I know that smell, and I hope you don't ever have to.

It's that feeling when you have pride, yet don't think much of yourself when fate has washed one ashore like a marooned sailor, contemplating what life must now be. This was the dot of an island very few knew about, where my closest cousin was the alien crab whom you saw scavenging down at the bottom of the reef with the nearly-silent "slisssh" of the cross-currents as they picked up measly tidbits of what passed for nourishment like removed, semi-autistic creatures, you beheld a life that was so undynamic and unchanging.

A fate only mentioned in ghastly jokes when I had been among the living. . . . .

The whole cay, spanning across the world in little isolated dots, was full of even more twisted inmates. Those who groped love dolls or died of autoerotic asphyxiation in closets where their mothers found them dangling with post-mortem erections. . . . . where anti-depressants put out by Glaxo-Kline triggered violent Columbine-style rampages and everything chaotic and ugly and superficial about America was blown up in the pages of "TIME" & "Newsweek" in the tragedy of black ooze that marked our dawning millennium like toxic waste dumps that sprung a gooking leak like sinister tendencies, the break-down of "commonsense" that yet had a lowest-common logic like hateful sharp stones. There always seemed to be clean-up crews waving the fumes out of their face masks as they padded around in plastic suits, spraying on disinfectant that was just about as lethal as the wretched disaster itself.

You got to understand. This was "life in the bunker". . . . . howling at my Jewish mother like "The Fuehrer" in his last days when she had a way of stepping on my toes like burning ammonia running up my legs and into my eyes, teary with depression and ruefulness for the pitiless slab of N.O.W. like a cruel, Paleolithic slab How she told her coffee klatch of friends about all my problems, how she could not contain my meltdown of teenage social dysfunction like a nuclear cooling silo of mild reasonableness that would "just leave me alone". . . . .  And here we were, squabbling like Jews in a lower east-side tenement, where overemotional men made "the ultimate statement" for effect-- threatening to take the whole family off the cliff-- but veering off at the last second with a hand up to their forehead and losing all credibility as their wives and mothers-- ESPECIALLY THEIR MOTHERS-- kept coming at them, making them feel about a foot tall.

I wanted-- somehow-- to throw myself off of myself with one great flinging motion and become a man of iron in this world of inferior materials. . . . . where everything was a lie or a sales-pitch and oftentimes both as mothers told naive, sing-song bedtime stories that only came true for the impossibly suave and/or "Blonde" but not for "genetic vomit" like me. Half-Jewish, half-Lutheran, belonging everywhere and nowhere like a half-breed strung between two worlds like a flimsy bridge that could hold no appreciable weight as my life collapsed around me and sent me into the molten hell of anxiety and depression and wishes for a life "that never was", if-- but "for a lot of things".

You got to remember, it was a mixture of grandiosity and self-loathing that fueled everything as I looked upon the cosmos (-- and myself) with complete and utter cynicism and contempt. It was not necessarily the survival of the fittest who triumphed like Nietzchean champions, but "the gunk" of the "merely adequate" who pulled down "THE GREAT"-- i.e. "ME" as I shook my head at my inability to relate to what America was becoming, like I never would have a home. How it seemed as if the freshest and the best was gone forever, and no one was left to populate a barren future except for the flakes, doofuses, musty old turtles, and mean-eyed sociopaths who needed to be shown the correct way-- i.e. "MY WAY".

So much of the population couldn't see behind the slick media curtain of bobble-heads and cutesy graphics that covered up the darker, sterner truths of what really mattered with a grim, evasive, politically-correct silence. There was no way to effect change, except to move inland and become, not like a media-led sheep watching David Letterman and "E.R.", but a fearless wolf who loped through the woods and ate what it caught like pure, unvarnished truth. . . . .

. . . . . But instead I found myself less a noble creature of the Teutonic tradition (-- enter the beating of timpanis), but more like a snaggle-toothed coyote with a pack of even worse-off animals of the American underbelly gnawin' on a rotted carcass of something most people avoided like the measles. This, a supposedly "brave" neo-Nazi ideology we had stumbled upon out on a fly-blown corner of the internet as if we had really pulled down something big. See the coyote bury his snout in the rotten guts of "life how it really was", "The King of KKKarnivores" who feasted on such a low level of sustenance down here on the fringes of the food-chain that we weren't all that removed from other people you wouldn't quite think of at first, but they were there. For instance, peaceful left-wing creatures that scooped up plankton with wide, sweeping mouths like "the brooms of the sea"-- the world of paranormal circles, Green Party activism, and alternative health. It was all an existence just as palsied and wretched and passive and unhappy.

However you want to look at us, it was the withered side of life as we coughed and lolled our tongues with putrid breath and bonded in the stink. Of course, we realized that anyone who took a shot at a big, live "mule deer"-- i.e. pulling down the Federal Government-- was hunted down like an animal and either captured or killed. But that didn't mean that our idle talk went away, as the coyotes sat in a circle on their mangy haunches outside a broken-down outhouse and recounted the saga of legendary Bob Matthews who died in a shoot-out with "The Feds".

He and a pack of snarlin' wolves formed an underground terrorist cell called "The Order", or Bruders Schweiden which is German for "Silent Brotherhood" and totally meant business with the cocking of a fully-loaded automatic machine gun. They carried out bank robberies and held up armored cars for funds. They bombed pornography shops and synagogues. When Alan Berg, a liberal jester of an on-air radio personality, intellectually outdid them on his call-in talk show with that Jewish facility of verbal needling, they marked him for death and machine-gunned him down in his suburban Denver driveway.

In the end, ole' Bob was holed up and wounded in a house out in the woods and surrounded by 200 FBI agents. He kept firing at them through the walls with a pistol and wouldn't give up. At night a helicopter dropped white phosphorous illuminations flares onto the roof, The place ignited, and flames shot one hundred feet into the air. And he still wouldn't come out as he fired through the walls. In the end they could only identify him by his charred dental records.

"Now there's a white man", we figure.

So inspired around our Odinist circle (-- with a secret Jew among them), we'd give chase to the occasional rabbit (-- brown or otherwise) that hopped into view from time to time, but that was mostly an idle pursuit. You can pick on little guys outside of 7-Eleven, but you sure ain't gonna go up into the jungle of North St. Louis.

Because even "Thor" can be outgunned. . . . . and buried by "The Crypts".

-- "What-choo lookin' at punk?"
-- "Get out of my 'hood!"

Yes, we may have been scurrilous. . . . . but we weren't stupid! More akin to a scared young posse trying to half-convince themselves that goin' back home is really "the honorable thing to do". And hopefully even a snaggle-toothed coyote with yellow, loam eyes finds himself a more honorable "standard of living". . . . . and wanders with a limping foot onto something else.

1) Click here to read "Podunk Radical"

2) Click here to read "Tom Metzger's Shit-House"

*******************

"You want a-nuther song? Well I ain't plain' one mutherfuckin' note until someone comes up here and puts sum money in my god-damned tip-jar! You know I only came here for one purpose. . . . . to take yor fuckin' cash! Why, I could make more profit puttin' out my meth-head neighbor's asshole and ringin' a bell, hollerin' 'Man for sale! Man for sale!'

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

(Rheeee of Crickets)

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

("I heard that, Missy!")