrade loomed out of the darkness, asking if I could point him westward. I thought for a moment, wanting to give it my best shot. The side with the Great Hall of the People, you idiot, he said, cursing roundly when I said I had no idea. I’ve been here so long I’m losing weight, he said before disappearing. It can’t be that hard, I thought, starting to walk again. I checked my watch. It was five minutes past noon; I was late, and hurried on.

By one o’clock I still hadn’t found my way to the perimeter and began to panic. I was thirsty, and having had only coffee and a bun for breakfast getting hungrier by the minute. I staggered forward, a square shape appearing out of the murk. As I got closer I could see it was a hawker’s cart. I stopped in front, the smell of doornail bread wafting into my nostrils. What’ll it be, comrade? I bought three, gobbling them down one after the other, with nary a thought of indigestion or manners. That’s the last three, said the owner, bursting into tears. If I don’t return the cart by three o’clock, they’ll deduct fifty yuan. I burped and left. My own troubles were more than enough.

It’s criminal the government doesn’t do something about this pollution, a woman said, her voice booming out the darkness. I walked on; there’s no sense getting involved in political talk here, of all places. Besides, my stomach was rumbling. Who knows what they put in street food these days. My doctor had advised me to stop eating fatty foods. And here I was eating any old poison from a handcart lost in the smog. My wife would have something to say about it when I got home, no doubt about it. Stop worrying about nonsense, I said to myself; I need to find a toilet.

At four, almost without recognising it, I stumbled onto the footpath running along Eastside Plaza Street. I asked a cleaner to point me to the nearest public toilet. He demanded a cigarette, but I had given up, so gave him a two yuan note instead. Young people these days. By the time I found the washroom, I could only walk with my knees clenched, every step heralding a potentially volcanic eruption.

There was no queue, and I paid the attendant, who pointed with his filthy thumb at the wall where a facial recognition toilet tissue dispenser hung. Forget it if you’ve used paper today, comrade, he said. I stood in front of the machine, my bowls aching with an urgency that increased with every second. Twice the machine refused to dispense paper, and I called the attendant over. I asked if he’d seen me today. Sure, he said, about an hour ago. 

I cursed the Party. My twin brother, may his black heart rot in hell, was messing with me again.

Monday, 20 March 2017

"Rid him of freedom": We by Yevgeny Zamyatin

“When the velocity of the aero = 0, it doesn’t move; when the freedom of a person = 0, he doesn’t commit crime. This is clear. The sole means of ridding man of crime is to rid him of freedom.”
We can trace the roots of every malodorous ‘ism’ of the twentieth century, each and every wave of new morality, every arrogant blueprint designed to refashion us into better men, to this equation. Communism, socialism, feminism, Islamism, orientalism – the list goes on; each one is premised on ridding man of crime – the crime of wanting more, thinking differently, behaving or speaking wrongly, having faith in God’s plan for man. And it does so by ridding him of the freedom to act, think or speak. 

Every institution and movement babbling about social justice, from the illiberal arts to BLM, from Hollywood to fake news, is governed by Zamyatin’s Law.

In Memoriam

[Media prompt] Europeans ‘would revive gas chambers if they weren’t ashamed’ – Erdogan.
In Memoriam 

We left Sofia earlier that day, before light, taking the Trakiya motorway east through flat farmland, sunrise turning it field-by-field a dry yellow, then turned south to follow the western edge of Lake Burgas, its watery top as blue as road signs. After coffee, at a recharging station just opened, we crossed the spit near Lake Mandrensko, wisps of clouds submerged beneath its glassy face, before setting out along a cart track, or a road as narrow as one, which brought us to Veselie. Abandoned now, as are many villages in the vicinity, we lost our way in the backstreets, driving in circles until we saw the barricades. Vincent pulled off the road, onto a patch of grass, and we sat silently in the car for a moment before holding hands and saying a prayer. I could see the Strandja Mountains away in the distance to the south, beyond which lay the lifeless plains where the barbarians lived and toiled.

We walked in silence, our boots cracking on the hard-packed metal, following the path through treeless grassland, some cows and a sad-faced stray our only companions. When we reached the forest, Vincent said we were close. It’s just through there, he said, pointing vaguely ahead. Grey, leafless trees shrouded us, the path ahead leading to a horizon we couldn’t see. I was about to say we were lost when, through the thinning trees, I saw the blue thread of the reservoir, and knew we were close. There it is, said Vincent, and I caught sight of the low squat buildings glinting in the light.

Time had not been kind. Many of the chambers had been dismantled by scroungers, but the exterior of #4 was intact, although when we entered it was obvious that anything of value had long been salvaged. Unlike some of the larger camps, shrines today and hosts to thousands of visitors, Veselie was too small and remote to maintain. There were hundreds of camps like it, perhaps thousands, forgotten and decaying. I knew that not every camp was the equal of a shrine like Vierzy, the one outside of Paris where vibrants had met their well-deserved fates, but nevertheless felt God here.

Afterwards, by the reservoir, Vincent took the urn out of his backpack, and we knelt, turning our eyes to Heaven. He was the most honourable, the most heroic man I knew, he said, and I opened the Bible and read from Psalm 27; “When the wicked advance against me to devour me, it is my enemies and my foes who will stumble and fall. Though an army besiege me, my heart will not fear.” We scattered the ashes, standing in silence, neither of us wanting to leave. 

Sunday, 19 March 2017

The Date

[Media prompt] Poll: 78% of readers would date a robot; 23% want sexy celebrity replicas.
The Date

Not a single person in my social network, who comprise the last remaining members from the remnants of the high professions, the ones devastated by the AI plague of the 60s, not a single one of them said it was a bad idea. Take James, the only human lawyer I know who’s still working, an attorney in the corporeal courts representing AIs. If anyone knows about dating robots, it’s him, and he’s not exactly a liberal. There’s one thing you learn pretty quickly when you start working with them, he told me once, and it’s that the media keeps the lid on their godawful behaviour. His stories are toe curling, and have made me think twice when people start going on about AI rights. But that’s another story; what I’m saying is, if a guy like James says dating a robot is fine, then it is.  

It was his wife, Marcia, who recommended AIRobot, the company with the ‘we put the ai in robots’ tagline. They not only manufacture the best synths, she said, but they actually pay celebs before they replicate them. Not that it mattered, I couldn’t afford an A- or B-list star, eventually settling on a Cat. 3-9/10-19W. I asked them to program her with an English accent, a BA in English literature from Oxbridge circa mid-1920s, good manners; a nice middle class English girl who could hold her end up conversationally. Which is why I wasn’t happy when she called my doorman a fuckin’ berk and threatened to glass him, phrases unknown to both the doorman and me. I should have contacted the agent immediately.

Back in the apartment, she showed no interest in my book collection, insisting not only had she never heard of Melville, Hardy or Trollope, but also claiming books bored her. As I started to remonstrate with her, she snatched from the shelf a copy of Middlemarch, for which I’d paid a small fortune, and started tearing out pages, throwing them about the room, cursing all the while. By this time, I had had enough, and punched the kill switch, calling AIRobot to come and pick her up.

About a week later, I received a satisfactory compensation package, and while talking to the representative asked what had gone wrong. She wasn’t particular forthcoming at first, but eventually admitted there had been a mix up, and I'd received a 2020 women’s study major from the University of Essex meant for another client. We both laughed. There was no harm done, but I do wonder sometimes who ordered such a harridan. 

Saturday, 18 March 2017

Taking a Break

[Media prompt] The death of a prominent gamer has led to a debate about whether gaming marathons are hazardous to health.
Taking a Break

Tarvydas feinted, a shirtless thug’s haymaker missing the side of his head by more than enough, then, with agility belying his size, pushed forward with his back foot off the curb, jabbing his would be assailant in the face. His arm didn’t move very far, but the punch was hard enough to knock the man to the ground, but not so hard so as to hurt his fist or, which was the sort of thing that got people booted these days, kill the fool. A trio of drunks, friends of the man or not Tarvydas couldn’t say, drew air in through their teeth in unison, a kind of symphony of boozy sucking, as they watched the tranquilised body hit the pavement with a short, sharp slap. He’s not getting up, said Tatiana into his earpiece. Tarvydas knew that, he could tell from the slackness of the man’s limbs, but ordered her to bring the car around nonetheless. He was right to do so; by the time she pulled up, the door opening as she braked, a small crowd was starting to gather, and someone had called the grunts. You’re going down, fat boy, a woman yelled, but Tatiana had him in the car by then, the acceleration encasing him in upholstery, the comeback on his tongue never making it past his lips. At cruising altitude, the molten flow of golden lighted streets dwindling into the darkened plains beneath them, he felt the first flutter of the mandatory hiatus, and he let it come.

Derek, a voice said, half merged with a disappearing image, which moved too fast for him to recapture. Derek, again, accompanied by a jolt to his shoulder. When his eyes flickered open, he saw his mother. It’s your break, she said, an apology tinged with anxiety. As always, it took him a moment to adjust to his surroundings, the bank of screens, disengaged and flickering with static, his mother’s perfume, the ache of familiarity settling upon him. He groaned, although he knew he and Tatiana had synced and she would be there when he returned; it was the thought, the idea, of waiting that fatigued him. I want to sleep, he said to his mother, so she closed the shutters, the room fading to dark as they slid down, locking with a soft cluck. Derek felt the world slipping away, a gentle rocking motion the last thing he remembered, not unlike being on the ocean, he imagined, although he had never seen water. He had never seen anything, he thought.

His mother put the USB containing her son’s consciousness onto the desk. It made no sense that they still needed a break, but the law was quite firm on it. She shut the door and went to the kitchen. Her husband would be home soon and wanting his dinner.

Friday, 17 March 2017

"Ooow-ow-ooow-owow!" The Life of a Dog by Mikhail Bulgakov

Nothing’s new.

Bulgakov apprehended shortly after the Russian Revolution that a Communist’s only aspiration, the foundation without which nothing else is possible, is the destruction of the individual. The tragedy confronting us ninety-two years after its publication, in 1925, is our current propinquity, perilously so, to the cultural conditions that unleashed the greatest firestorm of identity politics ever known, consuming millions of lives in the twentieth century and which today we laughably refer to as socialism, as though there was ever anything civil or sociable about it.

With overt criticism impossible, Bulgakov penned a satire, the central plot point of which was the testicular transfer from man to dog. And there you are, our new Soviet man; Sharikov, a dog who thinks he’s human because he has a pair of human balls.  

And to today. 

How many contemporary cultural commissars can we identify in the titular protagonist, Sharikov the dog, the recipient of Bulgakov’s fantastical reproductive reassignment? Who are the modern dogs in our midst, with the balls of men but the mien of street mutts? Which of our public intellectuals, like Sharikov, act like men, but bite and froth and chase cats into the toilet, who eat at the table but seek only to knock down, to undermine, what men have built?

Here’s a preliminary list of dogs au courant, who possess men’s balls, but stink of wet fur and piss, who shit everywhere, and bark repeatedly at their betters.

I present, our twenty-first century Sharikovs.

  • Al Gore: testicles may have withered and fallen off
  • Richard Dawkins: plummy accent can’t hide the scrotal scars
  • John Stewart: initial triumph, but yaps excessively when excited
  • Slavoj Žižek: failure to contain excessive drooling
  • Michael Moore: transplant failure, obesity resulting from lack of testosterone
  • Ta-Nehisi Coates: canine gonads still attached
  • Rachel Maddow: balls excised, replacement pair unavailable (neither man nor dog, or both; jury out)

Thursday, 16 March 2017

Too Late

[Media prompt] Transgender father and daughter transition together.
Too Late

The Social Oversight promulgated another law today. That’s not news, it publishes new regulations every day without pause in the Daily Statute, which since last year we’ve been required by law to consult before noon at least three times a week. Although not exactly onerous, more a mild irritation, it’s the requirement that chafes. For the last few months there’s been a preponderance of laws about buttons and shoe laces, collar widths and shirt sleeve length. The most momentous one I can recall was the regulation banning ‘equivalent race adoption’, but that was just institutionalising common practice. There’s a lot of that in law making these days, and besides, what family wants a child of the same colour? Vincent says the only reason they make us read new laws is because they can. I could accept that, if we knew what the Oversight was. But we don’t, so there’s no point in ascribing motive.

What makes this new law surprising, astonishing to be truthful, is the Chancellor’s initial opposition, including a caustic speech seemingly, and I say this with the usual provisos, in favour of God and biology. Like the Oversight, we know nothing about the Chancellor, except there’s a new one every four years. Perhaps she only argued this to quell rioting in the boroughs dominated by breeders and Christians, though they’re the same thing when you get down to it. All I know is they’ll be none too happy when they read this one. If the aim is blood in the streets, then they’ve gone about it the right way. It’s hard to see the logic of a constitutional requirement for all children over the age of nine to transition to, as stated in Article 7 (a), ‘a gender other than that assigned by the Social Oversight at birth.’ There’s a lot more besides, but that’s the essential thrust and, as I say, I just don’t see the point, the meaning, behind it.

I don’t identify as a Christian breeder, at least not unconditionally, and I’m not a two-gender reductionist, even though that’s what I was raised as, but you have to draw the line somewhere. That Martin Niemöller poem in the Free States of America’s White Genocide Memorial Museum puts it best:

First they came for the Whites, and I did not speak out
Because I was not a White

Then they came for the nuclear family, and I did not speak out
Because I was not part of a nuclear family

Then they came for the Christians, and I did not speak out
Because I was not a Christian

Then they came for me; and there was no one left to speak for me

If I were as cynical as Vincent, I’d say the Oversight wants us dead. All of us. But that’s not going to happen tonight. They say Sixty Threes are dancing in the street over this, but I’m willing to put a stop to it. There’ll be bleeding in the gutters before morning. It’s time for men to stand up and fight. 

Wednesday, 15 March 2017

Medieval Islamic city indeed: Arabian Nights and Days by Naguib Mahfouz

It’s small wonder the Academy of Swedish Virtue Signallers awarded the 1988 Nobel Prize for Author Classifications Heretofore Overlooked to Egyptian writer Naguib Mahfouz. The guy was a genius.

In the style of 1001 Nights, Mahfouz relates the tales of a varied assortment of brown trash inhabiting a medieval Islamic city. But attentive readers soon grasp the author’s prescience; Mahfouz wasn’t really writing about a medieval city, he was accurately predicting the current Muslim outbreak of beheadings, thievery, wife beatings, and other assorted bestial acts of thuggery. Residents of cities as far afield as Dearborn and Rotterdam will recognise these Islamic cultural artefacts immediately.

The good news, if Mahfouz is right, is that in the long run Muslims either kill most people they know, learn the error of their ways and float off into the ether, or turn into genies. The bad news is that after colonising the West, they start out by killing all the unbelievers.

Like (((radical socialists))) plotting the downfall of Western civilisation, the intent of current Muslim infestations is in plain sight for anyone who wants to look. I mean, come on, even the Swedish pansies handing out gongs to third-rate scribblers understand this much. It’s not as though they hold a different opinion; they’re working on the inside to abet the plan. 

I told you he was a genius. 

Tuesday, 14 March 2017

Peony Ridge

[Media prompt] China’s animal torture internet channels gain huge following from making a show out of cruelty.
Peony Ridge*

The peonies were over. Not far from the edge of the bamboo forest, where flowers from the scattered magnolia trees had started falling to the damp earth, and a weeping willow cast its ragged shadow across the grass, there was a dirt track snaking from the brook at the bottom of the gully towards the top of the slope, where it petered out. In places, the grass was stamped down from the tread of men who, labouring up the hill, sometimes stopped in the shade for a rest before continuing.

On spring evenings, when twilight mists covered the gully and the forest, and the sun was a dull flare on the horizon, a handful of bamboo rats came out of their burrows to feed. Most of them stuck close to the clumps of bamboo, gnawing at the grass there; the more adventurous moving further away to snack on the last of the plum blossoms. Most, however, stayed in their labyrinth, content to eat the underground parts of plants. It was a peaceful colony.

In the grey light, at the entrance to one of the burrows, sat Li Guang, the largest rat in a colony of bigger than average rats. Having held their territory for decades, against innumerable incursions from neighbours, the rats of the bamboo forest were sizeable and warlike. Hello, general, said a rat coming out of the burrow behind him. It was Wang Qiang, the fourth wife of the head rat, and she sat for a moment beside Li while surveying the grass and slope. Hello, said Li Guang, shifting uncomfortably. Although incomparably brave, most famous for a solitary rear guard defence that held off half the clan from the bottom of the gully, he was awkward in the company of beauty. Don’t worry, General, said Wang Qiang, I won’t bite. She smiled at him warmly before scurrying off to join her children.

As night began to fall, Li set off on his rounds with two of his most trusted warriors. He called out to a group of youngsters frolicking around the willow tree that it was time to go back. They quickly ran towards home. He stopped at the top of the ridge, looking down towards the brook, its quiet burble a familiar sound. He was about to turn westward when he saw something unusual near the edge of their territory. The others saw it, too. Yuan, Zhang, he said, stay here and keep a look out. He trotted down the slope, seeing, as he got closer, a silver rod half concealed by leaves and dirt. He sniffed the air, catching the faint scent of man, the hair on his back prickling.

Calling Yuan down the slope, the two of them investigated. I don’t like it, said the general, the words barely out of his mouth when there was a loud crack, as though a branch had snapped, followed by a cry of pain. As Li turned, seeing Yuan’s back leg caught under the silver rod, blood covering his fur, a beam of light blinded him and the sounds of a man blundering through the undergrowth propelled him up the slope where Zhang, his ears stiff with fear, was standing.

Quick, said Li Guang, call out the defenders. Hurry, he shouted, turning to look at Yuan as Zhang sped towards the burrows. The man carried a small box emitting light in his hand, pointing it at Yuan, circling him, then crouching down, pushing the box closer until it was almost touching the trapped rat. Yuan bared his teeth, jerking furiously to free his leg, but he was trapped tightly. Hearing a noise, the man looked in Li’s direction, his face a sickly yellow.

When Zhang returned, General Li outlined his plan, sending a group to both flanks, and one to the rear, at the bank of the brook. When the man got down on all fours, positioning the box in his hand awkwardly, Li Guang, Zhang and three others ran down the slope, leaping onto his back. At the sound of his screams, the others attacked, and in a frenzy tore into the man’s flesh. Within seconds, his ears and nose were ragged flaps of bloodied skin. He swatted vainly at his assailants, but weakened quickly as the rats ripped great strips of fat and muscle from his body. Zhang sank his teeth into an eye, rupturing the cornea and lens, clawing until it was severed from the optic nerve. The man howled in pain, and then fell to the ground, clutching at his face.

When it was over, Yuan freed and carried back to the burrows, Li Guang inspected the box lying on the ground. Its light was dimming, and as he peered into a dark circle on one end saw himself dimly reflected. Li turned his back, and with a powerful kick of his hind legs kicked the box into the brook, where it sank.

Had he known that people all over China were watching a live stream of the entire attack, many of them now vomiting noodles onto keyboards, Li Guang would no doubt have smiled. 

* With apologies to the late Richard Adams and Watership Down. However, I'm certain Bigwig, Silver, Fiver, Hazel, Holly, and all the other rabbits in that "dazzlingly brave" story would no doubt be smiling also. 

Monday, 13 March 2017

Consensual fantasies: The City & the City by China Miéville

China Miéville asks us to believe that two separate and disparate populations, comprising distinctive cities, languages, histories, politics and economies, could share the same urban environment, but remain divided. Well, right there and then, you see the problem; how could such a situation possibly arise? How could two unique worlds coexist in the same space without a wall or river (or aliens, or whatever) separating them? 

It all makes sense, though, because the author wants you to arrive at the though that that's exactly how life really is. You know, all of us living on top of one another but ‘seeing and unseeing’ each other (as characters in the book do). Or as a professional reviewer puts it: “the real world is composed of consensual fantasies of varying degrees of power.” You see, it’s a metaphor about how we're taught to see, to interpret, the world.

But wait a minute, I hear all you racists from places like Rotterdam cry, this is exactly what my city is like today; thousands of Muslim Turks in Rotterdam live a completely separate life to the Dutch. What’s so transgressive about this Miéville guy? Ah, well, there’s the rub. He’s not.

In The City & the City, inhabitants of overlapping urban environments are taught from birth to ‘unsee’ the other, and thus live in socially constructed separate city states (with borders, passport control, punishment for ‘breaching’ the border, and so on). This concept is actually pretty interesting, but there’s a much more powerful and compelling story than the one he told, which to be fair isn’t as bad as I’m making out. The problem is Miéville’s ‘socialist blindness’, the kind brought on by tears of sympathy for cultures that want to destroy Western civilisation. 

There’s a tremendous novel out there waiting to be written based around this concept, but with a story, a plot, involving vibrants living in the West who want to destroy it. Don’t ask Miéville to see this reality, though, because he can’t (or won’t admit to it if he does). In fact, it's extraordinary that his book is not about refugee invaders slowly colonising their 'adopted homeland'. But what do you expect from leftist plonkers who think we can all live together peacefully, and won’t wake up until they’re having their heads lopped off by Muslims?

How's that for a consensual fantasy?

Sunday, 12 March 2017

Educating Addison White

[Media prompt] Latina students at Pitzer College ask white girls to take off their hoop earrings … “If you didn't create the culture as a coping mechanism for marginalisation, take off those hoops.”

Educating Addison White

Addison White could smell the paint before she saw it, so she knew someone had been tagging something. But it was still a shock when she turned the corner and saw what they’d written. She stood for a moment, not quite believing it, but thinking also that it made perfect sense. If you half fill a half-wit’s head with the notion they’re a victim, and then top it up with hare-brained theories about gender and culture, then this is what you get; “White girl, take off your hoops!” sprayed in a childish hand across the dormitory wall. It was a perfectly logical outcome of a college education.

Naturally, it was all anyone could talk about all day. Wearing hoops is an everyday act of resistance for Latinos, one of her lecturers said in class. And when white people wear winged eyeliner, or line their lips, or wear hoops, they’re appropriating styles that belong to the women who created that culture. To be honest, she said, pausing dramatically as though she was about to say something she shouldn’t, if you didn’t create the culture of resistance as a coping mechanism for marginalization, then take off those hoops. Addison thought about this for the rest of the day, and after dinner she knew what she was going to do.

She’s right, you know, Addison said to her friend Bunny later that night. Cultural appropriation is as bad as genocide. Perhaps it even is genocide, she said, looking up at the ceiling to think about it. Bunny, sitting on her bed cross legged, sorting through her jewellery box, was busy adding to a growing pile of hoops on the counterpane. I guess I’ll have to throw all these out, she said. Addison put on her backpack. Sleep on it first, she said, closing the door behind her.

The next morning, dormitory residents were awoken earlier than usual by a scream. Campus security were on the scene quickly, followed by the police who cordoned off the area. Addison lay in bed, listening to the escalating howls of terror and outrage, then tired of the noise, dressed and walked to the dining hall. 

She was the sole diner, and a large black women serving behind the counter looked at her askance, asking her how she could bring herself to eat. Addison looked at her. Oh my God, the black woman said, haven’t you heard? Addison shook her head. Someone’s gone done and duct taped a whole mess of Mexican ears to the dormitory wall, the black woman said, where they painted on. That’s terrible, said Addison, scooping some muesli into her bowl; I guess nobody'll be able to wear hoops now. 

Saturday, 11 March 2017

Jews Keeping America Weak: Rules for Radicals by (((Saul D. Alinsky)))

Having been persuaded by (((Cynthia Ozick))) of the authenticity, truth and veracity of The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, a publication I had heretofore but erroneously believed to be an anti-Semitic forgery and hoax, I initiated research that would allow me to comprehend more fully the vile and secret Jewish conspiracy for world domination. And before my Jewish readers get their yarmulkes in a knot over me citing (((Miss Ozick’s))) revelatory review of the Protocols, preparing no doubt to overwhelm her and I both with the routine condemnatory messages for which they are renowned, for the poor woman, eighty-eight years of age no less, is nowadays the recipient of not inconsiderable Kike disapprobation over her views on this, let me remind everyone, Jew and goyim alike, of her Hymie bona fides; people have been calling her ‘Christ killer’ since she was a toddler, she has been shamed for refusing to sing Christmas carols since her school days, and is the author of, among other works, All the World Wants the Jews Dead. She is the real sheeny deal, so when she says the plan outlined in the Protocols is legitimate, then I for one sit up and take note. Right, with that out of the way, let’s begin.

One of the most remarkable deceptions in the repository of twentieth century duplicity, a century replete with mendacity, was that Hebes were incapable of conspiring to rule the world because of the Holocaust (otherwise known as the Shoah). Or in other words; an argument based on a premise that victims are incapable of scheming. This is like asserting that those favourably disposed towards Nazism today are incapable of conspiring against the Yid because of the ‘punch a Nazi’ movement (otherwise known as liberalism). The astonishingly durable Jewish sermon on Kike victimisation, from Hitler to German ovens, withering of late, but still potent in some circles, simply facilitated the implementation, in plain sight, of almost all the 24 protocols, from the Basic Doctrine (I) to Qualities of the Ruler (XXIV). A more cynical man than I might conclude the Shoah expedited, or at least camouflaged, Jewish actions to enslave the gentile. Whether that’s true or not can be left for another day, but what is indisputable is that in America, where the Yid has excelled beyond his wildest imagination, Jews Keeping America Weak (J-KAW) have played a pivotal role. And, like elsewhere, it has remained virtually unknown despite operating in, and I say this again, plain view.

Perspicacious readers may well be asking what all this has to do with (((Alinsky))). I’m glad you asked. It’s a simple as this: (((Alinsky’s))) Rules for Radicals is a direct continuation of the Jewish conspiracy chartered in The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, modified, tried and tested on American soil from the 1930s onwards. Let’s take but one example (chosen here so as to draw attention to (((Alinsky’s))) rules of ethics of means and ends, and not his more well-known 12 Rules).

In Protocol I, “Basic Doctrine,” the Elders of Zion state, “The political has nothing in common with the moral. The ruler who is governed by the moral is not a skilled politician, and is therefore unstable on his throne. He who wishes to rule must have resource both to cunning and to make-believe. Great national qualities, like frankness and honesty, are vices in politics, for they bring down rulers from their thrones more effectively and more certainly than the most powerful enemy. Such qualities must be the attributes of the kingdoms of the goyim, but we must in no wise be guided by them. Our right lies in force. The word “right” is an abstract thought and proved by nothing. The word means no more than: Give me what I want in order that thereby I may have a proof that I am stronger than you” (p. 24).

And from Protocol III, “Methods of Conquest”: “We appear on the scene as alleged saviours of the worker from this oppression when we propose to him to enter the ranks of our fighting forces – Socialists, Anarchists, Communists – to whom we always give support in accordance with an alleged brotherly rule (of the solidarity of all humanity) of our social masonry” (p. 31).

Now let us turn to Rules for Radicals (the chapter titled “Of Means and Ends”):

“The end is what you want, and the means is how you get it. Whenever we think about social change, the question of means and ends arises. The man of action views the issue of means and ends in pragmatic and strategic terms. He has no other problem; he thinks only of his actual resources and the possibilities of various choices of action. He asks of ends only whether they are achievable and worth the cost; of means, only whether they will work. To say that corrupt means corrupt the ends is to believe in the immaculate conception of end and principles. The real arena is corrupt and bloody” (p. 24).

“The means-and-ends moralists, constantly obsessed with the ethics of the means used by the Have-Nots against the Haves, should search themselves as to their real political position. In fact, they are passive – but real – allies of the Haves… The most unethical of all means is the non-use of any means... The standards of judgment must be rooted in the whys and wherefores of life as it is lived, the world as it is, not our wished-for fantasy of the world as it should be” (pp. 25-26).

“The third rule of ethics of means and ends is that in war the end justifies almost any means” (p. 29).

“The tenth rule of the ethics of means and ends is that you do what you can with what you have and clothe it with moral garments” (p. 36).


Well, you can see for yourself; they're more or less identical. Not word-for-word, but in the basic ideas and tone. (((Alinsky))) was a second generation elder of Zion.

As gentiles fought to mythologise the Protocols, ridiculing and endeavouring to destroy the reputations of those for whom the truth was palpable, the Jew (((Alinsky))) was, in plain sight, rewriting them for popular leftist consumption. Jews have been keeping America weak since the late 1800s, but no other sheeny has been, individually, as successful as (((Saul David Alinsky))) in bringing the nation to its knees. 

The only question, the only one worth asking, is whether Trump's MAGA can withstand, and ultimately prevail over, (((Alinsky's))) J-KAW. 

Friday, 10 March 2017

The Bull Rider and the Land Whale

[Media prompt] What women want. It's not a mystery. Just ask Amazon what books they are selling to them. If you're a wealthy Alpha Male Cowboy and she’s fat, you’re gold.
The Bull Rider and the Land Whale*

"Well, that’s that," said Brianna, affixing a self-adhesive address sticker onto a FedEx pack, the contents of which were one hand knitted pink pussy hat, and one ‘Feminist AF’ embroidered bookmark.

“I think that calls for a little celebration, don’t you?” she said, looking at the Maine Coon stretched out by the fireplace. “That’s the second order this month.”

Brianna heaved herself out of the massage chair. “I think I’ll try another piece of that mud pie,” she said, hobbling to the kitchen. “Do you want a piece, Hillary?”

The Maine Coon looked up at the sound of its name, but rolled over and went back to sleep.


Before bed, having polished off the mud pie, Brianna sat at her desk browsing YouTube. She watched Emma hiding feminist books around New York. “I knew you were the real deal, Hermione,” she thought. Clicking on an episode of Fat Girl Flow, where Corissa answered questions about oversized girl sex, she was distracted by an advertisement for the rodeo in town over the weekend.

“Good Lord, Hill” she said, “take a look at that.”

‘That’ was Cole Banner, who, standing beside a little caramel-skinned blonde reporter, both of them leaning on a wooden fence, was answering some inane questions. Brianna replayed it, just to listen to his drawl. And to look at his jeans. “My Lord, Hillary Rodham Clinton," she said, "that man is all man, and then some.”


On the night Cole Banner rode Kenyan Mulatto, a charbray bull the media called the World’s Most Dangerous, a bull everyone loathed for killing Dan Stubbins two years ago, on that fateful night, Brianna was on duty at the Gaines Medical Centre. When they brought him in, hit from behind as he stood tall and as smooth as you like in victory, everyone blaming the rodeo clowns, rightly so, he was unconscious. While the front desk and security did their best to keep the media scrum at bay, Brianna prepped him for surgery, scissoring off his boots, his belt, the one with a big silver buckle that said Make America Great Again, and his jeans. “Oh, Lord,” she said, when he lay naked on his back. “Oh, dear Lord.”


Dr Charters told the press that Cole Banner's vital signs were stable, but that he was in a coma, and he was in God's hands now. Eventually, the reporters went away; other stars to cover, other rodeos to film.

But Brianna remained by his bed over the long months. She nursed him every day, sponging down his lean, hard body, developing an intimacy that few, if any, of his doubtlessly long list of lovers could have ever imagined. He was immobilised, and so it was she who provided him relief, her chubby fingers unable to meet when she grasped his elongated manhood, the most impressive specimen she had ever seen. And it was she who discovered he was from one of the wealthiest families in Texas.

"You know what, Hillary?" she said to her cat one night. "I think I've met the love of my life."  


One evening, when she saw Cole's impressive staff stiffening subconsciously under the sheets, Brianna locked the door, peeled off her tank-size Spanx, and by willpower alone began to climb onto the bed. Under normal circumstances, given the bed's height, this would have been too much for her, but nevertheless, she persisted and, upon recovery straddled him, riding Banner as he himself rode Kenyan Mulatto.. 

The obituaries noted that Banner was the only man to stay on Kenyan Mulatto for ten seconds after the bell, one of many records for which he was fondly remembered. All of them mentioned that he survived being hit by a two-thousand pound bull, but none remarked he had expired under the weight of a night nurse who, climaxing for the first time in her life, collapsed and suffocated him. 

* Submitted to the Nevertheless, She Persisted series by Tor, but sadly rejected.