All posts by Roosh

The June 2018 Happy Hour In Washington D.C. Was A Huge Success

On Saturday I drove to the nearest Metro station two hours before the 8pm scheduled start of my first happy hour in two years. While waiting for a train to the city, I was recognized by a young man wearing a cowboy hat. We sat in the same train car and he told me how he’s doing well meeting women at dance events, though SJWs have infiltrated them. He has to be careful not to say anything politically incorrect.

I got off at the Gallery Place station and walked around until 7:30pm before posting the Starbucks meeting location on Twitter. For the next twenty minutes, I mentally rehearsed all the bad things that could happen, but I was feeling confident that the event would go off smoothly since only one media article was written about it. I learned that a substantial flurry of articles needs to be published for the elite to activate their SJW foot soldiers.

At 7:50pm, I stood across the street from the Starbucks. I saw a friend in front and waved him over. Then four more men recognized me. All five of us went inside at 7:55. Starting at 8, the stream of men flowing into the cafe was steady. If a man made lingering eye contact with me, I knew that he knew. I handed out fortune cookie slips of paper that had the location of the main event at a bar two blocks down 7th street.

A Starbucks barista came up to the group and said, “Is there anyone here named Roosh? Someone is on the phone for him.” A prank caller. I did not imagine this in my mental rehearsals. I was hesitant to admit that there was a Roosh present in case it was a trap. “There is no one here named Roosh,” I said. The barista left with a skeptical look on his face.

We spread the bathroom code “2018” amongst ourselves to take advantage of the corporate toilet policy. At least five men used the toilet, perhaps as many as eight. Many real customers confused our group for the line to buy an extra burnt coffee beverage with high fructose corn syrup. The baristas started getting visibly agitated, especially since only one or two men bought something. They started taking away the stools we were using under the guise of preparing the store for closing.

A man arrived who I remember leaving nasty comments on my blog that parroted the leftist line that I abuse women. He approached me with a smile and his hand outstretched. I told him he was not welcome to the event because of the comments he left in the past. His smile evaporated and he walked out. The fact that he expected me to forget his previous behavior suggests that haters are confused fans. Someone who personally attacks or defames me even once will never be allowed into my circle of trust.

When the group grew to 25, employees finally asked us to stand away from the front counter. They stopped short of kicking us out. If they did, I’d seek pro bono legal counsel to sue for discrimination since I’m a person of brown color.

We eventually moved outside and waited five extra minutes to catch the late stragglers. During this time, one attendee, an Indian man, said, “Roosh, you look small. You need to hit the gym.” I raised one eyebrow and looked at his overweight physique that he tried to hide with dark clothing. I replied, “But you’re fat! Get fit and then you can make fun of me all you want.” We had a good laugh. Indians are the original trolls so I stay extra aware when I’m around them.

At 8:35, I led the group of 40 men down the sidewalk to the bar. It turns out that the fortune cookie slips weren’t necessary. I said to them, “I wish I had some kind of banner or battle flag.” If we were all ISIS terrorists with powerful weapons, and took elevated positions, we could easily conquer several city blocks. Even if the only weapon is our minds, there is no limit to what we could accomplish if we stuck together, planned, and organized. This is why they stopped us in 2016.

We arrived at the bar in Chinatown. The bearded bartender was visibly excited at the unexpected influx of customers. The men started to relax because we were now in a location that was not posted publicly. I did my best to have a conversation with each one. They varied greatly in upbringing, race, employment, and life goals.

I met men fresh out of high school who were just beginning their life’s journey and others in their 50’s with children and a divorce under their belt. Some men worked in the Federal government and talked predominately about political issues (this is DC, after all), others were businessmen trying to make a career without getting shut down for their beliefs, and also present were RVF poonhounds who picked my brain for foreign countries that had the best women. It was the kind of diversity I love.

There was a brown mural of seabirds hanging in the hallway. Whenever a man asked me for a selfie, I suggested we use it as a backdrop. The hallway became a sort of gathering point to have deeper discussions. Several men gave me condolences for my sister’s death, asking me how I was doing. “As good as I can,” I would reply.

A post shared by Roosh (@kingroosh) on

A woman I didn’t recognize approached me. Apparently one of the attendees told her who I was. She was lamentably overweight but had a friendly demeanor.

“So you’re a pickup artist,” she said.

“I am?”

“Well that’s what it says on your Wikipedia.”

One of the guys started filming her, thinking that she was attacking me, but I told him that it was okay and he put his phone down. It was clear that she loved getting the attention of several men at once and wanted to keep the conversation going as long as possible, but she would have to increase her beauty for me to give her more than three minutes of my time. After showing her my “straight pride” salute, which is really the same as a black power salute, I introduced her to a man I named Chad because he was a tall and white with a square jaw. I told everyone that if I have a son, I’m naming him Chad.

As the event winded down, I started to wonder where the resistance was. Two years ago, the death threats flowed in at a concerning clip, but now there was nothing. To go from 100 to 0 suggests that liberal protests are not organic. A switch must be flipped for them to be activated in a MK Ultra style. If you told me that someone at a high level gets to decide whether an attack takes place or not, I would believe it. I now have enough experience where I think I can predict if trouble will happen via a “Defcock” Warning System that I plan on using for future gatherings.

Defcock Green: Practically no media coverage or leftist discussion online. Protesters or disruptions are not expected.

Defcock Yellow: Moderate media attention but no online organizing spotted. Stay alert at the beginning of the meetup.

Defcock Red: Heavy media coverage. Protesters have been organizing online to shut down the event. Likely police presence. Wear sunglasses to guard against doxing attempts from women with Krusty The Clown hair.

This event was Defcock Green all the way through by the time I left the bar at 1am to catch the last Metro train home. Maybe I was being too paranoid by applying counter-terrorist tactics to plan a friendly happy hour, but I don’t mind putting in the time so none of my readers are injured, doxed, or arrested.

The world is getting crazier by the year, and since we possess masculine beliefs, we have to take extra care to stay safe. I believe I have the experience to do that for the men who come out to meet me, and can’t wait until my new book is released so I can hold more events around the country.

Read Next: Washington D.C. Has Bottomed Out

“My Way” Is The Most Masculine Song Ever Created

Over the past couple of years, I’ve been increasingly listening to oldies music. While the messages can be often cheesy and beta, I prefer yesterday’s innocence and naivety compared to today’s degeneracy and mumble rap.

There are many songs that were popular in their day that I’m only now discovering. One of those songs is My Way, originally recorded by Frank Sinatra, though better performed by Elvis Presley. Let’s take a look at the lyrics.

And now, the end is near
And so I face the final curtain
My friend, I’ll say it clear
I’ll state my case, of which I’m certain
I’ve lived a life that’s full
I traveled each and every highway
And more, much more than this, I did it my way

He sees that it’s his turn to die and accepts it. He doesn’t look for miracle cures or beg God for more time. Instead, he does an accounting of the life he’s lived, and because it was rich and fill, the end is far easier to accept than if he had lived with the expectation that he could delay the inevitable.

Regrets, I’ve had a few
But then again, too few to mention
I did what I had to do and saw it through without exemption
I planned each charted course, each careful step along the byway
And more, much more than this, I did it my way

Sure, he made mistakes and lost out on opportunities. He said things he shouldn’t have said and hurt people he shouldn’t have hurt, but he did these things based on how he wanted to live his life. He doesn’t allow regrets to hang over him or make him feel guilty for who he is.

Yes, there were times, I’m sure you knew
When I bit off more than I could chew
But through it all, when there was doubt
I ate it up and spit it out
I faced it all and I stood tall and did it my way

His ego repeatedly got the best of him and he was often checked by powerful forces, but he humbly took his lashes and carried on. He wasn’t ashamed of the mistakes he made because he believed he was acting righteously at the time. Perfection was never his goal.

I’ve loved, I’ve laughed and cried
I’ve had my fill, my share of losing
And now, as tears subside, I find it all so amusing
To think I did all that
And may I say, not in a shy way
Oh, no, oh, no, not me, I did it my way

His life wasn’t always easy. There was pain and setbacks, but also pleasure and love. What’s left but to see it all for what is was: a big game of laughter and tears. He moved through life with confidence, and for him, that’s what really matters.

For what is a man, what has he got?
If not himself, then he has naught
To say the things he truly feels and not the words of one who kneels
The record shows I took the blows and did it my way

If a man is not living as a man, why he is living? If he does not act or live in the moment, who is he existing for? If a man can’t take a punch and get right back up, until he no longer can, how can he call himself a man?

I will instruct my next of kin to play this song at my funeral. I want people to be reminded that I lived life in the way I saw fit, and endured what was thrown my way. By doing so, I hope that my end will be a bit easier to bear compared to a life that was full of regret and things left unsaid.

Read Next: Runaway Train

Shut It Down: Jerusalem Post Attacks This Saturday’s Happy Hour

The folks over at the Jerusalem Post have freaked out that I’m throwing a Stop Violence Against Women Happy Hour this Saturday, declaring me an “antisemitic pickup artist.”

Daryush Valizadeh is at it again.

More commonly known as “Roosh V,” the controversial pickup artist-turned alt-right figure gained media notoriety in 2016 when he attempted to host a series of worldwide meetups to promote “neomasculinity.” Last week, Valizadeh announced he will be hosting a happy hour in Washington, DC, on Saturday.

[…]

In recent years, Valizadeh has expanded his sphere of interest: Not only are feminism and “female entitlement” threats to western civilization, but so are leftists, Muslim immigrants to the United States, more traditional conservatives, and, of course, Jews.

Valizadeh wrote an antisemitic blog post in June 2017 titled “You Become What You Fight,” in which he blames the Jews for “creating feminism.”

“Who created feminism? Who pushes their ideas? The Jews,” Valizadeh wrote. “They were crafty, intelligent, persistent, and masters of propaganda. Their negative influence on Western civilization must be countered.”

He has published other antisemitic material as well.

They can whine all they want because at 7:30pm this Saturday, I will share the location of the Starbucks we’re meeting at on my Twitter (it’s within walking distance of Metro Center). Find me inside between 8-8:30pm to get the location of the main event, which will not be publicized online. Click here for full details.

On Tuesday night I ran into several readers and they had some questions/concerns about the happy hour…

“Is this a real event?”

Yes this is a real event. I will arrive to the Starbucks at 8pm. We will go to another bar at 8:30pm to eat, drink, and talk.

“I’m scared I will get doxed.”

As a man who has taken many large risks in life, I want to meet like-minded men who also like to task risks, though currently the risk for you to attend this event is rather small. Understand that I have it worst—I will be a sitting duck for half an hour to everyone in the metropolitan DC area who hates me and knows how I look like.

My best advice for men with sensitive jobs is to wear sunglasses and approach the Starbucks as if you were inching into a cold pool. Observe the surroundings carefully as you get closer. If the water gets too cold, withdraw momentarily. You only need to have a 30-second interaction with me to get details of the private venue.

“Isn’t your birthday on June 14, the same day as Donald Trump’s?”

Yes, today is our birthday. I turn 39.

“I’m a girl… can I come?”

No means no!

Three girls in the DC area have asked me about attending. As long as you don’t attention whore, are not a journalist, refrain from debates, and stay in the back, you are allowed to come.

If my Twitter is banned for whatever reason, check my Gab. This event will not be livestreamed, though if there are protesters I will film them for laughs. See you on Saturday.

Don’t Miss: Stop Violence Against Women Happy Hour In Washington D.C.

5 Habits That Make A Superhuman Fornicator

Having casual sex with promiscuous women is not a sport, but it does take on sport-like attributes if you do it for decades. To a normal man, getting laid mostly involves a night of drinking heavily and getting lucky, but to a more serious man like myself, there is discipline, work ethic, and penis hacks that allow me to keep going in a way that has prevented many other men from reaching their fornication goals.

I’m inching closer to 40, but thanks to some tinkering, I’ve been able to maintain my sexual vigor at nearly the same level as when I was 25. Here are five things I do…

1. I eat two eggs every day

I’m convinced that egg yolks are God’s elixir to man. I don’t have any scientific evidence to prove it, but eating two eggs a day has noticeably increased my horniness, along with other testosterone boosting foods like broccoli and avocados. While a lot of men go on testosterone replacement therapy to increase their T levels, I believe lifestyle changes concerning diet and weightlifting will get you there without the pharmaceutical dependency.

2. I moisturize my penis with coconut oil

As you get older, your penis will get less supple. You may also get chafing or dryness from rough sex sessions. On days I have sex, I lather my penis with extra virgin coconut oil after showering. I maintain that regimen for a few days until my penis is silky smooth to the touch. I also rub coconut oil in the pubic area to combat any vaginal yeast odor that wants to attach itself to me.

Not only does coconut oil help your skin, but it gives your penis a tropical fresh smell for any lucky lady that gets near it.

3. I conserve precious seminal fluids when not getting laid

Within the past couple of years, I can actually feel a mild hangover the day after I masturbate. I believe it is due to my body marshaling its resources to replenish the valuable sperm that I wasted into the ether. More crucially, masturbation takes sex off my mind for at least a couple days, which is bad when you want to have sex with a real-life female.

These days, I only masturbate when I’m approaching a sexual emergency, but not more than twice a week, and never with hardcore pornography. Young men can probably masturbate daily and still have plenty of fluid left over for sex, but not when you’re my age.

4. I empty my balls with every sexual encounter

I’ve lost count how many times I’ve received compliments from girls in their early 20’s about how I can go for more rounds than guys their age. The reason is that when I’m with a girl, I assume that it is the last time I will ever have sex, because you never know. I keep going until I no longer get a boner or faint. If I haven’t been laid in a while, the girl will get the night of her life and certainly come back for seconds. I’ve surprised myself with my endurance on hundreds of occasions.

One thing I don’t like about having a girlfriend is that I have to space out my orgasms to keep some gas in the tank, but the drawback is that sex stays on my mind throughout the week. I much prefer Ball Drainage Events so that I can’t do anything but focus on work for several days.

5. I maintain proper urethra functioning with 100% pure cranberry juice

Even if you use a condom, it’s not rare for the tip of your penis to at some point come into contact with a girl’s vaginal fluids. This could lead to a urethral irritation or a urinary tract infection that falls short of a full-blown sexually transmitted disease.

After I sleep with a questionable girl, which is most of the time, I buy a 500 milliliter bottle of 100% cranberry juice and take 100 milliliter doses every eight hours until the bottle is done. I’ve knocked out some crotchal symptoms with this formula, including a case of acute ball pain. Be sure to check the label of any cranberry juice you buy, because it may be adulterated with apple or grape juice.

Conclusion

If you’re finding yourself less horny than before, or if you take too long to recover from a dynamite sex session, the things I listed above will keep you in peak physical shape for when sexual duty calls. I’m confident they’ll keep me fornicating at a professional level for at least three more decades.

Read Next: Sex Has Become An Obsession

June 16: Stop Violence Against Women Happy Hour In Washington D.C.

I’m throwing a happy hour on Saturday, June 16, 2018 for human beings of all gender identities to discuss ways that the patriarchy is hurting women. All attendees are expected to grovel before any random woman in the vicinity, no matter what her size or appearance, and satisfy her in any way she demands. During the event, I encourage you to bring women to my presence so that I can apologize to them on the behalf of you and all other men. We will also teach each other not to rape and how to stop making women feel uncomfortable in the presence of our toxic masculinities.

The meetup begins at 8pm at a Starbucks location that will be shared on my Twitter at 7:30pm on the day of the event (June 16, 2018). You do not have to buy anything thanks to the company’s progressive policies for persons of color, which includes myself. Feel free to also use their restroom as if it were any public toilet.

Between 8-8:30, I will personally tell you the location of a bar that we will move to after 8:30. You must arrive to the Starbucks by 8:30 to receive details of the bar venue since it will not be shared online. If you arrive to the Starbucks at 8:31, and don’t see me, you will miss the rest of the happy hour.

Both the Starbucks location and bar will be within walking distance of the Metro Center subway station. If there are unexpected happenings, I will share it on Twitter. If my Twitter is banned, check my Gab. I do not expect any protesters since I’m now “old news,” but that may change if the event is publicized in the media or heavily discussed on Reddit and Twitter.

By attending the happy hour, you agree to the following code of conduct…

Happy Hour Code Of Conduct

1. You attend this happy hour at your own risk. There is a chance that you may be doxed, physically assaulted, maimed, or arrested. I will do everything in my power to act as a shield between you and potential leftist criminality, but I cannot personally guarantee your safety. Be aware of your surroundings at all times and only take risks you’re comfortable with.

2. Do not bring any legal or illegal weapons, items that could be used as a weapon, or riot gear. This includes (but is not limited to) guns, knives, brass knuckles, shields, helmets, pepper sprays, batons, sharp pens, flashlights, and grenades. If you are assaulted by a protester, immediately withdraw to safety and contact the police. If you bring a weapon or use physical violence, you will be asked to leave. Your only “weapon” should be the camera on your phone.

3. This is not a “white nationalist” or “alt right” gathering. Those of all races and ethnic backgrounds are encouraged to attend. You will be asked to leave if you bring Nazi paraphernalia, perform Nazi salutes, or engage in any other “false flag” behavior that is meant to make the group look bad.

4. To identify another attendee, use the code phrase: “Do you know where I can find a pet shop?” If you are asked this question, answer exuberantly in the affirmative.

5. Do not take pictures or video of any other attendee without their consent.

6. If you are anxious about getting doxed, wear sunglasses and/or a hat. The more media coverage this happy hour receives, the more likely there will be doxing attempts.

7. Do not discuss illegal activities or other criminal acts as if you were a FBI informant. Illegality of any sort will not be tolerated. All attendees must comply with D.C. and Federal laws.

8. Take extra precautions when leaving any venue. If you encounter a violent mob of leftists, return back to the venue and ask for help.

9. Journalists are not allowed to attend, and will be asked to leave if identified.

If you cannot follow the above code of conduct, you are not allowed to attend the happy hour. This event is meant to be a peaceful affair for those who follow me and want to have a friendly conversation about my work or the state of the world. I look forward to seeing you on June 16.

Read Next: How The FBI Infiltrates Movements

Some Women Only Marry Men They Can Cheat On

In the past I wrote about an Italian friend who taught me how to play “real-life Tinder.” One of his specialties, if you want to call it that, are Polish and Ukrainian women who are in relationships. He concluded that a Polish woman will only marry a man she knows she can cheat on, which is compatible with my own experiences in Poland. After further consideration, I started to wonder if that could be applied to all women.

In Poland, it’s common to see attractive women with “beetroots,” the local slang for a standard-issue Polish man who always happens to be far uglier than his woman. In a globalized world where a Polish woman can date any man from the world, why marry a beetroot? The answer is that Polish women are aggressive and blatant with cheating.

I’ve seen Polish women grind on other men in the club while the drunk boyfriend was nearby; I’ve heard incredible stories of Polish men allowing their girlfriends to enjoy what is essentially a single lifestyle; and I’ve been on the receiving end of many casual sex encounters from women who had Polish boyfriends. If you have a Mediterranean or African look, it’s almost a guarantee that any Polish girl you sleep with already has a boyfriend, or a man who at least considers himself the boyfriend.

Even when a Polish girl gets married, her eyes stay open for attractive men. I feel almost disturbed when one gives me long eye contact while holding hands with her man. Polish women are smart with securing their future by marrying a beta male at a relatively young age (though that is changing for the worse), but that doesn’t stop their pursuit of alpha cock on the side. This is far better than the American woman strategy of wasting prime years with alpha males to only look for a beta when it’s too late.

Not only does a Polish woman marry the beta male, but she settles on one she know will be so clueless to her true nature that she will be able to take a trip every summer to Spain or Greece with her girlfriends. Sadly, I’ve also seen other Eastern European men get cucked in this manner.

A common manosphere belief is that women want strong, dominant men. This is not the full truth. A woman wants to fuck strong, dominant men, preferably when she already have a stable provider, and maybe even cuck her husband with superior alpha seed, but she doesn’t necessarily want to marry the alpha. There are two reasons why: (1) a true alpha offers little long-term stability since he has so much choice in women, and (2) he can’t be controlled.

When it comes to marriage, most women will choose the rich beta provider who she can dictate terms to over the less resourceful but sexy alpha. In fact, many women specifically marry men they know are much uglier than they can get to maintain a dominant frame in the relationship where the man is more scared to lose her than the other way around.

If you don’t believe me, simply think of all the men you know who are married or in long-term relationships. Are they dominating their women? Are they upholding strict standards? Are they fielding multiple sexual offers from other women? The answer is that a man who willingly gets into a long-term monogamous relationship is opposed to being the real alpha that women get instantaneous sexual excitement for, because to voluntarily enter a relationship with a woman means to compromise and bend your masculine will for the sake of comfort, stability, love, and female happiness. You’re still a man if you get married, but you’re likely not the type of man that many women who already have beta providers would cheat on and sacrifice their relationships for.

The very word “husband” further proves the point. The images that don’t come to mind when you envision one are warrior, killer, barbarian, sexy, or famous. Instead, you may think of words like compliant, hard worker, reliable, hen-pecked, fatigued, and boring. I may very well be a husband some day, so I’m not criticizing those who are married, but the nature of marriage will stuff a man into a beta male mold that then creates desire in his wife for an alpha.

Therein lies the double-edged sword: either you started off as alpha but marriage softened you into a beta or your wife picked you out because you were beta and offered her the comfort and stability that the previous alphas in her life didn’t. If she picked you because you’re a beta, which is what happens in Poland, that means she has room for an alpha in her life, and sees you as someone who wouldn’t interfere with that plan.

Strangely enough, men who are most successful with long-term relationships are not the most alpha. Women want to feel attraction to a man but she also wants to exercise all the options that modern feminism allows her. She wants to work, party with friends in venues that serve alcohol, flirt with other men, and take girls-only vacations. She doesn’t want to be limited or controlled compared to her peer group, and the only man who won’t dare to wrangle her choices is the beta male.

I ended things with one girl because I wouldn’t tolerate behavior that other men she had known would. It’s no surprise that her next boyfriend was not only more beta than me, but more beta than her. When it comes to getting laid, being alpha is key, because it’s raw attraction that you transmutate into fast sex, but it’s not the key for relationships. This is why men who are good at casual sex often don’t get into relationships and men who are good at relationships don’t get much casual sex.

The best solution we have to this problem is to be the alpha provider, meaning that you satisfy both alpha and beta desires within a woman to ensure that a relationship is successful:

The fabled Alpha Provider is the captain of his ship and has the genuine respect and adoration of both his woman and his children. He does not tolerate foolishness in his household and is quick to punish such shenanigans. But he is equally bountiful whereas he rewards his woman for the nurturing of his brood, her sexual loyalty, and the upkeep of his domicile and property. Though it took him quite a while, his patience and red pill wisdom allowed him to successfully find a woman worthy to be his first mate.

The verdict is still out on if this can work in the real world, but it is the one that I am open to attempting. I’ll tread the middle between being an attractive, dominant man while also showing that I’m ready to provide for my family. The problem with this approach is that a woman doesn’t expect to have both the alpha and beta in one man, and they much rather compartmentalize them like Polish women do.

In the end, I rather be seen as a side dick to a girl than a stable provider because then I will experience no hidden deceit in believing she loves me while fooling around behind my back. In other words, I choose truth over love, because I know that if a woman has targeted me for marriage, it won’t necessarily be my idea of what a marriage should be.

Read Next: The Alpha Provider

11 Real Ratings Of Women On The 1-10 Attractiveness Scale

I’ve been posting pictures of different women on my Twitter with the question “Would you bang?” A few days after sharing a picture, I tallied up on the yes and no responses to calculate a rating on the 1-10 scale.

My methodology was simple: I took the number of yes answers and divided it by the number of total responses. I then added 0.5 points to every score because a lot of men on the internet act like they only bang supermodels (e.g. “2/10, pointy elbows”). We also have to account for the fact that many men confuse “Would you bang?” with “Would you put in a lot of work to bang?” The WYB metric only asks if you would fornicate without having to work for it. Let’s review the women from ugliest to hottest…

1. Rating: 2.3

I see pierced nipples

It’s no surprise that most men would not bang a woman with so much plastic surgery and tattoos that she looks like a man, but this specimen is thin enough that I suspect most men would bang her if they received a doctor’s note confirming she’s AIDS-free.

2. Rating: 5.0

I prefer dark chocolate when it comes to chocolate (75% cacao to be exact), but not when it comes to women. This black woman is objectively attractive for her race, but that’s still not enough to push her out of an average rating.

3. Rating: 5.2

I see granny panties

The gigantic butt on this Asian girl could not take away from a Skeletor face. A lot of men also thought her butt was fake, which is generally a boner killer, unlike the case with fake breasts.

4. Rating: 5.6

This full-figured woman lost many points for her hair, but the men who did want to bang her showed a high enthusiasm for taking a wild ride on her voluptuous body.

5. Rating: 6.2

Sag city!

Even thought this newscaster is a bit long on years, with a marshmallow body to match, many men would bang her because of her generally attractive appearance.

6. Rating: 7.1

This is a picture of Bill Gates daughter, who happens to love Muslim cock. Personally, I think her face is ugly, but for many men who follow me, white is right and the fact that she’s thin and young pushes her to a favorable rating.

7. Rating: 7.2

A lesbian haircut and advanced age did not stop this German politician from blitzkreiging to a solid 7.2 score. I do suspect that her breasts played a sizable part in the surprisingly high rating.

8. Rating: 7.4

There were no surprises for this handsome woman. I believe that she would be an ideal girl for a normal man who wants a thin female to reproduce with.

9. Rating: 8.4

Big breasts strike again. This girl is not especially attractive, but she has no major flaw that pushes her into WNB territory. A genuine smile also goes a long way for men who are tired of girls with attitude.

10. Rating: 8.7

I’m not attracted to Asian girls, but I would bang this one in a vigorous manner. Most other men agree with me.

11. Rating: 9.4

I see pierced nipples

The hottest girl in my sample happens to be a race amalgamation, though with heavy European admixture. Objectively, I believe she does have a superior facial structure and body compared to the other girls and so deserves her rating, which suggests that raw beauty can edge out racial preferences when it comes to solely banging.

Don’t be ashamed if you would bang every single girl on this list. The men who judge you most for your bangs are the ones who feel most ashamed of their own. If you get a boner for a girl, your dick obviously craves her body and you should proceed as long as it does not harm you emotionally or physically. All I can tell you is that my boner has never lied to me. I trust its judgement.

Read Next: My Boner Is My Master

Girls Just Want To Have Fun

A lot of men like to believe that the promiscuous or degenerate impulses of women today had to be programmed into them, but most of those impulses were there all along. All women needed was a more permissible environment. One song that hinted at this truth was Cyndi Lauper’s nearly forty-year-old single “Girls Just Want To Have Fun.”

On a casual listen, the song seems to portray a girl’s innocent need to party, but decoding the lyrics reveal that “have fun” really means “fuck.” The song then makes perfect sense and accuately portrays the female behavior we see today.

I come home in the morning light
My mother says when you gonna live your life right
Oh mother dear we’re not the fortunate ones
And girls they want to have fun
Oh girls just want to have fun

Cyndi went out, partied, and had sex with a man. After coming home, she received token resistance from her mother, but not enough to change her behavior, perhaps because mother also wanted to live out her own youth in the same manner.

The phone rings in the middle of the night
My father yells what you gonna do with your life
Oh daddy dear you know you’re still number one
But girls they want to have fun
Oh girls just want to have

The father is portrayed as a disgusting, idiot slob who is out of touch when compared to his empowered daughter. It’s a surprise that he even lived in the house. Today, 23% of children are raised by single parents. Removing the father figure is especially dangerous to a female because she then attempts to simulate his love through shallow sexual encounters or attention whoring. Even with a father in the home, there is no sign that Cyndi was punished for her late-night party lifestyle.

Some boys take a beautiful girl
And hide her away from the rest of the world
I want to be the one to walk in the sun
Oh girls they want to have fun
Oh girls just want to have

Cyndi wants to display her beauty to everyone, even if she already has the love of one man. It’s important for her to always be in the position of upgrading her current man if she happens to find something better. She wants to have the option of fucking other guys on the side, because relationships are too boring for a young girl who has her entire life ahead of her.

That’s all they really want
Some fun
When the working day is done
Oh girls, they want to have fun
Oh girls just want to have fun 

Before feminism really dug its heels into the culture, Cyndi already assumed a “working day” for women. Even she knew that work would be so dull that it would have to be counter-balanced with fun and casual sex. Girls spend the day working to be independent from men to spend their nights getting used by attractive men at night.

The song was originally released in 1979, but does it not perfectly describe the mentality of an average woman in 2018? Today’s woman spends her prime having fun and only considers settling down when her career is “established” or her options for attractive men begin to dwindle. It then becomes a game of musical chairs to lock down any reasonable man, but even in that case, she will still be open to having fun on the side if a new man excites her vagina.

Have enough fun yet?

I used to believe that men and women had to be somewhat brainwashed to participate in degenerate behaviors, but I no longer think that is the case. The problem with the modern era is not that it programs people to be bad, but it allows and encourages people to be bad by simply acting on their human impulses. The wives you think were so traditional fifty or one-hundred years ago would be just as promiscuous today if they had the choice, and that includes your beloved grandmothers. Societies of the past did a reasonable job of constraining the flaws of our species, but those constraints are now gone, and what you see today is actually more “human” than ever.

Read Next: Women Who Don’t Have Babies Go Crazy

I’m Hiring Someone To Copyedit My New Game Book

I’m looking to hire an experienced writer or editor to copyedit my new 149,355-word game book. I would like him to catch the following problems:

  • Typos
  • Grammar and punctuation errors
  • Awkward constructions or confusing phrases
  • Verb/noun agreement errors

I don’t want to perform massive changes to the organization or writing style. My goal is to eliminate the most obvious errors and problems to allow for a pleasant reading experience.

If you are interested in this job, I have prepared a 722-word sample that I would like you to edit using Microsoft Word’s track changes feature so that I can see your modifications in red. Click here to download the sample. Note: I’m not looking for someone who can tear up this sample the most, but one who follows the guidelines above.

After editing the sample, email it to [email protected] by Tuesday, May 22 with a bid in US dollars and details of any previous editing experience (it’s fine to attach a resume). To help you come up with a bid, time how long it takes you to edit the sample and multiply it by 210 to get a rough idea of what the entire job may take you.

Lead time is four weeks from when I hand over the book to you, and I would like to keep my cost below $2,000. Once 50% of the job is complete, I will pay you half the money. I will send you the rest when the entire book is finished. You can invoice me through any online service (Paypal, Zoho, etc.) that allows me to pay with a credit card. If you’re in the United States, I can also mail you a check.

If you have any questions, leave a comment below or drop me an email.

Read Next: 6 Life Tips That Will Make You More Productive

9 Ways Game Has Changed From 2001 To 2018

A lot of men ask me what it was like to run game on American women over 15 years ago. While I don’t automatically take the nostalgic view that everything in the past was better than today, if you knew how to cold approach in 2001, you received significantly higher results than from the same effort in 2018.

Many men who tried game back then become addicted to it because of how effective it was, but today, a man in the bottom 50% who tries game is likely to quit within two years because of paltry gains, and then join one of many “say no to women” movements online. Here’s how game was different when I used it in 2001 at the age of 22 years old…

1. Boldness created greater attraction

Approaching a girl you didn’t know was so novel back then that if you did it, the girl would become extremely curious, even if you had a horrible opening line. Many would say how “confident” you were, a compliment that you rarely hear today. The boldness alone created such a huge spike of attraction that it was enough to propel you to at least a number or kiss as long you didn’t approach huge groups of girls in the Mystery style.

Nowadays, a girl is approached so often in different types of venues and on the internet that the most direct of openers may give you a minute of her attention (if that). What was bold 15 years ago is now the new standard today, suggesting that there is an arms race of game and status within any society that foolishly allows women to choose their sexual partners.

2. Rejections were softer

In the past, I can’t remember being punished for an approach as long as I didn’t do something stupid. The standard rejection was “Sorry I have to go back to my friends.” Another common one was a girl excusing herself to the bathroom but never returning. Getting rejected wasn’t fun but you got over it quickly.

Nowadays, girls with fragile egos have the intention of harshly rejecting men because it’s a way they can feel more beautiful than they really are. Since they cannot get a Persian Chad to commit to them, they will reject most men and rationalize that they are all “losers” instead of improving their own beauty or femininity. This is why you’re far more likely to get a harsh rejection from a girl in the 5-7 range than hotter ones who get pursued by higher quality men.

3. Night venues were more consistent

I could set my clock to a bar or club on certain nights. If it was good last Friday night, it would be good this Friday and also be good next Friday, making it easier to be a regular at a venue and get consistent rewards from it. I remember going to venues every week for a year and not seeing any drop in my return on investment.

Nowadays, venues experience fast churn-and-burn rates because of smartphones, which has allowed females to scratch their itch for always hitting “trendy” venues. Since girls stay in touch with their friends throughout the night, they are much more likely to leave a venue and go somewhere else that is good for the moment. It’s unlikely that a venue will give you high returns for more than a month or two, meaning that you must constantly try out new spots.

4. Girls were thinner

There were fat girls back in 2001, but they were rare enough that if you saw one you’d point her to your friend. Thin girls were in such abundance that you would judge faces more than bodies, and not get especially excited just because a girl wasn’t a land whale.

While there are enough thin women around in the big cities today, they get an overabundance of attention simply for not being overweight. Their beauty can meet your standard, but you may not meet theirs because they have come to expect courtship from the top 10% of men. It’s not uncommon for a thin girl in the 7 range to even get pursued by sports athletes. Once an athlete bangs her out, you will be excluded from having a reasonable chance of dating her in the future. Even butterfaces can get hotly pursued.

5. Contacting girls was more difficult

I would estimate that about 40% of girls had a cell phone in 2001. This meant that you often had to call landlines and get an answering machine. Sometimes you’d play phone tag for days, and with younger girls, it was common to call and have her parent pick up. Calling girls for the first time would be more nerve-racking if you were a game newbie, which meant you had to pump yourself up before making the call.

Nowadays, a monkey can text a girl with a basic script and get her out on a date, and there will be no doubt that she saw your text within a few minutes because of how attached girls have become to their phones. The bright spot is that if a girl is interested in you, it’s much easier to get her out on a date than in the past.

6. Conversations had fewer interruptions

When I approached a girl, I had her undivided attention to spit what I can now admit was poor game. I wasn’t cockblocked, I didn’t have to compete with her phone, and most importantly, she was capable of having a conversation with me where not every little thing I said was amazingly exciting or interesting.

Today, I’ll be lucky if I have a stretch of three minutes where she maintains her focus on me. More likely, I’ll get a “Hold on” while she messages friends who are on her way to the venue, and then her fat friends will intrude on the conversation and monitor me like I’m some sort of criminal, and then the bartender will cockblock me because he’s thirsty, and so on. The only way for a girl to zone all of that out is if she really likes you, which is not going to happen every night.

7. Girls had empty penis pipelines

Girls used to go out and have zero prospects in their pipeline. Because of that, they would not only show more interest in you but also follow through on dates with only minor flaking. It wasn’t uncommon for me to meet girls who hadn’t been laid in months.

Nowadays, not only do girls have full penis pipelines, but their bench is also full of backups waiting to get into the main rotation. Many girls simply don’t have any more room to get with a new guy. Even if you are slightly above her starting roster in value, she won’t be able to recognize it because all the cock in her life is putting her through a dizzy spell. To bang a girl today, you have to find a girl who recently lost one of her starting penises or wants to try something completely new.

8. Girls weren’t as sensitive

No topic was off limits. You could joke about gays, people of other races, and even throw out some sexist humor. The girls may not have laughed, but they didn’t get offended. You could recover from a bad joke and continue.

Nowadays, you can’t joke, especially in big cities. I repeat, you cannot joke. From the moment a girl wakes up, she’s braced to hear something offensive and will be triggered at the most banal of comments that suggest not every human being in the world is equal. You can’t even say “That’s gay” to something that’s obviously gay, and if you suggest that homos should not be able to marry, she may call the police on you. It’s clear now that male feminists were the early adopters to treating women as the sensitive children they want to be treated as.

9. Sex was more vanilla

I don’t remember having much porn star quality sex until the later half of the 2000’s. Most girls acted natural in bed and made basic noises and movements that were sufficient enough for me, a man who only needs a vagina attached to a normal body and pretty face to feel sexual pleasure.

Today, girls go overboard in trying to prove how sexy and dirty they are. Instead of giving me pleasure, I feel like I’m on a porno set where a fat Jewish man will yell “Cut!” any second. Their porno style takes me out of the moment and engages my logical brain into thinking why she’s acting in such a way with a man she has only known for a few hours. Maybe this girl can make me feel good, but only in a technical way.

Conclusion

While not everything was rosy in 2001, it was significantly better as a man who knew how to approach women. On every metric that matters, it was far easier to connect and sleep with them. It’s gotten so bad 17 years later that there are now semi-organized movements dedicated to foregoing contact with women altogether, and they seem to be growing.

Women don’t care about the grievances of normal men because they think they will hit the lottery and snag a high-value stud at the moment their career becomes everything they dreamed of. Though many women will lose this game, that gives normal men little condolence, and unfortunately I believe things will remain at the level we see today for many years to come.

Read Next: 7 Things You Can Do To Improve Your Game Right Now

10 Things I Use Every Day

I want to share ten products I use every day that make my life a tad more comfortable, productive, or enjoyable.

1. ASUS ZenBook UX303UB

All my work is produced on this. It’s fast, lightweight, has a long battery life, and reboots in seconds thanks to a solid state hard drive. I would say it’s even too powerful for my main application of writing and browsing the web.

There are a couple of downsides. First, the trackpad is clumsy so I feel compelled to use a wireless mouse. Second, there is a production flaw that creates a noticeable bulge on the left side of the keyboard (I’ve seen two laptops of this model with the problem). This causes impressions of the keys to be left on the screen. Lastly, it has Windows 10. It took me a week of hacking to add features that I used on Windows 7.

Click here to view on Amazon.

2. Samsung J7 Smartphone International Version

The best thing about this phone is that it has dual SIMs and manages to get an H+ data connection (a speed in between 3G and 4G) within any country I visit, unlike non-international phones that may only get 2G. I leave my phone on for twelve hours a day and from that I get four days of use before having to recharge. If I could do it all over again, I’d buy the J5 version that has a smaller screen to make it more convenient to put in my jean pocket.

Click here to view on Amazon.

3. Bread Machine

I’ve been making my own bread for one and a half years. While I don’t make a loaf every day, I do eat my bread daily. The recipe I use calls for a mixture of white and rye flour to get the texture and taste that I prefer, with low amounts of salt and sugar. There are many bakeries near my apartment that has fresh bread, but I get a humble satisfaction from eating my own.

Click here to view on Amazon.

4. Panini Maker

For lunch I take two slices of my bread and make a ham and cheese sandwich with a panini maker. I then top it off with two fried eggs. I don’t know why, but a panini maker significantly enhances the taste of a sandwich when compared to using a normal toaster oven.

While many people get tired of eating the same food every day, my lunch is usually the highlight of my day. No matter where I am in the world, or what troubles I have, my lunch offers me a feeling of stability and comfort.

Click here to view on Amazon.

5. Bosch Electric Kettle

I had never seen an electric kettle until I left America. Before that, I’d put water into a stove top kettle and wait for the whistle. Or when making pasta, I’d put water in the pot and wait for it to boil. Europe has rid me of these barbaric practices.

My electric kettle can heat a cup of water in less than a minute. When cooking pasta, I boil the water in the kettle first to save time. Whenever I go back to the States and see my mother using a stove top kettle, I cry for her on the inside. I bought her an electric kettle, but she’s too old to change her ways.

What I love about this kettle is that it can heat water at temperatures below 100 degrees. This is perfect for green and white teas that should not be used with boiling water.

Click here to view on Amazon UK.

6. Butter Tray

For most of my life, I was content with taking a stick of butter from the refrigerator, unwrapping the plastic, cutting off a pat, re-applying the wrapper, and then putting it back into the refrigerator. This is acceptable in America where a stick of butter is small, but in Europe the butter doesn’t come in sticks but huge rectangle bricks.

European butter bricks take so long to finish that the wrapper becomes a greasy mess after just a few uses. After shopping around three stores in my area, I found a butter tray with a metal base and clear plastic top. It’s now such a pleasure to use butter in my cooking.

Click here to view on Amazon.

7. Simply Noise

I have severe sleep problems. First, my body clock seems to be based on a 25-hour day, which means that if I solely listen to it on when to sleep and wake, I will soon go to bed in the morning and wake up at night. More severely, I am an exceedingly light sleeper—far lighter than a cat—even though I can fall asleep quickly. (One benefit of being a light sleeper is that no girl has successfully robbed me.)

In Europe I live in a shabbily constructed apartment building where I can easily hear my neighbors. In fact, I can hear them talking right now as I type the draft of this article. So they don’t wake me up at 8am, I put on brown noise from SimplyNoise every single night before going to bed. The noise is loud enough to mask my neighbors, but it doesn’t interfere with my sleep.

Click here to visit.

8. Cheap Nightmask

Girl included!

I don’t like the light, especially since I prefer to wake up at noon or after. I sleep with a cheap nightmask that I buy in packs of ten. Each one lasts about two months. With my white noise and nightmask, I have to debrief women who sleep over that the experience will be a bit different from the hundreds of other men they’ve been with.

Click here to view on Amazon.

9. Baking Soda

Seven years ago I discovered how baking soda acts as a strong deodorant. I still use it every day after showering by applying a fingertip worth onto my armpits. A $1 package lasts me two years. For many men, baking soda was the first red pill they took.

Click here to view on Amazon.

10. Sensor Excel Razors

I like having only two razors because it’s easier to maneuver around my face. Two razors is like a sports car while three razors or more is like a family minivan. I don’t have a corporate job so I don’t need a close shave to appease anyone. Unfortunately, in the past few years it has become impossible to find these razors in a normal store, so I usually order them in bulk online at a premium markup.

Click here to view on Amazon.

There are many other things I use regularly, such as a lint roller and Amazon Kindle, but not daily like the items above. As you can see, I have a simple life, and I hope I can keep it that way.

Read Next: 10 Books That Every Man Should Read

Jake Ultra

Click here to download the PDF file of the following short story.

“Fascist scum! Eat shit!” A stream of liquid shot onto Jake’s face. His eyes immediately began burning. He shut them tight and collapsed on his knees. “Get back!” the police yelled, off in the distance. Jake felt a hand on his back. “I’m going to get this stuff out, look up.” Something cool poured over his eyes. “Now try to open your eyes so I can wash it out.” Jake opened as best he could, and within a minute the burning subsided enough that he could make out an image of the man standing before him.

“Are you wearing contacts?”

“No,” Jake replied. “But it still stings.”

“It’s going to hurt for a few hours. When you get home, wash your eyes out with some milk.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Franco.” Jake stood up as Franco closed his backpack of medical supplies. He examined Jake’s eyes once more.

“They’re still pretty red. I think they’ve started using some kind of acid instead of regular pepper spray, but if you can see now you should be okay.”

“Man, I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything. I want to help people on our side.” There was a skirmish off to Franco’s right. A Molotov cocktail was thrown in the middle of a group, lighting a man’s pants on fire.

“Shit, I have to go. Take care!”

“Wait, let me buy you a drink or something.”

“DM me on Twitter. My handle is LenaDunhamRapedMe.” Franco ran off while Jake stumbled to safety.

Jake washed his eyes out with milk when he got home. As his vision returned to normal, his anger rose. The speaker who came to Portland that day, Julius Callaghan, wasn’t even that conservative. He supported gay marriage and didn’t much care for the traditional ideas that Jake thought was necessary to end America’s decline. If the left successfully shut down Callaghan, how could improvement ever take place?

He fired up his troll account on Twitter, ShlomoGoldsteinberg and sent a message to LenaDunhamRapedMe. After discovering that they only lived twenty minutes away from each other, they arranged to meet two days later at a local pizzeria.

Jake arrived first. He asked for a table in the back and sat facing the front door. Since being attacked, Jake was more paranoid, checking his rear often to see if anyone was following him. A few minutes later, a man with a slight beard and short black hair wearing an ironic t-shirt of an American bald eagle walked in and approached Jake’s table. He was shorter than Jake remembered, with a darker complexion that looked vaguely Mediterranean.

“How are your eyes?” Franco asked.

“They’re fine now, you really saved me. Pizza is on me tonight.” They looked through the menu and decided on a pepperoni pizza with mushrooms and olives.

“What happened after I left?”

“One guy suffered second-degree burns to his leg. The police finally broke it up after that.”

“Those motherfuckers!”

Franco glanced at the table behind him, as if telling Jake to calm down. “That’s the pattern,” Franco said. “The police lay off for a while hoping that someone on the right does something stupid or violent. When that doesn’t happen, the police shut down Antifa’s violence before it becomes too obvious that they’re the ones causing all the mayhem.”

“The police and mayor set us up. I don’t believe they’re on the side of these losers.”

“Their sponsors demand it. It’s the people with power who are the problem, not Antifa.”

“What are you suggesting?” Jake wondered, sitting up. For the past two years, he had been stewing alone, reading one story after the next about censorship, political violence, and cultural degeneration. The past was not perfect, he knew, but what was happening in the United States was so depraved that he couldn’t stomach it any longer. The trigger that made him want to attend protests was seeing public libraries and schools allow transsexuals dressed in demonic costumes to read gay books to little children.

President Steel seemed to understand what was going on, but he was too much of a boomer to fix anything beyond economic problems. He cared more about meaningless sideshow victories that rallied his base for a successful re-election than solving the root of the malaise. Jake knew that something drastic had to be done to stop what was happening, but he wasn’t sure what.

“I’m not suggesting anything,” Franco replied, lowering his head, “but these speaker events and rallies help them more than it helps us. The left mobilizes too quickly and their institutional allies are too entrenched. They find a way to spin everything in their favor.”

“So why did you go to the rally?”

“Honestly?” Franco paused. “For the action. My life is boring. It’s too easy. I work as a data analyst. There’s no real difficulty. For the past few years I was into PUA, but after a while I got annoyed at the amount of work it takes to be with someone I didn’t really care about. Even money doesn’t interest me. I have what I need.”

“We have no meaning in our lives because we’re connected to a civilization that’s dying,” Jake replied. “We feel all its side effects and tremors. It coughs and we cough along with it. When a civilization is healthy, we feel vigor, strength, pride, and purpose, but when the host body is dying, all of its cells are ready to give up. Philosophies like Stoicism and Taoism were made by men in dying civilizations. Marcus Aurelius wrote Meditations towards the end of the Roman Empire when it was attacked by both barbarians and plague. He tried to help men with no hope, no power.”

“God can help,” Franco said without conviction.

“Not on his own. It still has to happen through us.”

The pizza came. Jake insisted Franco take the first slice. He sensed that Franco had accepted his fate but still held on to a bubbling energy that was begging to be put to use.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Jake asked.

Franco sucked his teeth. “There’s a girl I’m seeing. She’s pretty good, but not the one.”

“Why not?”

“She slept around in order to find herself. She told me she’s been with six guys, so that means she’s been with dozens, probably. All her self-worth is tied into her sexuality. If I fuck her good she’s happy, but when I’m not around, I suspect she gets anxious and goes to social media to get validated by thirsty betas. She has many guy ‘friends’ as well.”

“That’s a bad sign,” Jake chimed in, remembering his ex-girlfriend. He caught her cheating on him with one of her supposed friends. He hasn’t been with a woman since.

“But she’s fine for now. And you?”

“I got burned by a girl and then I kept seeing her in other girls I would meet. Maybe I should move to a smaller town.”

“Then you have to deal with the obesity.”

“Actually, the reason I asked if you had a girlfriend is because I’m ready to act in a way that a man who is tied down would find difficult.” Jake paused. “Are you white, by the way?”

“My ancestors were Italian. Why?”

“Do you believe in white genocide?”

“It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

“I think so, but I had to ask. You saw my Twitter handle so I take it you know where I stand.”

“I don’t identify too much with being white,” Franco said, “but if whites become a minority in the United States, it won’t be the United States any longer. I thought President Steel was going to put a stop to immigration, but it’s still going on, just at a lower level.”

“It’s because of the echoes.”

“The who?”

“The Jews,” Jake said plainly.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure they should get all the blame. A host would not allow a parasite to infect it when healthy. Even if we kick out all the Jews and the illegals today, the story would repeat itself a couple decades later with some other group.”

“But you have to agree that in 1965, when the immigration act was passed, whites didn’t know what the agenda of the echoes were. If we red pill whites now, and they refuse the pill and cuck themselves into oblivion, I would not be upset and agree that the sun is being set on them while shining bright on the black and brown races, but if we tell the white man he’s infected, I’m confident he will remove the parasite from his body.”

“Are you sure the host is not so weakened that he can still put up strong resistance?” Franco asked.

“Wouldn’t you like to find out?” Jake didn’t wait for Franco’s answer. “Look, this is not a good place to talk. Let’s settle the bill and go in my car.” He waved the waitress over. “Pizza is on me. Thanks again for dousing my eyes out.”

After the bill was paid, Jake led Franco to his car parked outside. “Put your phone in this bag,” he said. Franco did so and Jake added his phone. He put the bag underneath the car. They got in and closed the door.

“What you’re about to tell me is certainly illegal,” Franco said, nervously.

Jake laughed. “I have no specific plan in mind, but I want to develop one.” He turned on his satellite radio to an oldies station that was playing the end of Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen. “How can we fix the problems of this country?”

“That’s a hard question.” Franco crossed his hands on his lap. “There are a lot of moving parts and variables, all interfacing with each other.”

“But what is the biggest problem?”

“The government. They are either the origin of the most severe problems, like with immigration, or the enablers, like with culture. If you could magically transform government, things could be improved.”

“But we can’t just storm on Washington,” Jake said. “Any kind of armed revolt would fail.”

“A large rebel force would be needed to take Washington, but before it got strong enough, the FBI and DEA would infiltrate it thoroughly and clamp down before the decisive action. That sort of idea should be off the table since the government’s counter-intelligence apparatus is too strong. Instead of attacking the government directly, we could go after their source of power.”

“The Jews?”

“No, the people.”

Nothing really matters, anyone can see
Nothing really matters
Nothing really matters to me
Any way the wind blows

“This type of defeatism is bullshit,” Jake said, referring to the song. “It’s no accident they want everyone thinking that nothing matters and there’s no way to make a change. History is filled with men who made a difference and improved their countries.”

“Well, what’s improvement to us would be a catastrophe to a liberal, especially if those liberals are killed during our improvement.” The next song was American Pie by Don McLean.

“You get my point,” Jake conceded, not wanting Franco to get off track. “You were saying about the government’s source of power…”

“It’s from the people. If everyone in the United States said the Federal government was illegitimate, and they stopped paying taxes or following laws, the system would collapse overnight. It will never happen that all citizens remove their consent to be governed, but if 15% do, it’s the beginning of the end, especially if a small minority of that 15% are willing to use violence. The question is therefore not how to overthrow the government, but how to get at least 15% of the population to want to overthrow the government.”

“And you know how to get 15% of the population to want to overthrow the government?”

Franco smirked.

So bye, bye, Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry
And them good ole boys were drinking whiskey ‘n rye
Singin’ this’ll be the day that I die

“Well go on.”

“What do citizens want most of all from a government?”

“Safety, security, comfort,” Jake replied.

“Exactly. They give the government consent to rule over them in exchange for protection to live with a feeling of freedom. If that protection is removed, especially suddenly instead of gradually, I think you’ll hit the 15%.”

“So like if a foreign country invades America and starts killing everybody?”

“No, because that would rally people to side of the government to expel the foreign invaders. It would have to be something where the lack of protection comes from government incompetence or apathy. Citizens must start seeing the government as the enemy and then rally to expel it. Think of how terrorist attacks are helpful to the government. Presidential approval ratings always go up after them. Do you remember Hurricane Lateisha?”

“Yeah, it killed like over 1,000 black people.”

“And a lot of blacks around the country were pissed, but they’re only 13% of the population. Now how about if you piss off whites, who are 60% of the population?”

A white couple walked out of the pizzeria, holding hands. Jake asked aloud, “How could I make those two hate the government enough that they would want to overthrow them?”

“They don’t make songs like this anymore,” Franco said. “It’s like ten minutes long.”

“I only listen to oldies. New music is propaganda. They put a degenerate message in the song, make it catchy as hell, and next thing you know all you want to do is pop pills and fuck random people.”

“Funny, I used to listen to rap songs before going out to meet women. It would get me in the mood.”

And in the streets, the children screamed
The lovers cried and the poets dreamed
But not a word was spoken
The church bells all were broken

“I presume you know exactly how to get white people to revolt,” Jake said, hopefully.

“No, I haven’t gotten that far yet.”

Jake tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, humming to the end of the song. “The other week I was watching a video about the EMP bomb, which is just a nuclear bomb that is detonated high up in the atmosphere. It doesn’t kill anyone, but it knocks out all electronics, electricity, everything. It sends a huge region right back into the stone age, and it could take years to get things back up again, but the most interesting part was that after just a few days of no electricity, the population descends into a panic of looting, theft, and pure chaos. Cannibalism is possible within only a month. Can you imagine what people would do if they had no lighting, internet, or transportation for a couple of weeks, with no hope of it coming back? They would channel all their desperation and anger at the government for not keeping the lights on, a simple thing that even shithole third-world nations like Haiti can manage.” Jake stood up in his seat, his mind buzzing. “And how about if we can pin the loss of electricity on a group of people that whites already know are a problem?”

“Black people,” Franco said.

“No, because then the narrative will revert back to solely being a race issue that the media knows how to expertly control.”

“Definitely not the Muslims,” Franco added. “If it looks like Islamic terrorism, that will just rally whites to the government.”

There was a long silence. “The Mexicans!” Jake said. Whites voted for Steel because they want stronger border control with Mexico. If those immigrants were shown to be the cause of a drastic and sudden decrease in their standard of living, they’d lose their shit.”

“Like in a false flag attack?” Franco asked.

“Yes. We take out the electricity in several white cities and make it seem like Mexican gangs are doing it. The whites will wake up, and then we count the days until the government is finished.” The next song was Dust In The Wind by Kansas.

“How do we take out electricity?”

“We fire on transformers. It can’t be that hard. It’s not like they’re heavily guarded.”

“And how do we frame the Mexicans?”

“That will be harder,” Jake replied, tightening his mouth. “We could pin it on the drug gang MS-13. They’re so mad at Steel’s deportations that they decided to retaliate against white cities.”

“The problem is that even if we leave empty tequila bottles everywhere, the government won’t share the evidence, and the media won’t report on it. You remember what they did in Reno with that mass shooting?”

“Dude, we don’t need the government or media to spread our narrative. We take the pictures ourselves and forward it to journalist e-celebs on Twitter. They’ll publish it in a second, and maybe Truth Report will feature it. We only need to plant the seed that Mexicans and MS-13 hate whites and that the government is allowing it to happen.”

“Technically, MS-13 are El Salvadoran,” Franco corrected.

“Sure, whatever. Fuck, I think this would actually work. Target four Midwestern cities, take out their electricity, feed a MS-13 revenge narrative to the internet, and watch the government respond with incompetence. A huge increase in whites will resent the government for not protecting them. They’ll start to resist.”

“It’s a nice fantasy.” Franco nodded his head.

Jake ducked his head under Franco’s field of vision. “What do you mean, fantasy? We can do it.” Franco’s eyes opened wide.

Same old song, just a drop of water
In an endless sea
All we do crumbles to the ground
Though we refuse to see
Dust in the wind
All we are is dust in the wind

Jake turned off the radio. “First of all,” he started, “I’m not a Fed. Shit, I can give you my social security number if you want, and I can show you what I do for work. Second, if not us, then who? How many times have you seen someone on Twitter posting ‘Make it stop’ to the newest travesty? If there is a God, He doesn’t make it stop directly but gives power to us to do what needs to be done.”

“We might get caught,” Franco countered.

“And what’s the alternative? Watching it get worse year after year, waiting like cowards for someone else to do what we should be doing right now? And so what if we get caught? In a few years, you won’t be free anyway. Already you can’t say what you think. If you ever have children, they won’t remain yours. Either your wife takes them away with authority of the state or you’ll be labeled a child abuser if you don’t let you son wear makeup and be molested by trannies. So you’ll lose your entertainment and your freedom to be a coward… big deal.”

“I don’t know.”

“We won’t get caught. We won’t be like the idiots who do rallies and put a target on our backs.”

“I have a family,” Franco protested.

“Okay, tell me about your family.”

“I have parents and a sister.”

“Let me guess, your parents are concerned about your far-right views, and would be the first to forsake you if you ever get written up in the media, and your sister is lost, riding the cock carousel because she thinks it make her feel empowered, no offense.” Franco looked down.

Jake continued, “I’m estranged from my father. He watches too much news on TV and now they have his mind. My mom thinks I’m some kind of misogynist because I dared to tell her that I won’t marry a whore, and my brother is married to a fat pig that controls his life. I love them because they’re blood, but… I feel like they were taken away from me.”

“How will cutting out the power in these cities help with that?”

“It’ll force their hand. Right now whites are coasting along from the past success of their ancestors, but when the conflict comes, they’ll be forced to see the liberal faggots on one hand, pozzed out to the max with whatever mystery meat they’re jamming into the blue states, and the so-called racist white man on the other, who shows that he actually cares about the future of this country. If our blood chooses poz and disowns us then so be it, but let’s push them towards a decision instead of just allowing them to ride the social justice meme because they think it makes them a good person.”

“This is crazy. My brain is trying to come up with objections, but other than the fear of going to jail, I don’t know what to say.”

“I could tell you wanted to take action. You went to Julius’ event as a medic to make a difference for those who wanted to fight back. You made a difference for me, and probably saved my eyesight. Now together we can do what you did at that event, times ten-thousand. Deep down, you know it’s worth trying. We’ll structure the plan to lower the chances of getting caught, and won’t go through with it unless you’re absolutely sure the risk is at a minimum. And you have less to lose than you think. The wheel of history is turning.” Jake made large circular motions with his right hand, almost hitting Franco in the face. “Either we get crushed by it or steer its direction ourselves. It’s obvious that no one else will do it.”

“And you’re not a Fed?” Franco asked.

“Bro, if I was a Fed, I would organize a ‘free speech’ rally at a liberal university, tell our guys to bring ‘self-defense’ weapons, and make sure the media knows the exact time and place. Though Feds sometimes do snag lone-wolf terrorists. They give them the bomb-making materials and then stop the plot at the last…” Jake paused. “I probably shouldn’t have said that last bit!” He laughed and playfully slapped Franco’s arm.

“I want to see everything. Your birth certificate, your apartment, your resume…”

“Whatever you want. Shit, you can even call my previous employers. I’m just an IT guy, doing freelance work right now. I’ll even show you my most recent credit reports.”

“Do you have guns?”

“I have three rifles and a handgun. And you?”

“I have a rifle, but my aim isn’t so great.”

Jake took a deep breath, humming on the exhale. “We’ve gone over a lot for one night. Meeting you was important. You helped me connect some dots. Let’s meet again in a few days.”

“We can meet at your apartment next time so I can check your details. Even though I’m going forward with this, I have the right to withdraw at any time.”

“Of course. Unless you’re 100% sold on the plan, you don’t have to do it. Oh and one more thing… don’t tell anyone about this, especially your girlfriend. Plans like this can only get foiled if we start telling those close to us.”

They shook hands. Jake then retrieved the bag under the car and handed off Franco’s phone before saying goodbye.

Alone, neither man could conduct an operation of this scale, but together there was a synergy that made what they were about to do seem reasonable. It was clear why the elites were so hellbent on shutting down events that were hardly organized, especially the worldwide meetups of masculinity writer Burt Babak, who almost got killed when trying to set up happy hours for his followers.

Jake went to bed that night wondering if being helped by Franco was destined. Getting maced in the eyes is a small price to pay if it leads to meeting someone who can help you change the world.

Things progressed over the next few weeks. Franco was dutiful in checking Jake’s information, confirming that he had no criminal background or affiliations with the government. They began researching electrical substations and discovered that it was trivial to take them offline. All they had to do was shoot through cheap wire fencing at the big transformer blocks and keep shooting until the power of that station went out. They learned that a group had successfully done this several years back, and promisingly, they weren’t caught, because the station didn’t even have surveillance cameras at the time.

While nibbling on the plan here and there, they improved their shooting by rotating among several gun ranges in the Portland exurbs. At a distance of 100 yards, Jake was a far better shot, but Franco improved enough to where he could hit the target at least half of the time. It was clear that Jake would be the primary shooter and Franco would handle the ammo, serve as the lookout, and assist if there was a gun malfunction.

“How much time do you think we’ll have from when we start shooting to when first responders get so close that escape is impossible?” Jake asked one afternoon at the gun range.

“We have to assume the substation has basic surveillance, meaning cameras on the road leading up to the station and also a few around it. To be safe, let’s also assume there are motion-activated alarms, or possibly gunshot sound sensors like they have in the ghettos. Then we have to ask how far the electrical station is from the nearest police station. Most of these electrical stations are quite isolated, so even if there are motion-activated cameras with sound sensors, we should still have plenty of time to shoot out the transformers and leave.”

Jake grimaced. “Just give me a time in minutes.”

“When we see our first camera, let’s start a five-minute timer. When we shoot the first shot, start a three-minute timer. Whichever timer goes off first, we leave, no exceptions.”

“In three minutes I can rain down 300 rounds, assuming the gun doesn’t jam.”

“And I can join in if needed.”

“The bigger problem is transport. We’ll need a car because these stations are in isolated areas. Whichever car we use will definitely get caught on camera. Maybe we can steal some car tags so at least they can’t trace it back to us?”

Franco shook his head. “That’s still too risky. A couple months ago I read a story about how you can find ATM skimmers on the Dark Net. You can buy a kit that includes everything to clone cards. I’m pretty sure they have something to steal cars, too, which are basically big computers. Another option is to buy fake identification on the Dark Net and use that to rent a car in cash, but the risk there is that the rental office will have cameras that record us when we pick up the car. We need a fresh car for every op, and then we burn the car when it’s done.”

“Like in the movie Heat.”

“And also in Point Break,” Franco added. “We need to burn all our hairs or any other evidence that get left behind. And we have to steal the car very soon before the op, preferably late at night when the owner is sleeping so he doesn’t report it stolen. Even if we get pulled over, we have a chance at getting away if we tell the cops we’re borrowing a friend’s car.”

“And we have to drive up to the substation in masks. We’ll stop a mile out and put them on before we get in the range of cameras.”

It took only three weeks for Franco to procure two “code grabber” devices that he bought with cryptocurrency. They could unlock and start most modern cars that used remote keyless entry. They tested it on their own cars first. One opened and started Franco’s car while the other worked on Jake’s. It was so incredibly easy that they figured they could rob cars if they were ever short of money. Neither of them have committed crimes in the past, but once the seal was broken and they became determined to commit a huge crime, there wasn’t much resistance to committing the smaller ones.

As they started to accumulate gear and ammo, Franco asked Jake if he could store everything in his apartment to keep it away from his girlfriend. Jake agreed that it was a good idea.

Two more parts of the plan remained: which cities to hit and how to plant the fake evidence that frames MS-13. They decided to hit the whitest cities most reasonably near MS-13’s primary base of Los Angeles so the narrative could be that the gangs drove over to commit their evil mayhem. The target cities would have to be large enough where some chaos or panic was possible, but not so large that there would be any deaths. After all, the plan was to wake up white people, not kill them.

Framing the gang would be easy. They planned to spray-paint “MS13” at the substations and then take a picture of a gloved hand doing their “four in the stink” gang sign. If the government or media tried to conceal the graffiti, and no journalist came by the scene to report on it independently, they would just send photos directly to the e-celebs. Jake considered leaving a note in badly written English, something like, “You make deportations of us so we make fuck with you,” but decided against it. The spray painting should be enough.

They settled on four cities to attack. The first was West Jordan, Utah, a ten-hour drive from Los Angeles (and eleven hours from Portland).  It had a population of 115,000 that was 90% white. Eight hours north of that was Billings, Montana, with a 90% white population of 104,000. Four hours southeast of Billings was Casper, Wyoming, with a 92% white population of 55,000. The last city, Boise, Idaho, was ten hours directly west of Casper. The biggest city on the list, Boise had a 92% white population of 185,000.

Their city order served two functions. First, investigators would connect the first three cities and expect them to go south to Colorado or east to Nebraska or South Dakota. Secondly, the sharp turn west to attack Boise would be the most plausible route for an MS-13 gang based out of Los Angeles that wanted to return home after their last hit (the distance to L.A. from Boise was thirteen hours, a difficult but conceivable drive).

Barely a week after deciding on their hit list, Franco gave Jake a series of stapled papers that contained the names and locations of every single electrical substation near the four cities. “How the fuck did you get this?” Jake asked, flipping through the pages.

“You can get anything on the Dark Net now. There are actually 55,000 substations in the United States, but supposedly if you take out the top 30, you could cripple the entire country. The ones we’re targeting are tiny and should be easy to handle.”

“But aren’t most cities served by more than one station?” Jake asked.

“That’s right, but we only have to take out the two nearest stations of any city. That should cut power for its metro area and make it extremely difficult to turn everything back on. By the time police are responding to a shooting in the first station, we’d already be on our way to the second. We just have to be careful when we move to the second station, because police will be out.”

Like with the other gear, Jake took possession of the blueprints and stored it in his home. He had amassed quite the stockpile in his living room: thousands of rounds of ammo, burner phones, masks, gloves, gasoline containers, code jammers, matches, flashlights, caffeine pills, a crowbar, a bolt cutter (one of the substations was disguised as a residential house and needed to be broken into), and the electrical blueprints. After verifying directions to each substation using Rainbow Maps, the planning was complete.

“Well, three months of hard work has paid off,” Jake told Franco over a round of beers in a local bar. “I’m ready to rock n’ roll. God, I don’t believe we’re doing this.”

“Yeah about that…” Franco frowned. “I need a bit more time before we can leave.”

“What? But we’re ready to go.”

“I can’t get off work for another two weeks. We need a full week to complete the mission, but that’s a lot of time to ask off when you’re a corporate slave.”

Jake was not happy. “Are you sure you can leave then?”

“Yes I’m sure.”

“Alright, we’ll wait. I’m feeling the momentum, but if we have no choice but to wait then so be it.” Jake ordered another round.

“By the way, who’s your cell phone company?” Jake asked.

“It’s Q Mobile.”

“Are you having any problems with them lately?”

“No, why?”

“Because my service keeps going out, even during calls. It’s like my phone can’t stay connected to the tower.”

“I don’t know, maybe it’s your phone.”

“Maybe.”

Jake’s mother was on the couch, looking upset. Is my mom crying? His father was sitting at the dining room table, talking to a stocky man. Another man, tall and square-jawed, was moving around in the living room, looking at Jake’s baby pictures. Jake went close to his mother, but she didn’t see him. He then walked into the living room and heard the stocky man ask his father, “Did your son give any signs that he was capable of doing this?”

Jake backed away into the living room. The tall agent grabbed his arm. “You can’t get away from us.” The front door opened. Jake turned his head. It was Franco. Take ‘em out Franco! But Franco didn’t move. He looked directly at Jake and wagged his finger back and forth, scolding him.

Jake woke up from the dream, his heart pounding. He covered his face with his hands and rocked his body back and forth while muttering “no, no, no…” under his breath. A few minutes later he put on his clothes and grabbed his handgun and the code jammers. He got in his car and drove to the apartment where he dropped Franco off many times before. His mind was racing now, analyzing every little interaction he had with Franco since they met.

Franco had his trust from the very first moment. The frame was always that Jake was the agent, not Franco, and even though Jake came up with the actual plan, it was Franco who began the entire process. It was Franco who supplied all the tools necessary. And it was Franco who insisted that Jake have the orgy of evidence in his possession. Jake had never even been inside his apartment, never seen pictures of his girlfriend. “He can’t be,” Jake whispered to himself as he opened Franco’s car door, but he already knew the truth: Franco was an FBI agent.

There was no girlfriend. The apartment was a short-term rental. To build trust with potential right-wing extremists, Franco went to rallies as a medic. His job was to egg someone on into a devastating plot that could be used a pretext to clamp down on the entire right, to shut down the will of anyone to resist. Jake was going to be arrested for terrorism and locked up in a hole for the rest of his life. He sat in the car, frozen, staring at Franco’s FBI identification card.

Human beings have an analog nervous system. When a threatening stimulus strikes one of their senses, a small, almond-sized command center in their brain issues a red alert, releasing a host of chemicals into the bloodstream that stimulates some organs, like the heart and eyes, while shutting down others, like the stomach and bladder. The brain, even if fatigued, is jolted awake. The most vital hands are called on deck to deal with a potential danger that could harm the organism, and the most incredible feature of this million-year old system is its lighting speed. In less than a second, the entire being can be braced for survival.

Modern humans don’t face threats like their ancestors did. Their bodies are put into emergencies for banal problems that lack a clear enemy, like when a lover doesn’t reply to a text message within a few hours or when a headache persists for more than a day, but the body and mind are capable of handling so much more. It’s able to make advanced mathematical calculations when deciding on a course of action or become as spontaneously creative as one of the greatest artists in history. This only happens when the need arises, when the organism is about to perish, a moment that has come for Jake.

For the first time in his life, he stared into the abyss, with only one advantage to his favor: his double crosser did not yet know that he knows. A little drop of asymmetry has given Jake just enough time to think of a solution. His eyes remained closed as a film reel of possibilities washed over the black screen of his eyelids. The organism didn’t want to die, and all Jake had to do was listen to what it told him.

The sun began to rise. Jake put Franco’s items back in their original place, locked the door, and slipped into the trunk through the folding backseat. He loaded a round into the chamber of his gun. Half an hour later, the door unlocked. Franco got in and closed the door. Jake slowly lowered the seat. “Good morning, Agent Franco Ferri. Put your hands on the wheel.” Franco did as he was told. “Now don’t you fucking move.”

It was Franco’s turn to process a stimulus that threatened his life, but he had far less time than Jake to find a solution. Skin cells on Franco’s face immediately began producing sweat as his hands squeezed the steering wheel tight. His knuckles turned red.

Jake reached his hand into Franco’s right pocket to remove his cell phone. He turned on the screen to find that it was fingerprint activated.

“Slowly put your finger on it and then put your hand back on the wheel.”

Franco did what he was told. Jake then looked through his phone with his right hand while keeping the gun pointed at Franco with the left. He found Franco’s email app, verified that it didn’t need a separate password, and put the phone down. He switched the gun back into his right hand.

“The FBI identification is fake,” Franco said. “I got it on the Dark Net. It’s for the operation in case we’re stopped along the way and need to get out of a jam.”

“The FBI is the Dark Net,” Jake replied, his nostrils flaring.

“Look, I was going to call you today and ask if you wanted one too.”

“You fucking liar. And the key access card in a sleeve with the FBI logo?”

Franco hesitated. He wanted to speak, to give a plausible excuse, but no words came out. Jake pulled the trigger. The first shot ripped through the right side of Franco’s back, puncturing his lung. “Wait!” Franco gasped for air. “I’ll let you go. This is just my job.”

“Fuck you!” Jake pulled the trigger three more times. One bullet burst through Franco’s heart, and he took his last breath while Jake watched.

Jake pulled Franco’s body into the backseat and covered it with his jacket. Then he turned off Franco’s phone and got into the driver’s seat. He felt the warmth of Franco’s blood on his back.

Jake drove an hour to an isolated area near one of the gun ranges where they practiced. After checking that the coast was clear, he grabbed Franco’s sunglasses and dragged his body to the middle of a grassy mound. He propped up Franco’s body to face the sun and fitted it with the sunglasses. Then he slid the keyring holder of one of the code jammers onto Franco’s right index finger.

Using Franco’s phone, Jake made it seem like Franco was taking a selfie of himself in the middle of nowhere with the code jammer visible. Once Jake captured a realistic selfie, he cut off Franco’s right index finger with a pocket knife and wrapped it in a napkin. He left the body in the grass and drove back to Franco’s apartment, got back in his own car, and drove home.

At noon, Franco’s supervisor was wondering why he didn’t check in with his usual morning brief. His phone was off. It wasn’t until late in the night that a car was sent to Franco’s home to check on him. When Franco’s colleague found his blood-soaked car, Jake was more than halfway to Boise at a rest stop diner. He turned on Franco’s phone, unlocked it in a bathroom stall with Franco’s severed finger, and spent an hour typing out an email. He proofread it no less than six times until he felt it was the best he could get it. He then sent it off to Truth Report and five other e-celebs before throwing the phone in the garbage.

Jake had to move fast. By the time he approached Boise, FBI agents were crawling through his Portland apartment. All FBI field offices were put on notice, but they did not contact local authorities, even in the cities that Jake and Franco planned to hit, because it could reveal that the FBI carried some responsibility for any attack. If the FBI said that “sources” told them about the plan, who were the sources? Where did the intelligence come from? The FBI created the mess and were determined to get themselves out of it, but they were too late. Jake made it to Boise. The recipients of the email were in shock, sure it was some kind of hoax, wondering if they should release it or not.

In Boise, Jake went to a Walmart parking lot to find a car to steal. He settled on a SUV and opened it with one of the code jammers. He drove it to his car parked at the end of the lot and transferred over his duffel bags of gear.

The operation was rehearsed so many times in his mind that carrying it out was effortless. He put on a mask at the boundary of the first substation, drove the SUV to within range of the central transformers, and then laid heavy fire for two minutes until the substation’s lights went out. The electricity in Boise flickered for a moment but remained on.

The city was eerily calm on the drive to the second substation. He saw no police. He repeated the same procedure, and after nearly three minutes of firing, the entire Boise metro area went dark. It took fourteen minutes for the news to hit the wires, and when it did, the first e-celeb published the email that he received, along with the photo attachments. Jake drove the SUV eastward into the early morning until he arrived to Jackson, Wyoming. He parked the car and fell asleep.

By noon, his email became the most viral piece of content in the internet’s history. The government did its best to hide the letter, forcing its social media partners to ban anyone who published it, but that made it spread even faster. Foreign governments hostile to the United States got into the act, reading the email on breaking news segments and rooting for patriots to defeat their “evil” government.

Jake woke up late in the afternoon. Too scared to turn on one of his burner phones, he proceeded as if his email didn’t get published. He imagined how the media was broadcasting endless segments of him as a “far right lone wolf terrorist.”

Keeping his head down, he went to an outdoorsman store and bought camping supplies and then to a supermarket to buy dried and canned food. There were hardly any customers. He got into the SUV and drove as deep as he could into the nearby Bridger-Teton National Forest. He found an isolated area and set up a campsite.

Calling upon childhood camping experiences with his father, Jake had an easy time in the forest. He filtered water from a nearby stream, went for long meandering walks, and experimented with traps to catch small game. He made small fires only at night. With no one to talk to, he started talking to himself, just to hear the sound of his voice.

“The big trees, the sound of the stream… How can there be anger when living here?… Maybe this was the solution all along, to unplug from the city and live with nature… How did I decide that attacking cities was the best course of action?… Maybe I really was MK ULTRA’ed… Did Franco drug me?… No, I knew what I was doing… I’m only thinking the forest is good because I have no other choice… I need to be around people!… A stupid man’s last camping trip… Technically, in this moment, there is no problem… You’ll be okay… FUCK!… Just enjoy the forest talking to you… You made the best decision at the time you made it, but it was the wrong decision…. No one cares about what happens to you… You live, you act, you die… Maybe I can go back to a normal life somehow?… God doesn’t care about me… At least I tried something… I hope no one died in Boise… Maybe the email worked?… I don’t believe I killed a man… Could he really have let me go?… He was just doing his job.”

After five weeks, Jake ran out of food and ate what the forest provided—wild onions, morel mushrooms, and thimbleberries. He was running a significant calorie deficit, and considered using a rifle to shoot game at risk of exposing his location. When he started feeling dizzy seven weeks in, he felt that he had no choice but to go hunting. He dispatched a beaver and feasted heartily.

The next day was so windy that it tossed Jake around, almost toppling him over. Upon returning to his campsite after a midday search for food, he saw that a group of seven men with large backpacks and duffel bags were approaching him. Thinking they were the authorities, he resigned himself to his fate, but as they got closer, he noticed they were wearing blue jeans, fleece jackets, and plaid button-downs. One man was even wearing basketball shorts over a pair of tight-fitting bicycle pants. He slowly walked up to the men, not sure of what to expect.

“What are you doing out here?” one of the men asked.

“I’m just camping, sir.”

“Looks like you’ve been here a while.”

“I think it’s been eight weeks, but I’m not sure.”

A pair of the men whispered something between themselves. Then another shouted, “Holy shit! I think that’s Jake Ultra!” The squad of men moved closer.

“What’s your name?” the leader asked.

“My name is Jake Walker.”

“It is Jake Ultra!”

“Why are you calling me Jake Ultra?” Jake asked.

“Because you’re that poor fucker the FBI programmed.”

Jake knew his email had been released. “I have been here since Boise. Who are you?”

“He doesn’t know anything.”

The squad leader walked up to Jake. “After Boise, cells of family and neighbor activated. We first kicked out the FBI in Salt Lake City and Denver. Then we cleared out the IRS, the DEA, ATF, Forest Service, Bureau Land Management, the TSA from airports, and then finally the US Marshalls. Most citizens in our area renounced the Federal government and joined our side.”

“My God….” Jake stared at the ground. “How has President Steel reacted?”

The squad leader clasped his hands. “President Steel is dead. They killed him two days after Boise when he moved to purge the leadership of the FBI. Vice President McDonnell is now in charge. He’s preparing a massive counterattack on us from the Northeast and California. Our intel says we have a month to prepare.”

“And how about the people of Boise? How many of them did I kill?”

“Kill? No one died in Boise.”

“But I took out the power to the whole city.”

“Boise is not New York City. If the power goes out there, dozens die within an hour. The people in Boise quickly came together to help each other. They probably have the most gasoline generators per capita out of anywhere in the world.”

Jake exhaled deeply. “But why aren’t you wearing uniforms?”

“No soldier, no target,” a solider said.

“And why don’t you have guns out?”

“Their drones have AI programmed to auto-kill someone holding a gun.”

“The Feds say you killed that FBI agent,” another soldier said.

Jake looked away, revealing his guilt. “Do people hate me?”

“A lot of people see you as a patsy, a poor fool…”

“The fool who woke us up,” said a soldier with red hair.

Jake’s legs felt wobbly.

The red-haired soldier walked up to Jake and removed a piece of paper from one of his pockets. “This is the email that started the war. Have you seen it?” Jake took the paper and read it to himself.

My name is Franco Ferri and I’m a FBI Agent based in Portland, Oregon. Starting last year, I was tasked to attend right-wing protests and build trust among its adherents by posing as a medic who would assist patriots and other far-right extremists with minor injuries. This is how I was able to befriend Jake Walker. He was maced in the face by a leftist agitator and I was the first to help him under the guise of being right-wing like him.

Over the course of several weeks, I channeled his anger at the current state of the United States into taking illegal action. Specifically, I convinced Jake that he could save America by attacking it. The plan was to take out the electrical power in predominately white cities and then frame the MS-13 gang as the party responsible. By doing this, Jake was convinced that whites in America would become aware of their marginalization and begin fighting against globalist agendas that predominately feature immigration as a way to dilute and destroy the fabric of the country along with white America’s ability to resist.

My supervisors at the FBI told me that before the attacks were to begin, we would arrest Jake and use him as an example of the terroristic danger of the American right wing. I was fine with this plan, since no one would get hurt and we would remove a dangerous man from the streets, but at the last minute, the FBI instructed me to allow him to hit one of the four cities. Then they would arrest him and expose the plot without identifying their role in creating it. Their reasoning for allowing Jake to hit one city is that it would be easier for their political allies in Washington D.C. to pass further surveillance legislation that would treat all white men as terrorists, no different than Islamic terrorists. This plan would ensure that whites could never pose a threat to state power.

Every man has a limit, and at that point, my limit was reached. Anyone knows that removing electricity from a city will put those who require medical devices, especially the sick and elderly, at risk. People could die. When I questioned the plan to my supervisors, they insisted I follow orders and allow Jake to attack the first city: Boise, Idaho.

As I type this letter, Jake is on his way to Boise to launch an attack on its electrical power grid. I have no doubt that he will be successful because of the advanced training that I was able to provide him thanks to resources backed by the FBI. Within a day, you will be able to note the cleanliness of his operation, and how there will be no evidence left behind at the crime scene beyond shell casings. You will not find images of Jake’s face on any surveillance camera. The FBI is planning to arrest him after the Boise operation and present to the public his car code jammers and electrical blueprints, all provided to Jake by myself. The FBI will then parade themselves as heroes who stopped even greater destruction from a lone wolf domestic terrorist, when they themselves are the terrorists.

Go to any gun range in Portland and they will have video footage of me, an FBI agent, shooting rifles with Jake. He would not have been able to carry out this operation without the agency’s instigation, training, and equipment.

While Jake is not an innocent man, the FBI has twisted his love of country through the use of MK ULTRA tactics that have been perfected over the past several decades, all to fulfill the objectives of the true owners of the United States of America. I signed up for this job to put criminals in jail, but I now realize that my job was to create false pretexts for disgruntled Americans to hurt other Americans. I’m a pawn, just like Jake is. Because of that, our lives are forfeit. The FBI will kill me today.

To prove my identity, I have attached a photo of me holding the same FBI-produced code jammer that Jake is in possession of and also a photo of my FBI identification card.

God bless America,

Franco Ferri.

Jake handed the letter back, barely able to recognize the words of his own hand. The killing of Franco, the Boise operation, the escape into the forest—he felt that it was so beyond him that it couldn’t have possibly been him.

“I know a guy who has the letter framed on his wall,” the red-haired soldier said. “I read it every day myself.” Jake examined the men one by one. Half of them stared at him warmly while the other half seemed puzzled, expecting an angry robotic killer instead of a lanky man going through the early stages of starvation. “God, I can’t believe I’m meeting the man who started the Second American Civil War. Hey sarge, can I turn on my phone to get a quick selfie with him? I’ll leave it on airplane mode.”

Before the squad leader could answer, Jake collapsed onto his hands and knees and began crying. The red-haired soldier kneeled beside him and put a hand on Jake Ultra’s shoulder.

END

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Previous Story: The Dream Recorder

Goodbye Sister

My only sister has died of breast cancer. She was 31 years old. She was the most important person in my life. I’m hurting.

In the next several months, I intend to publish normal articles. Maybe in the future I will share what happened in a way that will honor her.