The Vent: A Coda

     Many are the mornings I awaken feeling, in Carole King’s well-known words, uninspired. I suppose a goodly fraction of my morning dreariness arises from ordinary physical fatigue; at my age it’s normal to be weary much of the time. But not all of it. Quite a bit is identifiably of the “why bother?” variety: the sense that my efforts, such as they are, matter very little if at all to anything of importance.

     I know all the aphorisms: Orwell: “Sanity is not statistical.” Thoreau: “Any man more right than his neighbors constitutes a majority of one.” Louis L’Amour: “There’s no stopping a man who knows he’s in the right and keeps a-coming.” But aphorisms, as at least one other wag has noted, don’t put bread on the table, a shirt on the back, or shoes on the horse. To proceed with one’s work, one must feel that it has purpose and value.

     So I arose this morning after yesterday’s verbal unbuttoning thinking “Perhaps the time has come. Perhaps I’ve received the signal I require. Perhaps it’s time to pull in my horns and spend what remains of my days tending strictly to my own affairs. There are plenty of books I haven’t read yet, plenty of pretty girls I haven’t ogled yet, plenty of video games I haven’t yet sworn over. Draw the moral. Surf the Web for your own pleasure and let the world go to hell without your contributions.”

     But what do I find at the very top of my favorite colleague’s final posting of last night:

     It is curious that physical courage should be so common in the world and moral courage so rare. -- Mark Twain

     And I started chugging along on all sixteen cylinders once again.

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     I’ve written extensively about the transcendent importance of moral courage. All the martyrs had it. Many of the great secular heroes we honor displayed it along with the physical courage it inspired. My fiction readers’ favorite character possessed it:

     It was an ordinary July evening in Onteora: hot, damp, the air too still, the black gnats too numerous. Most of the city's residents had retreated behind closed doors and powered up their air conditioners, then turned their television sets up high to mask the compressor noise. On an unlit street in the abandoned part of the city, Joseph Follett and Lafayette Buskey were enjoying a special pleasure, raping a teenage girl who had wandered onto their turf.
     They had cut away her jeans and panties, stuffed the scraps of the panties into her mouth, and bound them there with a double winding of packing tape. Buskey knelt on her arms and held a knife to her throat while Follett violated her at his leisure. They had changed places once already. Perhaps they would do so again before the fun was over. Neither had bothered to conceal or disguise his face.
     They had been at it perhaps ten minutes when a quiet patter of footsteps from the far end of the street alerted the merrymakers that they were not alone. Both looked up to see the onrush of a short, slight figure, bearing down upon them.
     Buskey had turned toward the sound but had not yet risen when the runner braked and planted. His right foot lashed out in a powerful placekicker's arc, catching Buskey squarely beneath the jaw. The snap of Buskey's spine resounded the length of the street. He flipped backwards and lay on the sidewalk, twitching spasmodically.
     Follett had pulled away from the girl, drawing his own knife. The runner turned to face him.
     "Keep back, motherfucker."
     The runner made no reply. He advanced.
     Follett dropped into a knife-fighter's crouch. He kept both hands well out in front of him, daring the man to come within slashing distance. The runner halted and watched him, apparently relaxed.
     "So this is your idea of a high old time, eh, asshole?" The runner's voice was soft. The darkness concealed his face. "Wait till some defenseless girl wanders by, take her down, rape her a few times, then gut her like a deer? Not much to take home from it, though. Not like a Grand Avenue mugging or a good B and E."
     The young tough snarled. "What do you know about B and E?"
     The runner's eyebrows rose. "Isn't that how you make your living?" He gestured at Follett's crotch. "I mean, that thing dangling from your fly isn't big enough for you to make it as a gigolo."
     Upon being reminded that his dick was still hanging out of his jeans, Follett looked down at his crotch.
     The runner whirled and kicked again. His toe caught the elbow of Follett's knife arm. The elbow cracked and bent the wrong way, and the knife flew from the hand that held it. The young thug spun and dropped to the pavement with a piercing shriek, clawing at the rough asphalt.
     The runner stepped forward to stand over his victim. Stray rays from the headlights of a car passing on a connecting street revealed the runner's expression. It was that perfection of rage that resembles perfect calm.
     "Well, so much for the muggings and B and Es. Think you can make a living as a rapist? I mean, you're going to need a new helper and all. Maybe two or three. Big nut to carry."
     The runner straddled Follett's body and lowered himself to a squat, all but sitting on the thug's belly.
     "Who the fuck are you, man? You got no business here!" Follett's voice was an agonized hiss.
     The runner pursed his lips. "Business? No. I was just out for a walk, and it went on a little longer and farther than I intended. I don't get into the city much. It's not my favorite place. But here I am, and here you are, and thereby hangs a tale."
     He paused and sighed. "I knew you were going to kill that girl when you were done with her. If I hadn't been sure of that, maybe I would have handled it another way. Or maybe not. Not that it matters now. May God have mercy on your worthless soul."
     Follett's pain had not displaced all his fear and hatred. He surged in a last attempt to throw his assailant off him as he scrabbled for his knife.
     The runner's right hand arrowed at Follett's face. The heel of that hand crashed into the bridge of Follett's nose, driving the bone into his forebrain with the impact of a well-thrown spear. The rapist's body spasmed once and was still.
     The runner waited for perhaps a minute, peering into the slack face for any indication that the body might still house life. When he was satisfied, he pulled the jeans off Follett's corpse and brought them to the girl, who had remained where she'd been held. She seemed about sixteen, not especially pretty, and frightened beyond all ability to respond. Carefully, he pulled the makeshift gag from her mouth.
     "Where do you live?"
     "Eighty-two Devlin Boulevard," the girl whispered.
     He bent to help her stand, then offered her the jeans. "I'll take you home. Sorry I have nothing else to cover you with."
     She clung to him and began to keen. He coaxed her to step into the jeans, closed the fly and buttoned them at her waist, rolled up the legs so that she could walk, and escorted her down the street, one arm around her shoulders.
     The body of Joe Follett lay still in the middle of the street. On the sidewalk, the body of Lafe Buskey twitched at lengthening intervals as the life finished seeping out of it.

     ...

     "So that's the why of it?"
     Loughlin nodded. "Moral courage is the key. Physical courage is fairly commonplace, at least in moderation. Bravery in the face of real danger is rarer, but still common enough that you'll find a few dozen cases of it on any battlefield. But moral courage is rarer than any other human trait."
     "Moral courage?"
     "Courage enough to stand by your convictions and trust in your own judgment. That's what you showed that night. You took it upon yourself to save that girl and to execute the bastards who were abusing her. You didn't wait for some committee of designated bystanders to ratify your decision. You have no idea how rare that is."

     Malcolm Loughlin’s observation about the rarity of moral courage, like Mark Twain’s above, is absolutely correct.

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     Some years ago there was a BBC production titled An Englishman’s Castle, about an alternate history timeline in which the Nazis had conquered England. The protagonist is Peter Ingram a screenwriter for a television series about the British war effort that’s tolerated (but closely monitored) by the Nazi authorities. He becomes embroiled in British resistance to the Nazi regime. In the final scene of the final episode, the protagonist has just triggered a violent revolt against the regime. He’s done so on television, using his own face and name, despite a previous subterfuge that would have made that unnecessary. He knows the Nazis will soon be coming for him. His muscles are locked with mortal fear. Yet this is his last utterance: “I shall not behave worse than any of my fictional imaginings.”

     Well, damn it all to Hell and back, neither will I. What good is it to be old, infirm, aware that death is near and ready to face it whenever the time arrives, if I can’t stand my ground before those who would shout or slander or belittle me into silence?

     That doesn’t mean I’ll tolerate abuse. Neither does it mean I’ll allow comments that abuse my Gentle Readers. So to those to whom insult and abuse are favored tools: Be warned. I’m marshaling some tools of my own. Weapons I’ve been reluctant to use. And you’ll never see them coming.

     That’s all for this morning. Perhaps I’ll be back later. Rufus has a chemotherapy session scheduled and I have a lot of home maintenance to address, so we shall see.

Obtuseness.

Mark Steyn is substituting for Rush today. He just had this gem on the reason for Trump's election: The reason for the election of Trump is that people were tired of the ritual of politics that has no relevance to their lives.

I once had some fun with a friend of mine when we were sitting at the dinner table. His five-year-old daughter noticed that the pattern on our coffee cups did not match the pattern on their respective saucers. She wanted us to "fix" it and it was beyond obvious what she wanted us to do, namely, merely switch the saucers. Done and done.

In a rare moment her dad and I both decided to frustrate this beautiful child and merely exchanged cup and saucer so that he had what I had and I had what he had.

She didn't like this so again wanted us to "fix" it, whereupon dad handed me his cup and I handed him my saucer. We next merely exchanged what we had, exchanging cups for saucers. This frustrated her no end as she considered it obvious what she wanted. Which it was, of course, and her relief was palpable when we finally "fixed" it.

It was a choice moment and it's emblematic of what Steyn is talking about. Politicians know damn well what the majority of Americans want but obtusely refuse to do that.

The "far-right" (Wikipedia) Breitbart had a story yesterday about how Trump’s "pro-immigration globalist aides and their counterparts on both sides of Capitol Hill" are working on a deal for amnesty (SHMG) for “Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals” that would be "in exchange for a package of real or symbolic benefits for Americans." The word "symbolic" in there tells it all.

There was a massive show of voter support for Trump because he spoke of building a wall in no uncertain terms, but now the political cockroaches and toads are working on something that is a total negation of the idea (1) that America can and must control its borders and (2) that foreigners who violate American immigration laws are entitled to zero consideration because of that violation. These concepts are negotiable in their minds and represents maudlin fawning over foreigners and contempt for Americans.

The opposite, let it be said, of what we voted for last time around (and a hundred times before). Did we vote for ramped up war in Afghanistan? No, we didn't. In the pipeline? More war in Afghanistan. Did any voter have the least interest in who rules Syria or Libya? No. No one gave a tinkers dam but billions of dollars and oceans of blood later America contemplate the damage from our unconstitutional, aggressive wars on Libya and Syria.

The political class better wake up to this voter fury at being ignored and seeing our streets turned into playgrounds for leftist scum with zero official interest in enforcing clear, simple provisions of the criminal law.

A Time To Vent

     When my greatly esteemed colleague Charles Hill of Dustbury has something he needs to say at length, he calls it a “Vent.” In truth, most of those pieces don’t really “vent” in the colloquial sense. That is, Charles doesn’t loosen his rhetorical belt and blast out his opinions in language more definite or colorful than usual. But we all use the language in our preferred ways, as I’ve been told all too often by persons who will not accept that “proven” is an adjective and not a verb.

     Well, Gentle Reader, I’ve decided to vent – in the colloquial sense. You might not like what’s coming. Indeed, if your notions of rhetorical propriety are at all like mine, you might not come back. But my aggravation meter has pinned and my need is great. Therefore, I’m going to protect the eyes of those who don’t want to see anything ungentle by imposing a blank barrier.

     This is your chance to get away before the action really starts.

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     Ah, that should be sufficient. Now, where was I? Oh yes...

     My earlier piece of today drew a very large amount of traffic – approximately 10 times what I usually get. Normally, that would be pleasant, an indication that readers other than my regulars were taking note of what I’d sad and finding it worthy. However, the email, and the comments I’ve had to moderate, tell a different story. A very unpleasant story.

     Rather than reproduce the offenses to me, I’ll simply summarize them for you:

• I’m being a “stupid mutt” to think there’s a possibility of using the justice system to advantage;
• I’m ignoring the “real problem:” the alliance between the Left and the State;
• I’m preaching “let’s you and him fight” and am therefore a coward.

     I’m disinclined to argue with my detractors, especially as not one of them used his right name. (Draw your own conclusions.) People are entitled to their opinions, even if they’re idiotic and insulting. But frankly, I’ve had enough of that sort of treatment to last a lifetime. I take enough medication for my stratospheric blood pressure already; I don’t want to have to take more to avert a stroke.

     So here is my response to my detractors, one and all:

Go Fuck Yourselves.

     Not one of you dares to do what I have done: to blog in a libertarian-conservative / Christian direction for twenty years, under my full and correct name. My address and phone number are matters of public record. I’ve been attacked physically at my own home and have had to defend myself with a firearm. Not one of you can claim to have written eleven well reviewed pro-freedom novels, all of which are being read by thousands of persons in every English-speaking nation and a few that aren’t (e.g., Iran). Moreover, I’m so much more intelligent than the brightest of you that before you even think to call me “stupid” your tongue should snap off.

     I was able to identify the source of most of the insults and denigrations. I’ve asked the proprietor of that site, with whom I’ve had years of friendly relations, to delink me and refrain from citing my stuff henceforward. He hasn’t yet responded, but as he’s a gentleman, I expect that he’ll accede to my request. (UPDATE: He has done so.)

     However, my inclination to cease writing analysis and commentary that addresses sociopolitical matters is becoming stronger. It might have reached a decision point. So, to any Gentle Readers with an interest in the matter:

     Watch this space.

     (Comments on this piece are closed.)

What Will It Take?

     “The news is all bad, but it’s good for a laugh.” – Tom Paxton, “Jimmy Newman”

     How strange, to be quoting an old communist peacenik at the opening of a column he’d surely despise! But then again, the “W” in my name – the middle initial, for those too crippled by arthritis or gout to run their thumbs along the words as they read – is generally taken to stand for weird. I suppose I’ve earned the reputation.

     There’s no point to following “the news” any longer. “The news” is in your backyard. At least, it had better be...and you had better be alert to it.

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     The day before Election Day, I wrote and posted this:

A tactic that succeeds will be repeated, intensified, and emulated.

     Violence is increasing because it gets the violent ones what they want. Remember what I said in large font at the outset: A tactic that succeeds will be repeated, intensified, and emulated. Violence is apparently working for those who employ it. That is, its practitioners’ gains outweigh its costs and risks.

     Violence didn’t always succeed. Sixty years ago, it was common for an assault that took place before onlookers to be answered by counter-violence and the placement of the attacker in a jail cell: not always, but often enough, and with consequences severe enough, to hold occasions of violence to a socially endurable level. For various reasons that is no longer the case, while the prospective gains from violence remain what they were.

     Violence works whenever it’s not met by a swift defense and appropriate retribution. It worked for Lenin’s Bolsheviks and Hitler’s Brown Shirts. The lesson is not lost on those who mastermind American politics.

     I shan’t minimize the immense significance of what occurred on November 8, 2016. It might have indicated a mass awakening to the danger the Republic faced. But we still face that danger. Our nation’s internal enemies have merely resorted to more violent tactics...and those tactics are working.

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     Today at Free North Carolina, we have this:

     Americans agree with President Donald Trump's defense of Confederate monuments, and few think getting rid of the statues will lessen racial tensions, a new poll shows. The Rasmussen Reports survey released Monday found 50 percent of registered voters agree with Trump's tweet it is "sad to see the history and culture of our great country being ripped apart with the removal of our beautiful statues and monuments."

     As this is from Brock Townsend, in whom my trust is unbounded and for whom I have limitless admiration, I’m sure it’s absolutely correct. I didn’t even bother to check the links. Feel free to do so if you’re more inclined to be skeptical.

     No, my problem is with the significance of the findings. A majority of those surveyed are on the president’s side of this contretemps. Perhaps the majority is even larger than the survey suggests. (Is Richard Dawson still around? Perhaps appropriately large cash prizes would help us to find out.) Yet the monuments continue to be destroyed – in some cases, by municipal or state governments. Why?

     It’s actually quite simple:

A mobilized, militant minority always beats a passive majority.

     That’s how the Nazis took Germany. It’s how Lenin and his confreres took Russia. Why would anyone think that “it can’t happen here” -- ? Especially over something with as little immediate impact on most Americans’ lives as historical monuments?

     Do you want those monuments to stay up, Gentle Reader? Very good; I thought you might. So what are you going to do about it? Other than email your Congressman, that is.

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     The monuments under attack are, of course, only symptomatic in the larger scheme of things. The Left’s whole effort is aimed at detaching the young from the history of these United States, especially its founding principles, its seminal struggles, and the words and characters of those who articulated them.

     The “Antifa” and “Black Bloc” thugs attacking peaceable patriotic gatherings have the same end in view. There’s no way to separate a people from its history if they’re allowed to talk about it, or any element of it...especially the Founders’ emphasis on freedom of expression.

     They who believe it’s sufficient to be prepared to defend themselves are sadly mistaken. No one has ever won a war by doing nothing but playing defense. The Right must seize the initiative – go on the attack.

     The notion horrifies many decent persons. Yet it is so. Two questions then arise:

• What will finally make us rise to the occasion, if anything?
• When and where will it arrive?

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     It is not enough to stay abreast of the news and deplore the trends in progress. It is not enough to speak out against them. It is not enough to attend a rally or two in defense of freedom of expression or the preservation of historic monuments. It is not even enough to attend such rallies armed and ready for the eruption of violence. Those are all defensive measures: necessary but sadly insufficient.

     The one and only remedy is to go on the offensive.

     The first, absolutely indispensable step is infiltrating the opposition. We must learn the individual identities of those who gather to suppress us, and we must pursue them individually, just as they strive to pursue us. If they have gatherings, some of ours must be present. If they don’t, we must tap their communications and monitor them ceaselessly. The information we can gather that way is beyond price.

     Once we know who they are, it’s a short step from there to learning where they will be. That gives us what we’ll need for what must follow: charges, against both the individuals and the groups, of conspiring to violate others’ civil rights. That’s a federal criminal charge that can’t be dismissed. According to our family lawyer, a police commander who tells his subordinates to disregard such complaints is himself guilty of misfeasance – for instructing his men to commit nonfeasance — so make sure all such complaints are properly witnessed.

     Even if those charged ultimately escape prison sentences, they’ll suffer from the experience of having to defend themselves against the charges. As the saying goes, “the process is the punishment.” It might be enough to deter them all by itself.

     If the so-called forces of order prove unwilling to do their sworn duty, then it will be time to discuss more direct measures. But we’re more likely to reach that point if we continue to be passive before the assaults upon us.

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     Sound harsh? Scary? After all, you wouldn’t like to be spied upon or hounded into court to defend yourself against the weight of the criminal law. But what they’ve been doing to us is far worse...and as I wrote above, it’s getting them what they want, so we can’t expect it to stop.

     I know, I know: Who bells the cat? Obviously I can’t, being old and too well known from my writings. But some of my readers, at least, are less conspicuous.

     Nothing else will suffice to stem the tide before actual blood is shed, so give it some thought.

     UPDATE: To the pseudonymous fellow who wrote to call me a “stupid mutt:” My dear sir, if a Martian were to find the two of us standing side by side, he would undoubtedly conclude that you are a member of some much lower species...a houseplant, perhaps. Have a nice life.

Quickies: There Is No Bottom

     Today promises to be an extremely busy day, filled with lawn mowers, hedge clippers, and related implements of destruction, so I’m going to content myself – for the moment, at least – with a few words about an outrage that should get 75% of the country up in arms...though, given how ovine we’ve become in the face of Leftist savagery, it probably won’t:

     Yes, Gentle Reader, he really did say that:

     “To support a ban on immigrants & refugees, while calling yourself a Christian, is not faith, it’s white supremacy disguised as religion,” King tweeted. In a separate tweet, King called Christians’ faith “fake as a $3 bill.”

     If memory serves, Shaun King, despite his attempts to “pass,” is white. You know, like famous “civil rights activist” Rachel Dolezal. Remember her? But that’s of no enduring importance in an era when the configuration of one’s chromosomes and genitals are deemed irrelevant to one’s “gender.”

     So how about it, fellow American Christians? Are you inured to being called bigots and oppressors yet? Or are you getting nearer to that fuzzy line in the sand which, upon being crossed, prompts a man to say, “Well, if that’s what you want me to be, Rastus...” -- ? And what about the many black American Christians whom this scrofulous insult to biology has defamed? How do you feel about his slander against your faith?

Eclipse.

Eclipse humor.

From the RT live feed on YouTube:

• The moon is square. It only look round because our eyes are round
• Gravity is a hoax.
• The CIA is behind this.
• U.S.A. invented the eclipse.
• No more sunshine for Americans.
• Hitler is the reason this is happening.
• Bigfoot is Hitler.
• NK is sharpening its missiles.
• The end is nigh.
• NASA – Never Access Space Again.
• NASA – Never a Straight Answer.
• What's happening? I can’t feel my legs.
• Moist!
• This is not the mathematical size of the sun. This is Planet X.
• This is what you see when you die.
• CPUSA is indistinguishable from any other anti-Trump group.
• I can't see. I'm blind. I'm touch typing.
• Communist lives matter.
• I hope something exciting happens. Like Armageddon.
• The ball is in front of the glowey thing.
• NWO starts today.

Teaser Two

     [I didn’t expect to do this, but the torrent of email demanding “just a little more, Fran” of Innocents, despite the two or three months that will surely elapse before I publish it, is too much to ignore -- FWP]

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Monday, 09/11/2028, 07:15: Gloucester, VA

    “Unacceptable, Teacher.” Takahara’s tone was adamant. “You must recover her.”
     “Sir—”
     “Unacceptable!” The voice that until then had been modulated as evenly as any corporate manager’s became more piercing than any shout. “We will not accept the loss of so valuable a property. You must find her and recover her. Will the constabulary not assist you?”
     “Sir,” the woman who went by ‘Teacher’ said, “the sheriff was emphatic. His indulgence toward us does not extend to active measures.”
     There was a brief silence on the line.
     “That, too, is unacceptable. Half a million American dollars per year should buy more than mere tolerance. But that is not your affair. I will dispatch a remediation squad immediately. Have accommodations ready for a team of four. Expect them to arrive tomorrow, around mid-morning.”
     “I will, sir.”
     “I expect to be kept apprised of all developments.”
     “Of course, sir.”
     The connection broke. She returned the handset to its cradle and sat back.
     I couldn’t have expected any better. I was afraid of much worse. I have to find her.
     The facility was in more danger than the mere loss of revenue. Fountain’s escape put its true purpose in danger of discovery.
     That must not happen. It would mean life sentences for Sculptor and me at minimum. We would never see sunlight again.
     But what about this squad? Will they be tasked to assist the search for her, or to re-educate the sheriff? Perhaps both?
     The team Takahara would send would not be skiptracers. They would be enforcers. Yakuza soldiers. Men selected for their lack of conscience quite as much as for their martial skills. They would act without compunction.
     Their duties might extend to discipline.
     She began to fear far worse than a life sentence.

Monday, 09/11/2028, 07:35: Heading North

     They ate in silence. Sokoloff watched Fountain as closely as he could without staring.
     The girl ate daintily and with a curious exactitude. Her bites were minuscule, smaller than any Sokoloff had ever seen. She seemed to be striving to minimize the width to which she must part her lips. She seemed not to chew her bites but simply to roll them around her mouth for a few seconds. She swallowed each morsel completely before taking another.
     She never touched her fork. She ate solely with her spoon.
     She remained silent throughout the meal. Sokoloff forced himself to remain silent as well.
     When they’d finished and Sokoloff had cleaned up, he donned a T-shirt and jeans, rummaged through his clothes for something for her to wear, selected a gray sweatshirt and a pair of gray sweatpants, turned away and urged her to put them on. The sweatshirt was slightly too small for him, yet it swaddled her like a collapsed party tent. His sweatpants were just as oversized for her, but fortunately the drawstring waist and elastic ankle openings sufficed to keep them on her. He fretted over her exposed, tender feet but could find nothing for them except a pair of thick white athletic socks that were obviously too large. They would have to serve.
     He was about to shepherd her into his truck for the ride north when the odds of observation and unpleasant questions occurred to him.
     “Fountain,” he said, “I have to drive us back to where I live. But I don’t think you should ride in my truck with me. Do you think you’ll be all right back here alone?”
     She’d returned to his daybed and sat with her hands in her lap. Her expression was curious but compliant. “I will, my lord.”
     My lord again? Good God.
     Wonder what it’ll take to get her to call me Larry.
     “All right. Don’t be scared when you feel the trailer start to move. I’ll keep us as steady as possible, but if we hit a bump or have to go around a sharp corner, just hold on and it’ll straighten out in a moment. I’ll get you something to read while we’re on the road.”
     He shuffled through the shallow pile of reading material he’d brought, found his paperback of The Fellowship of the Ring, and handed it to her. She peered uncertainly at the cover.
     “Have you read it?”
     “No, my lord.”
     “Well, it’s a good story. Anyway, I think you’ll like it better than my martial-arts magazines.” He laid a hand on her shoulder. “I’m going to get in the truck and get us moving. We’ll be on the road for about eight hours. Just relax, read, use the bathroom if you need to, and don’t worry about anything, okay?”
     She inclined her head, murmured “As my lord commands,” opened the book and set to reading.
     He opened the trailer door, halted, and glanced back at her. Her eyes were fixed on the book. Her expression was one he’d seen before: a rigid look of resolve, the sort which among men heading into combat speaks of fear sternly repressed. It sent a pang through him.
     She has nothing to be afraid of. For now, anyway.
     Fountain, I don’t know what you’re about, where you belong, or what’s been done to you. I sure as hell don’t know how to fix whatever’s wrong, but where we’re headed there are people who will. Till then, just hang on, girl. Hang on tight. I’ll get you there.
     He exited and closed the door gently behind him.

#      Fountain could tell that her new lord was troubled, but not why. Her training had included the inculcation of an alert sensitivity to a master’s emotional state, but the indicators she had learned to recognize—those that spoke of pain, tension, anger, fear, sorrow, pique, contentment, or joy—were absent from her lord’s face, body, and manner. He seemed rather to be confused yet determined, though determined upon what she could not tell. To compound the mystery, it seemed that she was what confused him.
     That must not be. I am his. His pleasure, contentment, and rest are my task.
     But until she grasped the reasons, she could not be certain what measures to apply.
     Perhaps I am his first. Teacher said that some masters take a while adjusting to their first acquisition of a slave...that there might be a time of “settling in” before my lord can relax enough to make assured and proper use of me. I must be patient. Watchful and patient. But until then?
     Until then, I will do as he has commanded. No more and no less. He said to relax, read, use the bathroom if I need to, and not to worry about anything. I will do, and not do, as he commanded.
     She fixed her attention on his book and strove to read.

#      Sokoloff pulled into a thruway rest area at about half past noon, locked the truck, and went back to the trailer. The girl in his trailer had weighed on his mind. He’d been continuously conscious that she was back there, unrestrained and unprotected. Inadvisable even for a normal adult, for a disoriented young woman—in many ways, a child—to ride in a trailer under way could only be justified by the likelihood that were she to ride alongside him in the cabin of the truck, some busybody would notice and take an unhealthful interest.
     He found Fountain as he had left her: sitting on his daybed with his book in her hands. She appeared to have read perhaps thirty pages in the five hours they’d been on the road. As he entered, she set the book aside and stood. He fought back an impulse to cringe.
     She acts as if I were royalty of some kind, or maybe a commanding officer.
     “I’m going to make lunch, Fountain. Are you hungry?”
     “I am, my lord.”
     He suppressed his urge to inquire into her locution and pulled open the door to the fridge. It was nearly empty. A couple of slices of deli ham, a large block of cheddar cheese, and a quarter of a loaf of bread were all that remained of his provender.
     “Hm. How about a ham and cheese sandwich, then? More like a cheese sandwich with a little ham on top, actually. Grilled or not grilled? I’m afraid I can’t do any better until I get us home.”
     As he bent to extract the fixings, he felt a gentle caress trail along the back of his shoulders. He straightened and turned to find her standing right behind him. Barely a hand’s breadth separated them. Her eyes were bright and fixed on his. Her lips were slightly parted. Her hands remained upraised.
     “My lord must not be afraid,” she murmured. “Fear is beneath him. He is a roaring lion, a giant among pygmies. Lesser men will always make way before him, as is his due.”
     Huh?
     She raised her hands to his face, and her lips to his.
     The kiss was as delicate as it was unexpected, a dance of lips upon lips, gentle yet seductive. It spoke silently of incredible things: acceptance without conditions, devotion without limit, and an offer of herself, all she was and would ever be, that asked nothing in return.
     His arms went around her by instinct. She pressed herself against him. She moaned softly and rubbed herself against him along the length of her torso.
     Desire surged and leaped within him. He grimly forced it down, reasserted his self-command, captured her shoulders, and pushed her away as gently as he could. Her eyes compressed in dismay.
     “Is my lord displeased?” she whispered.
     His mouth opened, but no sound issued forth. Tears pooled in her eyes. She tried to drop to her knees. He tightened his grip on her shoulders and kept her erect.
     “Fountain...” He coughed and shook himself. “Uh, thank you for the compliments, but...well, I’m thirty-two years old. That’s a little old for you, isn’t it?”
     Despite the tears about to fall, she smiled. “My lord is the perfect age. He always will be.” She put her hands outside his. “May I dare to hope he thinks the same of me?”
     Great God in heaven. What can I say to that?
     He was still groping for words when she stepped back and swiftly pulled off her sweatshirt.
     For a second he stood mute, stunned into paralysis by the perfection of her body. Hers was a form out of fantasy. Smooth, finely shaped shoulders. Breasts full, high, and visibly firm. A torso that curved fetchingly into a narrow waist, below which only the faintest of abdominal curves could be seen. Hips as delicately feminine as the rest. Hairless, completely unblemished skin that glowed with the vitality of youth.
     She put her fingers to the waist of her sweatpants and made to slide them off. In a panic he took her hands and pulled them tight against his chest. The look of woe returned to her face. He repressed an impulse to cringe.
     “Fountain...” The right words continued to elude him. He groped for her discarded sweatshirt and urged her back into it. Her eyebrows drew together as she lowered her eyes.
     “My lord does not approve.”
     “No, it’s not that!” He clasped her hands and pulled them to his chest. Her gaze rose to meet his once again. “You’re beautiful. Perfect, even. It’s a privilege—a blessing—to look at you. But...well, this isn’t the time or the place.”
     Or the person, but I have a feeling I’m going to have a hard time getting that across.
     Her face lit with a radiant smile.
     “I understand, my lord. But do not be afraid. You are the master. No challenge can withstand your lightest touch. When the time and place are proper, I will be ready.”
     She seated herself at his dinette table, set her folded hands on the table, and said no more.
     He shook himself and set to fixing them sandwiches.

#      Fountain’s consumption of her breakfast had left Sokoloff wondering. Her approach to her sandwich was more unusual still. She waited until he’d picked up his sandwich, then did exactly as she saw him do. She nibbled at it so delicately that each bite seemed barely a crumb. It was as if she were struggling not to chew, or to make it unnecessary to chew. He slowed his own consumption so as not to leave her eating alone.
     When they had finished, Sokoloff cleaned up as swiftly as possible. He struggled to avoid looking at Fountain while he worked. His hand was on the door latch when she spoke again.
     “My lord?”
     “Yes, dear,” he said through a gravel-crusted throat.
     “Forgive me this presumption, but are you truly not displeased?”
     He winced, turned to face her. “Truly, Fountain. I just have to get us going.”
     “When we met,” she said, “your movements were graceful and assured. Now they are stiff and hesitant, as if something has troubled you. Is there nothing I can do to ease you?” Her voice fell most of an octave. “I am proficient in a number of methods.”
     He released the door latch, stood with his arms at his sides. He could not explain his urgent need to be back in the cabin of his truck.
     “Fountain...” He paused to swallow. “We’ve known each other for less than eight hours. There are a lot of things you don’t know about me. I appreciate the thought, but...well, let me get us to where I live, get you settled in, and we can talk about it then, okay?”
     The few seconds of silence dragged past like as many hours.
     “As my lord wishes.”
     “Thank you, dear.”
     He yanked the door open and bounded down the steps.

#      He appears not to understand. I am his. For him there is no improper time or place. So I was taught.
     The masters to whom Fountain had been presented for evaluation had not hesitated to use her as they liked. The memories still seared her in recollection.
     How could he not understand? He is a master. And so much more than any of the others! Yet they understand from birth. So I was taught.
     The ones who approached me before he intervened would not have hesitated.
     Until then she had spent no time reflecting upon her own reactions. Would she have resisted those others? She had not been evaluated by a group of masters simultaneously. She would not have known how to cope with the demands of three at once. What if they were to disagree? What if they were to quarrel over her?
     I was fortunate to escape such a test.
     But to what divergent fate had she escaped? Was it one for which she had not been trained?
     She had never entertained the possibility that a master might need to be trained, as she had been trained. It went against all the lessons she had received and all the assumptions behind them. Yet this...Larry, who had protected her and taken her in, and to whom she had willingly, even joyfully bound herself, seemed confused, almost embarrassed by his acquisition.
     I will be patient. I will remember my lessons. I will be his from dawn to dusk to use as he pleases. I will not doubt him.
     He did not doubt me.
     She returned to the daybed, took up the book, and struggled to read.

==<O>==

Russian dance "Berezka" "Birch" "Березка."

H/t: "Bluebird of Bitterness."

Tea Leaves In The Dawn Drizzle

     (Yeah, yeah, they’re soggy. So what?)

     I’ve written before about the Left’s tactic of infiltrating institutions and corrupting them to its purposes. While no institution is outside the Left’s scope, its priority targets are institutions that support communication, education, and entertainment: the arteries of public information and knowledge. Once the Left has gained control over such an institution – usually by weight of numbers within its ranks – it uses that control to “enhance” outputs that favor it and suppress outputs that disfavor it. That’s how the Fabian socialists gained control of Britain’s Labour Party and, eventually, of Britain itself.

     The explosion of the Internet was a major blow to the American Left. It was a bypass of the established media that funneled unfiltered, unbiased information and arguments to the consumer. It promised to do more damage to the Left’s totalitarian program than talk radio ever had or could. When the Web became effectively bidirectional, such that the proprietors of Websites could solicit comments from their readers, it was plain to the Left’s strategists that “something must be done.” But what?

     The “what” has surfaced, and it’s not pretty:

     As the fallout from the failed Unite the Right rally in Charlottesville, Virginia last weekend continues, leftist-controlled tech and social media outlets have started mass censoring right-wingers and banning them from their platforms. While sites such as Twitter have been hostile to the right for a long time, the events in Charlottesville—where alt-left agitator Heather Heyer was killed by rally attendee James Alex Fields, Jr.—have given leftist-run sites the excuse they need to ideologically cleanse their websites.

     As of this writing, numerous right-wing websites and personalities have been banned from PayPal, Twitter, Paypal, Stripe, Facebook, Instagram, Mailchimp, Soundcloud, Uber, and countless other platforms. To make matters worse, domain registrars and website maintenance companies such as CloudFlare and GoDaddy have no-platformed The Daily Stormer, keeping the site offline since Sunday. It’s clear that ideological dissidents are going to have to change their tactics in order to keep their websites and other platforms online.

     Please read the whole article. You need the information; take my word for it. But for those disinclined to do so, I’ll include one more snippet:

     To make matters worse, leftists have begun attacking web hosts, domain registrars, and other infrastructural services that right-wingers rely on to keep their sites online. Rootbocks and Hatreon, two free-speech alternatives to GoFundMe and Patreon, respectively, have been forced to switch domains and webhosts after being banned due to their unwillingness to ban right-wingers. Free speech Twitter replacement Gab has been subjected to several DDoS attacks for the same reasons, and the Alternative Right blog was deleted from Blogger last night. [Emphasis added by FWP]

     Liberty’s Torch is a Blogger blog. Its readership isn’t enormous – perhaps 400 readers per day – but many of those readers wrote, in response to this piece, to plead with me not to quit. I want to do as they’ve asked, but with Google now fully engaged in the Left’s campaign to silence conservative opinion on the Web, how long will it be before they get around to us who command smaller audiences? When they do, where can I turn?

     Don’t imagine for a moment that other easy-to-use blog hosts such as Wordpress won’t enlist in this campaign. Neither is Hosting Matters, where Eternity Road was sited, a reliable choice. First, I have no expertise with PHP or blogging software generally, and second, the Left will surely be after such large, popular blog hosts in their turn. I suppose I could go back to the style of the old Palace of Reason: a “webzine” done entirely in HTML, without the support of blogging software, but that seems a bit retrograde for the times.

     I need suggestions.

     If you want to see these tirades continue while I have life enough in me to emit them, give me the benefit of your thinking. (If you’re adept with blogging software, I could benefit from your expertise.) We “know not the day nor the hour” when Google will withdraw its indulgence from your humble Curmudgeon Emeritus. Remember this passage from Atlas Shrugged:

     "Since the deadline for the signing of the national Gift Certificates expires tonight at midnight," said Dr. Ferris, in the tone of a salesman extending a special courtesy to a customer, "I have come to obtain your signature, Mr. Rearden."
     He paused, with an air of suggesting that the formula now called for an answer.
     "Go on," said Rearden. "I am listening."
     "Yes, I suppose I should explain," said Dr. Ferris, "that we wish to get your signature early in the day in order to announce the fact on a national news broadcast. Although the gift program has gone through quite smoothly, there are still a few stubborn individualists left, who have failed to sign-small fry, really, whose patents are of no crucial value, but we cannot let them remain unbound, as a matter of principle, you understand.”

     [Emphasis added by FWP]

     I’d like to take prophylactic action while there’s still “no rush” to do so.

The stench from the MSM.

Next The New Yorker cover:

Modern discourse.

If you take the way soi-disant “anti-racists” talk about white people and substitute “Jews” for “whites” you will end up with something that sounds like a Nuremburg Rally speech or reads like a chapter of Mein Kampf. Now you know who the real Nazis are today.^[1]

This is exactly right. Substitute "Jew" or "female" or "black" or "homosexual" any place the left use "white" and you have the perfect igniter for leftist screams of outrage and contrived apoplexy. Leave "white" alone in their discourse and what's said is treated as the most sensible thing anyone could say. "Oh, right. Those @#$#% white bastards."

Notes
^[1] "Brief Thoughts on Assorted Matters: Special Charlottesville Edition." By Gerry T. Neal, Throne, Altar, Liberty, 8/17/17.

What The World Needs Now

What the world needs now is love, sweet love
It's the only thing that there's just too little of
What the world needs now is love, sweet love,
No not just for some but for everyone.

Lord, we don't need another mountain,
There are mountains and hillsides enough to climb
There are oceans and rivers enough to cross,
Enough to last till the end of time.

What the world needs now is love, sweet love
It's the only thing that there's just too little of
What the world needs now is love, sweet love,
No, not just for some but for everyone.

Lord, we don't need another meadow
There are cornfields and wheat fields enough to grow
There are sunbeams and moonbeams enough to shine
Oh listen, lord, if you want to know.

What the world needs now is love, sweet love
It's the only thing that there's just too little of
What the world needs now is love, sweet love,
No, not just for some, oh, but just for everyone.

[Jackie DeShannon]

     Everyone has heard that old song, I’m sure. It was a paean to a particular kind of love, but if freed of the romantic gloss, its proposition still holds true.

     Yesterday I watched The Case For Christ for the second time. I’ve been eager to do so ever since I saw it in the theater. That second viewing proved as compelling as the first one, and considerably more illuminating.

     The core of the movie is, of course, the young Lee Strobel’s campaign to “debunk” the Christian faith by disproving the historical accounts of the Resurrection of Jesus Christ. His campaign began with his indignant reaction against his wife Leslie’s embrace of Christianity. It ended when the evidence he had amassed persuaded him of it as well. Throughout the movie his investigative fervor keeps tempo with his anger that Leslie has elected to “cheat on him with Jesus:” a thematic element of staggering significance.

     I didn’t go to see the movie for educational reasons. I’m about as well versed – pardon the choice of words – in the evidentiary basis for Christianity as anyone who’s not a seminary graduate. Being a capable logician and scientist, I’m also aware that an irreproducible phenomenon will always admit of more than one explanation. Therefore the truth of the Biblical accounts of the Resurrection can never be definitively proved. But that’s in the nature of all human knowledge: except for propositions in entirely abstract formal systems (e.g., mathematics), we can have confidence, but never certainty.

     What’s most striking about The Case For Christ is its gentle emphasis on love: God’s love, Man’s attempts to love, and the ways in which they contrast. As archeologist-turned-priest Father Marquez (played by Miguel Perez) says early on, the Sacrifice at Golgotha could have been motivated only by love: the willingness of God incarnate to suffer the worst tortures flesh can bear in a demonstration both of His love for Man and His divine credentials. In contrast, human love is often jealously possessive, sometimes insanely so. It bristles at any sort of competition, often seeking revenge for being “cheated on.” Divine love, obviously, isn’t like that.

     Indeed, the great wonder of love between humans is that that we routinely do succeed in extending it without (much) jealousy: first the love of a child for his parents, then the love of a husband for his wife; then to the love of a parent for his child. It is in that familial process that we find the best temporal parallel to Divine love: the love of the Father for His children.

     Religion can be blamed for many ills. The clerics of the world’s many Christian denominations have gone beyond the teachings of Christ innumerable times, asserting authority in matters on which He never pronounced. Indeed, much of the conflict among the denominations arises from exactly that source. Like politicians, clerics are loath to admit to error and reluctant to surrender usurped authority.

     Christ didn’t ask much of us:

     And, behold, one came and said to him, Good master, what good shall I do that I may have life everlasting? Who said to him, Why askest thou me concerning good? One is good, God. But if thou wilt enter into life, keep the commandments. He said unto him, Which? And Jesus said, Thou shalt do no murder, Thou shalt not commit adultery, Thou shalt not steal, Thou shalt not bear false witness. Honour thy father and thy mother: and, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself. [Matthew 19:16-19]

     And Saint Paul, notwithstanding his frequent excursions into Levitical prescriptions and proscriptions Christ never commanded, hit that nail squarely on the head:

     Owe no man any thing, but to love one another. For he that loveth his neighbor hath fulfilled the law. For: Thou shalt not commit adultery: Thou shalt not kill: Thou shalt not steal: Thou shalt not bear false witness: Thou shalt not covet. And if there be any other commandment, it is comprised in this word: Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself. The love of our neighbour worketh no evil. Love therefore is the fulfilling of the law. [Romans 13:8-10]

     What does the world need now? Now that politics has failed, secular philosophizing has proved insufficient, and the ordinary practices of men simply trying to get by appear unequal to our trials? Why, Jesus Christ, of course: Love of Him and the faithful observance of His original preachments, undecorated. How much simpler could it get?

     May God bless and keep you all.

“Survived By His Wife”

     They say married men live longer!

     Well, don’t they? But...longer than whom??

     Just a little levity for an otherwise dreary week.

A Teaser

     [As I’m not in the mood to write about “serious” stuff this morning, I thought I’d fill in with a teaser from my novel-under-development, Innocents. Questions are welcome, but I reserve the right not to answer them. -- FWP]

---

Monday, 09/11/2028, 05:00: Gloucester, Virginia

     The ninth day of his vacation had started routinely enough for Larry Sokoloff: awaken at five, rise, shower, don a robe, make coffee, and go to the picture window of his Airstream trailer for a first look at the day. That was where the routine ended.
     A shapely young woman with long black hair, clad in a soiled cotton nightgown and nothing else he could see, lay on her side on the grass beneath his awning. She was awake, propped on an elbow. Her eyes were fixed upon three large, slovenly looking young men wearing T-shirts, jeans, and wide, unfriendly leers. They were approaching at a steady pace.
     The girl scrambled to her feet and retreated until her back pressed against the surface of the trailer. Sokoloff yanked open the rear door, traversed the steps at a single bound, and stationed himself between the girl and the approaching boys. The three came to a halt.
     “Something I can do for you, gentlemen?” he said.
     The largest of them sneered. “Sorry dude, we’re not into boys.” He and his companions started forward again. Sokoloff felt the girl close in behind him. He held up a hand.
     “Whatever you’ve got in mind,” he said, “you should take it somewhere else.” To the girl he whispered “Back up just a little.”
     The leader chuckled, cocked a fist, and took a roundhouse swing at Sokoloff. A second later the young tough was sitting on the ground, clutching his wrist and screaming in agony.
     Sokoloff smiled at the other two. “Anyone else?”
     They looked at one another, drew knives, and flicked them open. Sokoloff shrugged, said “Hm,” and attacked.
     It was over almost as it began. Sokoloff adjusted his robe, stepped past the unconscious henchmen, and addressed the moaning leader.
     “You and your side boys aren’t very bright. You saw a defenseless girl and a guy in a bathrobe and figured ‘easy pickings.’ You didn’t stop to ask ‘why does that guy look so calm?’ You just charged straight ahead. Bad move, asshole. I’m going to take the young lady inside and fix her something to eat. You should rouse your buddies, get them up and about, and get out of here as fast as your little legs can carry you, because I’m getting mad just standing here looking at you, and when I get mad I’m likely to do something mean.”
     He turned to the girl. She’d remained a few feet behind him. Her expression and posture were passive. Her eyes were a startling, vivid blue. “Are you hungry?”
     “Yes, sir.”
     He gestured at the open trailer door. She mounted the steps with no hesitation. He followed her inside and closed the door gently behind him.

#

     “Make yourself at home. Corned beef hash and eggs okay?” Sokoloff went to the little kitchen area, pulled a can out of one cabinet, a skillet out of another, and four eggs and a butter tray out of the trailer’s mini-fridge. “I don’t have much else.”
     “Yes, sir,” she murmured. Her voice seemed unusually muted.
     “Oops, almost forgot.” He buttered the pan and set it on a burner. “Forgive my sloppy hospitality. I haven’t had any guests in a while. Would you like some coffee? I have milk for it but no sweet stuff.”
     She didn’t respond immediately. He turned from his labors and found her standing by the dinette table. “Miss?”
     Her expression was pained. “What is...coffee?”
     He peered at her. “You’ve never had it?”
     She shook her head.
     “Well, maybe we should stick to milk, then. You’ve had milk, haven’t you?”
     She smiled and nodded. He filled a large glass and handed it to her. She drank it down in one long draught, breathed deeply, and handed back the empty glass with an expression of pleasure that verged on ecstasy.
     “Thank you, sir.”
     He grinned. “You’re welcome. Would you like more?”
     She nodded energetically. He refilled her glass and returned it to her. “Try to slow down, dear. It’s cold enough to give you a stomach ache if you drink it too fast.”
     She nodded. “Yes, sir.”
     “The food’ll only take a couple of minutes. Have a seat at the table. What’s your name? Mine’s Larry.”
     She seated herself. “Fountain, sir.”
     “Your name is Fountain?”
     “Yes, sir.”
     “Just...Fountain?”
     “Yes, sir.”
     Okay. Girl in nothing but a nightie appears under my awning. Looks to be in her late teens or early twenties. Steps into a strange man’s trailer without hesitation, though given that he’d just defended her against what looked like a rape gang, maybe that’s not too hard to understand. But she doesn’t know what coffee is. Slugs down a glass of milk as if it were nectar from heaven. Gives her name as Fountain. Just Fountain. Not one of my usual mornings on vacation, for sure.
     He turned off the burner, went to the dinette table, and sat across from her. She faced him without a hint of curiosity or fear.
     “Fountain,” he said, “I was going to wait until we had some food in us to ask you about...well, about everything. Where you come from, why you’re out in nothing but a thin cotton nightie, what you need and where you’re headed. But you’ve got me thinking maybe we shouldn’t wait for that.”
     She looked down at her folded hands.
     “By the way,” he said, “you can call me Larry.”
     “Yes, sir.”
     Hm. Seems that didn’t register.
     “Is there anything I should know right away, Fountain?”
     Her gaze remained on her hands.
     He reached across the table and took her hands. Her head came up. For the first time he saw something in her expression other than fear: curiosity.
     “Fountain,” he said, “whatever it is you need, I’ll help. Unless it’s illegal. Just ask.”
     “Why...” She faltered and fell silent.
     “Why what, Fountain?”
     “Why do you live in a metal house?”
     He laughed despite himself. She waited, the curiosity in her eyes undiminished.
     “Forgive me, dear,” he said. “Haven’t you seen one of these before?” She shook her head. “It’s not a house, really. Well, sort of a portable house. It’s called a trailer. I don’t live in it. I drive around the country with it, so I can go wherever I like and not have to worry about having a place to stay.”
     “You can go...wherever you like, whenever you like?” she said.
     “Well, not whenever I like. I have a job that I usually have to go to, six days a week. Right now I’m on vacation, just driving around, seeing some interesting sights.”
     And trying hard not to think about someone, but you don’t need to hear about that.
     The questioning look in her eyes was unchanged. He chafed her hands gently between his. “Is there anything else you want to know, Fountain?”
     She nodded. “What is a job?”
     He opened his mouth, closed it hastily, and thought.
     First name Fountain. No last name. Found sleeping on the grass wearing nothing but a nightie. Never came in contact with coffee before. Thinks this is a metal house. Doesn’t know what a job is. Now things are getting weird.
     “Fountain,” he said, “I think it’s time for you to tell me about yourself.”

#

     Sokoloff’s call was answered on the second ring.
     “Integral Security, Kevin Conway speaking.”
     “Hi, Boss, it’s Larry.”
     “Of course it is. Who else would be up this early on his vacation? Where has the wind blown you today?”
     “Gloucester, Virginia. Near the coast, not far from the Chesapeake Bay. It’s very pretty.”
     “And boring, I’ll bet.”
     Sokoloff chuckled. “Not as boring as you might think, Boss. I have a little problem and I could use your opinion.”
     “Oh? Lay it on me.”
     “I’ve picked up a stray. Young woman, late teens or very early twenties. Found her just this morning, lying on the grass under my awning. Protected her from a bunch of good-for-nothings, brought her inside, and fed her breakfast. She seems healthy, but not well oriented. Suggestions?”
     “You call that a problem? She knows where she lives, doesn’t she? Take her back there and forget about it.”
     “Sorry Boss, that won’t cut it. She escaped from some sort of institution. Not a prison or a loony bin, though. She said she’s been confined there since as far back as she can remember. Anyway, it doesn’t sound like a nice place. She was terrified at the thought of going back. Pleaded with me not to do that to her.”
     “Give me a complete description.”
     “She’s about five-six, a hundred ten pounds. Very quiet. Black hair, blue eyes. Hair’s shoulder-length and well cared for. Face is unmarked. Nice figure. Her hands and feet are small and soft. No calluses. Nails are trimmed, shaped and clear-coated, like she was to a manicurist just yesterday. I found her wearing a plain white, knee-length cotton nightie, some grass stains, and nothing else. Oh, and she’s got a weird name. Fountain.”
     “Fountain? Is that her first or last name?”
     “That’s all the name she gave me, Boss. Just Fountain.”
     “You found her wearing nothing but a nightie? No purse or shoes? What about tattoos, scars, and bruises?”
     “Nothing visible, Boss.” I’m not going to check under the nightie.
     Conway sighed. “I knew I should have kept you in Onteora. Well, if you have no other ideas, what about the regular police?”
     Sokoloff chuckled. “The kind that hate our guts and want to see us put out of business?”
     “The very ones I was thinking of.”
     “I can’t say why, Boss, but I’ve got a feeling that would be the wrong move. She’s really off the beaten track.” He glanced over his shoulder. The girl had moved from the dinette table to his daybed. “Weird first name, no last name. Doesn’t know what coffee is. Doesn’t know what a job is. Asked me why I live in a metal house. Definitely on the run from her...keepers, but she won’t say anything more about them or what they were doing to her. No visible signs of abuse.”
     And no fear of me, even after she saw me beat the crap out of three pretty big guys. That might be the weirdest part.
     Sokoloff sneaked a second glance at Fountain. The young woman was sitting motionless on his daybed. Her hands were clasped in her lap. Her gaze appeared unfocused. She’d paid no attention to anything in the trailer except him. If she was listening to his conversation, she gave no sign.
     “I’m out of ideas, Larry. I’d kick it up to a professional, a psychologist or psychiatrist. When do you figure to be back in Onteora?”
     “You need me back?”
     “No, but I know people here who might be able to help with your stray. I don’t have any contacts in Virginia. Do you think Fountain would be willing to come north with you?”
     “I don’t know. I’ll ask her. But Boss? Isn’t it a little risky to go crossing state lines with a teenaged girl with no ID?”
     “You let her into your trailer, so you’re already in the danger zone. The Mann Act is the least of your worries. Bring her to Onteora, if you can talk her into it, and we’ll take it from there.”
     “Okay, Boss. See you in a couple of days.”
     “Keep it smooth and steady on the roads, Larry. No speeding, no weird maneuvers, nothing conspicuous. You don’t want to get pulled over.”
     “I thought you said I didn’t need to worry about the Mann Act.”
     “You don’t. I do.”
     Sokoloff chuckled. “Right. See you shortly.” They exchanged good-byes and rang off. He pocketed his phone and turned to the girl, who was sitting exactly as he’d left her.
     “Fountain?” She looked up. “We need to talk.”
     “Yes, sir.” She slid off the daybed and stood before him, eyes slightly lowered and hands folded before her, still completely passive. A servant waiting for orders. It sent a chill through him.
     She acts as if she’s been taught not to show a will of her own. As if she’d been punished for ever displaying anything like that.
     Was she being groomed for something? Something not so nice?
     I hope Kevin’s right that there are people back home who can help her. She looks healthy enough. Perfectly normal, if you overlook the nightie. But there’s got to be big time damage inside.
     He took her gently by the shoulders, urged her to sit, and sat beside her.
     “I don’t live here,” he said, “or anywhere nearby. And I don’t know where I could take you near here that would be...good for you.”
     She said nothing.
     “A very smart man suggested that I bring you back to New York, where I live.” He grinned. “Not in a metal house, a regular one that doesn’t go anywhere. You could stay there with me while my friend and I find someone who can help us to help you. You know, figure out where you belong, whether you should be in school and what grade, things like that. Are you willing to do that? Come north to New York and stay with me while we figure all that stuff out?”
     She made no sound or movement as he spoke, merely sat with her hands in her lap and her eyes fixed on his. In the few seconds before she replied, Sokoloff began to fear that in his innocent desire to help, he might somehow lead her to her ultimate destruction. Her response took him completely by surprise.
     She rose from the daybed, turned smoothly to face him, dropped to her knees and bowed until her forehead touched the floor.
     “I am yours, my lord.”

==<O>==

Fact free MSM analysis.

"CNN's Chris Cuomo: 'Extreme Right Is The Number One Domestic Terror Threat In The U.S.'"

Yale grad.

On removing Confederate monuments.

Why not just remove the name of anyone who was ever wrong about anything from the beginning of time from the history books ? Get it over with now and utopia will surely be achieved!

Comment by RhoneGSM on "Tucker Carlson Obliterates Bill Kristol, Says He's 'Glued to Social Media Like a Slot Machine Junkie in Reno'." By The_Real_Fly, Zero Hedge, 8/17/17.

Had It

     I think I’ve reached my limit.

     For twenty years I’ve been writing analyses and opinion about various matters of public policy, political dynamics, the various premises, the rational processes, and the emotional substrates that produce those things. The time and effort involved in producing these pieces are considerable. No one does such a thing except in the hope of improvement. But there’s been none. Not one BLEEP!ing thing has changed for the better. Every element of our sociopolitical malaise has worsened. America continues to slide toward totalitarianism – a totalitarianism that defies election results.

     I’m beginning to think that it’s due to cowardice on the Right. Virtually no one with his head on straight will speak plainly.

     Today, the worst of America’s bad actors rule our streets. They’re open about it. They make YouTube videos about their success at violently suppressing gatherings of conservatives and talks by conservative spokesmen. Yet supposedly Right-aligned commentators, including nearly all the prominent ones, can’t bring themselves to condemn the Left’s Brownshirts. Rather, they apologize for the Right’s existence.

     I probably read more in a single day than 99.9% of the American populace – including most of the aforementioned commentators – reads in a month. The greater part of that is news, analysis, and opinion. But with all that I read, I almost never encounter a statement about the plague of street violence – politically motivated street violence that's afflicted this country for more than a year – that places the odium squarely upon those who consciously set forth to initiate it.

     Instead, we get stuff like this:

     Monday morning, Ken Cuccinelli, former Attorney General of the Commonwealth, appeared on CNN’s “New Day” program opposite Symone Sanders, former press secretary for Bernie Sanders. They spoke about the Charlottesville events, and the President’s underwhelming, confounding response to them. Things got out of hand. When Cuccinelli didn’t seem contrite enough of behalf of Donald Trump (because, being a conservative, he’s clearly Trump’s biggest fan, because REASONS) and wouldn’t initially condemn Robert E. Lee as “emblematic” of white supremacy and racial hatred, Sanders continually talked over him and interrupted, with host Chris Cuomo’s passive cooperation. Cuccinelli eventually had enough of being interrupted and talked over, and said “…can I finish Symone, will you just shut up for a minute and let me finish?” Sanders became apoplectic, as if her civil rights were being violated by being asked to ‘shut up.’ The height of irony was Sanders, doing her best impression of a screaming harpy, demanding ‘decorum’ from Ken Cuccinelli, in almost every instance a thoroughgoing gentleman, who in this case was pushed to his limits. Sanders has no sense of fairness, decency, or decorum of her own. Chris Cuomo, of course, being Chris Cuomo, jumped in and remonstrated with Cuccinelli for using the phrase, “shut up” and did nothing to address Sanders’ antics, including using the same phrase herself.

     So far, so good, right? But we’re not quite finished:

     Cuccinelli, being the gentleman that he is, apologized, even calling Sanders after the fact.

     Why did Cuccinelli apologize for demanding to be treated with respect – reciprocal respect, at that? Had Sanders been a man, a true gentleman would have demanded a pre-dawn accounting: pistols or swords, sir; your choice. A woman exhibiting that sort of conduct is beneath contempt.

     At this point in our devolution, contempt is too good for the Left. Yet our luminaries continue to treat them with undeserved respect – and equally undeserved mercy for their outrages – while castigating the Right for daring to attempt a counteraction.

---

     I’ve also had it with “Fox News.” The best of its productions, Bret Baier’s Special Report, has become completely unwatchable. The appearances of supposedly Republican, supposedly conservative office holders, are so irritating that I’ve begun changing the channel to Animal Planet or The Food Network upon the instant one such appears on-screen. Not one of them ever gives a straight answer to a simple question. “Yes” and “no” seem not to be part of their vocabularies. However, the panel segments are its worst feature: an appalling display of Establishmentarianism and pusillanimity. The most regular panelists have been “in the business” for far too long. They’ve too obviously had their consciences numbed and their spines ripped out, and ought to consider a retirement trade; perhaps begging on street corners. The occasional guests, being mostly younger, tend to be somewhat better, but the regulars routinely outweigh them.

     The nadir arrived in this past Monday’s exchange between regular panelist Steve Hayes and occasional panelist Mollie Hemingway, over the nature of the events in Charlottesville. Hayes led off with a cringingly apologetic statement that condemned “white supremacists” and “neo-Nazis” as the reasons for the violence. When Hemingway dared to disagree – and not entirely, at that – Hayes actually tried to shout her down, insulting her unforgivably in the process. It was grotesque beyond my powers of description. Charles Krauthammer’s contribution added to the abuse of Hemingway in a predictably Establishmentarian fashion.

     Hayes’s behavior might be explicable. He might be angling for a billet at CNN or MSNBC, both of which are in desperate need of token “conservatives.” Krauthammer has no excuse. The experts required to raise him from his coffin and make him look lifelike in time for every evening’s fifteen minutes of breathless filibustering blather are under exclusive contract to Fox.

     It seems that those who predicted that Fox would swiftly deteriorate with Roger Ailes’s resignation were correct.

---

     The bastions of hard evidence and sound reason are being worn away. Whether it’s from fatigue or fear, they whom we trusted to be our public voices are failing us. It would be better for them to retire, but there’s precious little money or fan mail in that.

     For twenty years I’ve strained to add a microdecibel or two in favor of freedom and justice. I just don’t know whether there’s any point. Maybe there never was.

     It’s time for me to sit back and take stock, but before I close, have a giggle. A dear friend is about to issue a T-shirt design through Cafe Press. He told me about it a couple of weeks ago, and is currently deciding upon the final design. It’s likely to bear the following legend:

White Men:
Bringing You Western Civilization For 3000 Years

     ...over an image of a cathedral. I can’t wait to order mine...that is, if Cafe Press has the stones to accept his design and offer it for sale.

     We shall see.

To serve and defect.

It’s worth remembering that Charlottesville did everything it could to prevent the demonstrations, issuing permits only after being sued by the ACLU. And when push came to shove—literally—on Saturday, police and National Guardsmen were to be found only on the periphery of the brawling. Indeed, the Virginia ACLU reported that police were refusing to intervene unless specifically ordered to do so.^[1]

Shades of Berkley when cops similarly did not intervene to stop AntiFa violence.^[2]

Notes
^[1] "Avoidable Mayhem. Why did Virginia’s political leadership order the police and National Guard to stand down?" By Bob McManus, City Journal, 8/14/17.
^[2] H/t: The Burning Platform.

Action And Reaction

     As my regular Gentle Readers will surely know (and if they don’t, they can learn about it here), I have a Newfoundland. The Newf is a very special breed of dog. It was developed in the 17th and 18th Centuries to be a sailors’ companion: i.e., to perform water rescues in the icy North Atlantic where a sailor who fell overboard was in as much danger from hypothermia as from drowning.

     Needless to say, pulling grown men out of the ocean isn’t a job for something the size of a Chihuahua. Newfs are big — they average between 120 and 160 pounds at maturity – and proportionately strong. They were bred that way. But the bigger a dog is, the more important it is that he be gentle and unaggressive. So Newfs were also bred, quite carefully over many generations, to be gentle, affectionate, and generally unthreatening toward humans.

     Yet despite all that careful selective breeding, a Newf will revert to the feral, all-out violence of the wild when mistreated, or when a member of “his pack” – i.e., a member of the family to which he’s bonded – is threatened. And Newfs being big and strong, a Newf on the warpath will be very destructive. Plainly, the last thing any Newf owner would want is for his Newf to turn violent.

     Why yes, this is about Charlottesville. However did you guess?

---

     The Left has made substantial inroads into the American order by the well-known technique of gradualism. Mark Steyn noted the power of this technique, when shrewdly applied, in his masterpiece America Alone:

     If it were just terrorists bombing buildings and public transit, it would be easier; even the feeblest Eurowimp jurisdiction is obliged to act when the street is piled with corpses. But there's an old technique well understood by the smarter bullies. If you want to break a man, don't attack him head on, don't brutalize him; pain and torture can awaken a stubborn resistance in all but the weakest. But just make him slightly uncomfortable, disrupt his life at the margin, and he'll look for the easiest path to re-normalization. There are fellows rampaging through the streets because of some cartoons? Why, surely the most painless solution would be if we all agreed not to publish such cartoons.

     Steyn was, of course, thinking specifically about way Islamic militants worldwide have gone about intimidating the peoples of civilized nations into kowtowing to Islam. Yet his observation has far wider force.

     When the Taliban of Afghanistan took political control of that country, there was no immediate reaction from the West. We remained disengaged even when they began to execute women and children for the heinous crimes of being Christians or learning to read. They destroyed the Bahamian Buddhas, priceless historical treasures, and we continued to watch passively. It took Black Tuesday – September 11, 2001 and the loss of 3000 American lives – to awaken us. And of course, once the U.S. is awakened, it’s the rankest folly to stand against us.

     So it is also with the Left and its campaign to destroy what remains of the American Constitutional order.

---

     Leftist street demonstrations, sometimes including vandalism, have occurred in the U.S. before. However, the organizers have recently grown far bolder than their predecessors. The events of Donald Trump’s campaign and presidential inauguration went well beyond anything Americans would passively tolerate...were they fully informed about them. The major media, which is heavily Left-biased and aligned, did its level best to prevent accurate reportage about those events. Indeed, they strained to make Trump and his supporters into the villains of any story about any such development.

     Yet some things slipped through. There were too many eyewitnesses, and too many video-enabled phones, to prevent some actual depiction of the facts from reaching the public. A threshold was crossed. Popular anger over the Left’s tactics swelled to a decision point. Men headed to a Trump rally began to arm themselves, mostly with sticks or clubs, in preparation for an attack on them. While the Left continued to press, its efforts yielded less and less of the intimidation it sought.

     Other facts came to light: the alliance between the “Antifa” and “Black Lives Matter” gangs; their organizational techniques; the instructions their street thugs received; the sources of their funding; and the regularity with which the major media deflected attention from any disclosures about those things. Perhaps emboldened by their media support, the Left’s thugs decided to double down. Any gathering of conservative-minded persons for any reason became a target for violent disruption. Popular conservative speakers were compelled to flee the venues at which they were scheduled to appear. The attendees of pro-Trump rallies were regularly attacked, particularly women and the elderly. Apparently the response from the Right wasn’t uniform enough or dramatic enough to deter the Left. (It didn’t help that many Right-aligned spokesmen lacked the courage to point squarely at the Left and its backers and denounce them unambiguously, preferring merely to rail abstractly against “violence” and “hate.”)

     But as I’ve said many times here and elsewhere, word gets around. If there’s some item of information that it’s important that people know, sooner or later they will know it. No one can suppress the communication of important facts indefinitely.

---

     If the videos I’ve seen of the events in Charlottesville are accurate, the violence there, though initiated by the “Antifa / Black Lives Matter” combine and worsened by the actions of the Charlottesville police, was roughly isotropic. The counterforce, whose embryo was a modest number of conservatives carrying sticks and clubs to Right-aligned gatherings, has swelled to meet the Left’s shock troops on approximately even terms. The racial component of the contretemps, aggravated recently by proclamations from various Leftists to the effect that “whiteness” itself is a crime against humanity, has germinated a white-identity reaction that will swell the counterforce still further.

     These are good developments. No one is morally required to stand mute and passive while his race, his religion, his property, his freedom, or his person is being attacked. Once a collective has formed and demonstrated aggressive intentions, the alternatives are two: to be subjugated, or to fight back.

     Conservatives, Christians, and whites have decided to fight back.

     The Left has the media and a goodly portion of the political class on its side. Those forces can make it appear that the Right is doomed, that American Caucasians should surrender and submit, and that the Constitutional order has been irrecoverably overthrown. Indeed, even Fox News’s commentators are kowtowing to the forces proclaiming that white racism and fascism have caused the disturbances.

     But word gets around. And “the word” is that it’s time for conservatives, Christians, and whites to fight for our lives.

     In physics, we’re taught that “action equals reaction.” In sociopolitical matters, action can provoke reaction, but the two are not compelled to be equal in magnitude.

     A majority of Americans are patriotic and at least moderately conservative. Seventy percent of us are Caucasians of European descent. Seventy-four percent of us are Christians.

     Will the Left “do the math?” Your Curmudgeon reports; you decide.

     For further reading:

• This article at HotAir;
• This one at Cold Fury;
• And this one at AoSHQ.