NAR Fan Fiction

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NAR Fan Fiction

Post by Sebastian »


For your consideration.

A very green and incomplete draft, fresh off the oven.

Let me know what you think.

Year 4 of the War of Independence

- Somewhere in the State of Washington -

On a featureless grey walled room which could be any of innumerable thousands in this era of pre-constructed buildings, stood two cheap white plastic chairs and an equally cheap red table of the same material. Sitting on each chair was a human being.

The occupant of the left chair was an attractive, tall, barbie-like female with immaculately coiffured blonde hair and fair skin. She was dressed in a blue business suit with a knee-high skirt that allowed ample view of her crossed legs. Everything about her posture and demeanor, as well as the sheets of paper on her lap, suggested this was a reporter or some other type of media person. These suspicions were confirmed when as soon as she opened her mouth to speak towards an invisible listener which presumably was located in front of the pair and the table that separated them.

"Good evening. This is Cindy Scott from KING 5 TV coming to you from an undisclosed location," her professional voice informed the viewers. "I am here with Lieutenant Marion Truly of the Northwest Volunteer Army, who has agreed with our proposal for an exclusive interview."

The blond turned to the right chair and the short, thin male sitting on it. He was sporting a brown-black leather jacket, dark gloves and equally dark ski-mask. His eyes where concealed behind a pair of shades with rectangular lenses. In the unlikely event this interview would ever be televised on a certain, tiny European country, his own mother would be hard pressed to recognize him,

"Thank you for accepting my invitation, Lieutenant."

When the man answered to Cindy Scott, his voice was an mixture of Darth Vader-like sounds, courtesy of a voice scrambler. The low, raspid words were fully out of tone both with the frame of the small man uttering them and his cheerful attitude.

"No thanks necessary, Cindy. The decision wasn't up to me. Send your gratitude to my Commander if you wish. But personally, I am happy to be here and talk with a member the Zionist State's propaganda machine that has courteously agreed to abide to the NVA Deontological Media Code."

Cindy gulped visibly. The DMC the masked man was referring to was a short list of provisions that would have to be complied with religiously by any media person grated the privilege of personal contact with a NVA Volunteer, under penalty of being declared an Enemy Combatant and given a very high priority in the NVA hit list if she didn't.

The number of biased and uncooperative journalists and assorted media pundits that had been pierced by bullets, or disassembled by explosives in the last four years attested to how fiercely the NVA enforced their Deontological Media Code. It was risky business. But for Cindy Scott, the surety of having her media career propelled to air wave and tv cable stratosphere made this meeting a chance not to be wasted.

"First question, Lieutenant. You have quite an uncommon surname, is Marion Truly your real name?" the comical effect of "truly your real name" only became apparent to Cindy when she saw herself speaking on a screen, hours later.

"Yes and No." answered the man.

"Excuse me?"

"Marion Truly is, in fact, my true name. And at the same time it isn't." he explained.

The reporter raised an eyebrow, "I must confess I don't understand, Lieutenant."

"I didn't expect you to. If you had a greater understanding of the permutations of different Indo-European languages it might make sense. You can dispense with my surname if you wish. Next Question."

Cindy fuddled nervously with the paper sheets she was holding on for two full seconds before continuing the interview. One of the iron-clad conditions of the NVA's DMC was that when the interviewee uttered the words: "Next Question", he or she really meant it. No follow-ups, no asking the same question on different terms, no shenanigans, period. Move along, nothing to see here.

"As a NVA volunteer, what would you say are the objectives of the organization you belong to?"

"That's a question with quite an obvious answer, unless you've been living under a rock for the past four years." Marion explained as a tutor might to a child, "The goal of the NVA is the establishment of a White Homeland. A nation-state run by, and for the exclusive use and benefit of white people."

"And how do you define "white people", Lieutenant Marion?" the woman inquired.

Behind the sunglasses Marion was rolling his eyes. This interview was commencing on very superfluous subjects. But he decided to play Cindy Scott's game.

"Just for the record, personally I am much more fond of the term Folk or The Folk than "Caucasian" or "White". That said, I would define them the same way that the NVA does: persons of European descent and unmixed Caucasian ethnicity. No identifiable non-Caucasian ancestry, and no visibly non-Caucasian element in their biology," Marion recited. "An easier way of explaining what a white person is might be to point out those that aren't: negroes, chicanos, mulatos, mid and far asians, semites, eskimos, amerindians, etc."

"So are jewish persons not included in that definition of white people, Lt. Marion?"

Jesus! Where did she get her questions from? - Marion thought to himself. "Of course not!" he balked.

"Why do you hate Jewish persons Lt. Truly?" she ask, as if scolding the man sitting opposite her.

Now this was a line of questioning Lt. Marion had expected, and he was well prepared for it. "I don't," he answered. "I do not hate Jews in any way shape or form. I simply do not want to be in their presence or wish to be under their influence."

"But the NVA kills Jews!" Cindy's voice raised an octave when she made that statement.

"The NVA kills a variety of people: negroes, whites, could call us equal-opportunity relievers from life. Why the hang up with jews? Let me ask you one thing," Marion leaned towards the reporter. "Do you eat meat, Miss Scott?"

Cidy Scott's expressing turned quizzical. "I do. But what..."

"And do you hate cows and chickens?"

"No. But..."

"Wonderful!" Marion shrugged as he raised both hands for emphasis. "Then we are in agreement, it is quite possible to destroy something and not hate it."

"With all due respect, Lieutenant, you can't compare cows to people." the woman retorted.

"I did no such thing," Marion was smiling mirthfully behind his ski-mask "I merely pointed out that it is possible to destroy something without hating it."

"But all the destruction...and death caused by the NVA!" Cindy wailed.

Marion's hidden smile turned into full cat-that-ate-the-canary mode. He recalled gratefully the time he had spent among the Libertarian crowd. He was going to give this media gal a crash course in political philosophy and the nature of Statehood.

"Miss Scott, the NVA as an organization is really the precursor of a State. Now, the very definition of "State" is the credible monopoly of violence. In any geographical area where humans live and there is no credible monopoly on violence sooner or later, usually sooner, you get a Somalia situation. You know, with a lot more shooting and blowing up things that we've had here recently."

Marion made pause for emphasis then continued. "A state that looses that monopoly, for whatever reason, is no longer a state. It simply becomes a group of men and women wailing, ranting and bitching in some far-off capital about how folks in a certain area aren't doing what they want them to do. This is the case with the USA government and the Pacific Northwest region. At the end of the day, despite any considerations about morality, ethics, ideology or what one likes or doesn't like it all comes down to one simple fact: who has the muscle to control and enforce their will and decisions on a specific patch of land?."

"Might makes right?" Cindy asked

"Might makes right where there is zero percent chance of any accommodation by either party to a disagreement or dispute, yes. The United States of Amurrica say that within every inch of territory it thinks it owns everyone with white skin has to surrender about half of whatever wealth they create. That's if they even happen to have a an occupation at all and don't find themselves on the street because a chicano took their job or a negro gained it through affirmative action. White folks are also required to surrender their offspring to military bondage so they may fight for oil and the greater glory of Israel on that middle-east quagmire. All this and another thousand of iniquities are accompanied by a heavy dose of miscegenation, whitey-hate, white guilt and general demonization and denigration of anything remotely related to European culture. The NVA respectfully disagrees with all of this, and since Amurrica seems to lack the capacity to listen to reason and leave us be, we decided to persuade them with the age-old remedy of hot lead. And why the hell should we not have taken this course of action? Why on Earth should any person bow down to a group of authoritarians with a legion of jack-booted thug enforcers that actively pursue a policy that does not benefit him or her? If you don't agree with me, please explain in a logical manner how any of Amurrican policies I mentioned are beneficial to white individuals."

Part of Cindy Scott knew she had been backed into a corner. Even though she would not admit it to herself, and much less say it out loud, somewhere within her she knew none of the examples the NVA volunteer had pointed out where good for white folks. But what was good for whites, even though quite an attractive example of one herself, didn't rank very high on her conscious mind. She decided to press on her argument.

"I still find it impossible to accept that anything good can result from violence. Ultimately it doesn't solve anything."

To Marion the female reporter was proving to be as dumb as she was attractive, "Have you ever read Heinlein Miss Scott?" he asked.

"No I can't say that I have. Is he one of the, ah..political ideologues that the NVA or yourself follow?"

Marion had to restrain himself not to laugh out loud. "I guess you could call him a political ideologue insofar as anyone with an interest in politics is one. But in reality he was a science-fiction writer, quite a popular one, active in the middle of the past century. If you had read a certain novel of his you would understand that violence has solved more problems during the course of human history than anything else combined. Notice that I don't mean simple brutality. Violence is the application of force with forethought behind it and an objective in sight, not mindless lashing of limbs against everyone and everything. I am going to make it easier for you and pull a Godwin's. Let me bring up the old German National Socialists...when the Amurricans found they didn't agree with them, there was no sit-down with tea and cookies to sort out the differences. Rather, they decided to wet their feet on the Third Great Aryan Civil War..."

"I'm sorry...the what?!" the woman seemed genuinely surprised.

"The 3rd Great Aryan Civil War. You know, 1939 to 1945 Anno Domini, the middle of the past century. Are you familiar with it?"

"You are referring to the Second World War?" Cindy asked the obvious.

Marion tilted his head a notch. "You can use that term if you wish. The bottom line was Aryans killing each other all over continental Europe."

"But Lt. Marion, the Americans also fought the Japanese in WWII, how does that fit with your idea of a war between Ary...between white people?" using the term "Aryan" was apparently too discomfortable for Cindy Scott. Too much cognitive dissonance for a mind raised to extol the virtues of Cultural Marxism.

"Yes they did," replied Marion. "But that is a conflict that I do not include in the Third Great Aryan Civil War. That party on the Pacific Ocean was a private dispute between the US Federal Government and an Asiatic Empire. Of course, since Mister Hitler and Mister Hirohito had an agreement of sorts, it gave the beast commonly known as Roosevelt the excuse he needed to invade the European continent and getting white American boys killing white German and Italian boys. And at the same time ensure Europe was made safe for Communism again."

The interview had taken a completely different route than what Cindy Scott had expected, and she was getting lost. Instead of following her list of questions she allowed this line of inquiry to continue.

"And what...were the other two, er White Civil Wars, as you call them?"

"The term "Great" in warfare can only really be applied when you have wholesale industrial massacre and premeditated targeting of civilian non-combatant targets. The end result has to include death and destruction on such a massive scale that it causes a visible demographic effect felt for a long time after the terminus of the hostilities. In this context the Napoleonic Wars of the early 19th Century don't really apply for "Great" status. The first Aryan-on-Aryan conflict worthy of that moniker is, of course, the War of Northern Aggression of mid-19th century."

The journalist was taken aback for a moment, she knew she had heard that term before but couldn't quite place it. Then Cindy remembered a certain chat on a trip to Georgia years back, before the NVA became active, and she knew what the Lieutenant was referring to.

"You mean the American Civil War?" Cindy Scott asked in a tone bordering the ironic. Years of working in the media business and a natural voice had turned her into a master of intonation.

"No." answered Marion with a voice brimming with confidence. "I mean the War of Northern Aggression."

When the interview was aired there where rumors of spontaneous outbursts of laughter and glasses raised high in celebration at bars all around the American Southwest; if the pundits were sure no Federal or non-white ears were listening. A few days later someone unaffiliated with the NVA made an internet motivational poster showing Lieutenant Marion Truly sitting on the interview, an illegal Dixie Flag digitally inserted as background and large white letters on the bottom:


The poster's creator was never found by Federal authorities. But the increasing harassment activities of the Men in Black around her community as they searched for wathever impudent citizen had dared mock the great Amurrican government made her finally decide to leave for the Northwest Pacific and join the NVA. Before the signing of the Longview Tresty she worked together with other hacker NVA Volunteers on several intelligence operations. Years latter she would be part of the team that developed Project Rotfungus and help win the Northwest Republic's war against Aztlan and America.
The red, white and blue bullish stupidity of Amurrica over something as simple as an internet joke ended up strengthening the efforts of her enemy, and thid was just one case among dozens.


"To talk about the moral or ideological supremacy of one's position just because you beat the crap out of someone who disagrees with you is idiotic. If that was the case, I wouldn't be arguing with you on this interview. I would just have to shoot you to claim I was right."


"Of course not!" Marion quipped. "The final validation of the ideals we fight for will only become evident when our White Nation turns reality and evolves to a prosperous, clean and secure Homeland; while at the same time Amurrica devolves and degenerates more and more into a third-world mongrolized basket case." he edged forward on his seat to convey to Cindy Scott the importance of what he was saying. "You see, this is the real reason your lords and masters in the District of Criminals don't want a White Homeland in the Pacific Northwest: They simply can't afford it and they know it! They know, as well as we do, that once the brown mudslide, the black undertow, the asian horde and the semitic financial doctrine are yanked off the backs of white people we will prosper in a way that hasn't been seen on this planet for almost three centuries. We will become the final proof that what we say is true and that they're full of bullcrap."


Marion raised his hand and stopped her there, "Pardon my English Miss Scott but FATPO doesn't control jack shit in Portland right now. The only factual thing they have accomplished with all their thugs, all their armored vehicles and road blocks is making the locals' life miserable. For months now, hardly a single week has passed without federal bully-boys being put six feet under down there, have you seen the numbers? And do you know that right now the city's morgues are filled to full capacity and FATPO has commandeered private industrial freezers to stock the corpses of all the tax-eaters we made good? Yeah, that will make them stupid can they be? I though even Federal morons had a modicum of brains. How would you feel, Miss Scott, if FATPO demanded use of your fridge to stick a dead nigger in?"

***[To be continued]***

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Re: NAR Fan Fiction

Post by Scienceafictionman »

Friend S:
I like the way you write- and think.
One would think you were a Southerner... :D
- Sciencefictionman

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Re: NAR Fan Fiction

Post by Sebastian »

Scienceafictionman wrote:Friend S:
I like the way you write- and think.
One would think you were a Southerner... :D
- Sciencefictionman
Why, thank you. I've been to Richmond and stayed with family originally from Georgia. Wonderful people living in a beautiful state. The Confederacy artifacts at the museums and the statue of General Lee were a plus.

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Re: NAR Fan Fiction

Post by Sebastian »


Another bit of creativity.

All the missing text entries are paragraphs, or groups of paragraphs that need more work.


9 years after Longview

- A recording studio in Boise, Idaho -

Is the camera on? Alright. Where to begin? I think talking about each cell comrade is a good start.

There were five of us.

There was Jaques Broussard, the biggest walking, talking, living French cliche I've ever seen. A chain-smoking, wine-drinking cultured effete urbanite, he had a bit of trouble with General Order Number Ten at first. He was much relieved when we finally won and everyone could get plastered once again. We had a little private celebration after the birth of the NAR where we got our hands in every bottle of Mediterranean vintage we could find, and slowly drank ourselves into a near coma.
Being an engineer by trade Jaques was good with his hands and quick with his head when it came to fixing things.
After Coeur d'Alene, while we were meeting and planning Jaques was self-training, turning all that wonderful theoretical University knowledge into practical applications, such as rigging cars, opening locks or cutting power lines without being burned to a crisp.

All the killing and burning were not really his style, not until things started getting really rowdy down the road. Then he became vicious, almost Third Section grade material, I'd say. Just ask that Somali community down in Idaho...oh yeah, you can't. They're not there anymore. Guess why?

One look at the guy and you'd never think he was revolutionary material. But, believe me, there was a fierce burning hatred hidden behind those bluish eyes of his. If you mentioned Moslems around Jaques you'd better have an half-an-hour to spare, listening to him ranting about those betes noires, how they where the scourge of civilization and where responsible for bringing his beloved France down to her knees.

He had very personal reasons to think that way, the loss of both his father and business were due to the "youths" that liked to set Paris on fire once in awhile. And while doing the tourist thing in America, trying to ease the pain of the passing of his old man by gazing the natural beauty of the Pacific Northwest, he got jumped by a pack of gang-banging negroes for the money on his wallet and the blackberry on his pocket.
That left him with more than a few broken bones and an hospital bill the size of Nebraska. Add to that the Amurrican government declaring him a criminal even before he ever heard on the NVA, and it's no wonder the nice francophone snapped and ended up throwing his lot with us. I mean, how much can a man take? Besides, there was nothing back in France for him to return to.

For a codename he choose "Comrade Hammer". Martel is an old French word for hammer, if you know enough about really early medieval French history you'll get the reference.

Getting back to dark Moslem "youths", Solvig Finnsdottir wasn't exactly a fan of them either; or any type of gentleman with blacker tones of skin.

Coming from that mud-invaded shitville named Malmo, in Sweden and being the type of woman so easy on the eyes men would damn near run into lightposts as they where walking down the street gaping at her, it was really only a matter of time until the Koran boys back in Malmo got on her wrong side. And they did, boy did they ever!
Solvig left Sweden, and her job as an assistant physical education teacher, because apparently her government valued the lives of turbulent would-be Arab rapists more than native Aryan women.

Besides kicking arse, she also had a talent for acting, even if she'd never pursued it professionally. Solvig managed to con the local community into believing she was a dyke, not that hard a thing to do when you're a 6 foot tall muscular dame. All she did was dress unfeminine, cut her hair short and presto! she got two femme lesbos chasing after her. If ZOG believed you were a dyke that didn't exactly ram you up to the top of their priority suspects list, if you get my meaning. Her position as a janitor at the local school also provided us with some juicy intel, but I'll talk about that latter.

Within the cell Solvig was our muscle and enforcer. On the first tickles our team did it were mine and her hands behind the triggers, or lobbing the molotovs. Other than myself, she was the only one in the cell that had ever fired a gun before. It's true that Comrade Susan came from a pro-gun conservative family where even the girls got a nice .22 rifle on their 13th birthday, but she didn't join us until well after we'd started the festivities and made a name for ourselves.

Solvig was also the sole volunteer in the gang that knew how to crack skulls, hands-on, due to the combination of her two hobbies: martial arts and amateur, non-steroid body building. Me and Jaques had never been in anything more physically martial than child fisticuffs back on school playgrounds, Angelica and Susan not even that much. So comrade Solvig got assigned from day one as our fighting instructor, tutoring everyone in the wonderful ways of Krav Magra.

Oh yes, I shit you not! The dreaded irony, right? Using the kikes' own martial art against them. And what's wrong with that? What can be more revolutionary than using the weapons of enemy against him? Hell, the motto of our cell was the same as the old Mossad one, but we had the sanitary sense of "latinizing" it, at my request of course.

Per Modum Fraudis Facies Belli, or something along that line. Meaning, "By Way Of Deception, Thou Shalt Do War".

Deception and war were our middle names back then. As Longview approached it turned more war-like with deception going a bit out of style. And if you where a member of one of the Flying Columns spreading fear and terror around the countryside the ratio was really, really skewed to warrior's side rather than the liar's.

But boy, my little cell really pulled the wool over the feds' eyes. If you come to my house you'll see a certain federal report that I had framed and hung on the wall, I got from a certain Force that's not worth mentioning when the negotiations at Longview were taking place.

It is an analysis of our operations, in the early days before we hooked up with proper NVA officers and went into the real fold. It surmises with an extrapolation by some dumbass "field expert" on what our numbers and logistics were supposed to be. Turns out those geniuses had overestimated our numbers by a factor of 3 to 5 times. Four volunteers, and latter five, suddenly became "a bare minimum of three cells, two field operational and one support" and our one box of grenades magically morphed into "a possible supply line to treasonous elements within the US Military".

Jesus on a raft! How deluded can a bureaucrat be? Those people where cranking up their own fog-of-war machine and jumping at shadows. I am damn proud of that piece of paper!

But back to our kung-fu moments. We never became black belts, or whatever the equivalent is for the red pedestrian's martial art, but the moves I learned from Solvig got me out of at least two bad situations during the war; she has my eternal gratitude for that. Not that learning it wasn't fun on its own. My favorite part was Krav Magra lacked any of the eastern mysticism, bowing-to-the-sifu bullshit that most martial arts come laden with, which fits right in with the materialistic talmudic nature of the culture that originated it.

Under comrade Solvig we learned how to brawl and survive it, period. The inner and outer mysteries of the cosmos would have to wait for another day. As she told us, Krav Magra espouses a certain mental attitude towards any confrontation. You should assume that your adversary is trying to capture you alive so that he may carry you off to a secluded place and torture you to death. This supposedly helps you loose any reservation about using every ounce of force or any dirty trick until your opponent is neutralized. Whatever renders him harmless, be in pain, coma or death is irrelevant to the fight. As it turns out, this approach was not far from the truth, our adversaries were indeed trying to get us alive, half of the time, so they could stick electrodes on our private parts and Dershowitz needles under our fingernails.

Solvig didn't really have a codename until we first met NVA Volunteers from outside out cell. We just called her Solvig and no outsider knew any better, because she was living in America under a false name. Eventually she went by as "Comrade Sif". Simple and not very original, but hey, if anyone could pull off being Sif it was Solvig daughter of Finn, and what a beautiful daughter she was...

One of the many oddities of our NVA cell was genders being evenly distributed, and later on the ladies outnumbering the lads. And if there was a lady worthy of the title among us it was Angelica Thomas. She was a dual nationality German/American citizen, haling from some tiny German town, which name I never memorized, that existed almost exclusively to serve the needs of a big-ass NATO base nearby. That's where she met her husband, an American GI that was stationed in Germany doing his bit for king and country...or rather for mom, apple pie, the glory of Zion and European welfare socialism.
It's really impressive how many shekels you can waste on state pensions and socialized medicine when someone else foots the bill for your national defense, courtesy of boys and gals from Utah, Georgia, Alabama, Arkansas and 46 other places, right?

To make a very long story just long, the two got hitched over there and when her husband's term of service was over the happy couple came to good'ol Amurrica. Mind you, all this happened in the pre-9/11 days. Angelica's husband was a volunteer from way before the re-institution of the Draft who only saw active duty combat when, like the idiot he was, re-enlisted with a promotion for a tour in Iraq in the mid 2000's when Amurrica was going ax-crazy with Moslem loathing and the neo-cons strode the land like gods; with George Bush Junior for choirboy and Dick Cheney as High Priest and Prophet.

After leaving poor Angelica fretting with her homemaking for a year, Tom came back in one piece and not totally cuckoo on the head, unlike so many other poor bastards. And they got down to the business of trying to raise a family, which sadly, was not to be.

Allow me to speculate a bit. It could well be that the Thomas couple never had any kids because of some congenital defect on either part; some folk are born infertile, granted. But the fact is Mr. Thomas was assigned to an infantry heavy weapons squad back in Iraq. You know, the kind that uses all those high-caliber machine guns vomiting nice depleted uranium rounds.

Yes those, the ones that tend to aerosolize when they blow their targets to shreds and send a nice cloud of nasty stuff floating everywhere. If you don't know what I am talking about go check out Fallujah, the folks there can tell you all about the funny babies that have been spawning there these many years; courtesy of our friend...the atom! in depleted uranium form for portability and convenience.

Look, all I'm saying is that maybe, just maybe, one of them rounds blew up too close to Mr. Thomas' crotch and that's why today you don't have any Thomas Jr. running around. Angelica certainly seemed to think so.

In a way it might be considered a blessing that the Thomas couple never had a child, because that would mean the poor kid would have buried his father before entering high school. Tom was killed by a negro on a botched robbing attempt at a poorly-lit parking lot.
By knife or by bullet? I don't know, Angelica was never forthcoming with details. And by that time neither was the media, with its fanatic zeal of de-racializing every crime report; that's if they even bothered to report the crime at all. Of course if the perp was of pale complexion you'd see his face plastered on tv, paper and computer screens for days.

What I do know is this coal-colored perpetrator was caught but got a limp-wrist short sentence because the murder charge never stuck, don't ask me why. They got him for possession or parole violation or some crap like that.

Uncle Samuel had done a piss-poor job of protecting Tom from feral negritude, as it would again for Angelica some years latter. But it was grateful that Thomas had done his bit to maintain and expand the Empire, and expressed said gratitude with the same old nine yard spiel: a funeral with military honors, shinny white headstone, lone bugler playing Taps, pallbearers in immaculate uniform, gun salute and a 12-times-folded masonic dishrag presented to the grieving widow. [

"Ma'am, on behalf of the President of the United States and the people of a grateful nation, may I present this flag as a token of appreciation...bla, bla, bla, bla, bullshit and bah humbug!"

For Angelica, the veteran's widow pension, meager as it may have been, was worth multiple times the theatrical circus Amurrica set up when she said her final goodbyes to her husband.

But the worst was yet to come.

Between her government checks, savings, a few stocks and her-under-the-table daycare service...she really loved children, you know? Having none, she helped take care of the sons and daughters of parents too busy climbing the corporate ladder of Mammon Inc. to spend time with them. Anyway, comrade Angelica was able to pay off her house mortgage just before 2008, when Americans being tossed out on the streets by home repossessions became such a common sight one could think it was a national tradition. She was able to escape, to a degree, the financial shitstorm that became part and parcel of the country. And in a nick of time too, that got her a short breather. A few years latter ZOG was getting so desperate for cash it finally began cutting services and benefits unashamedly and with gusto, at least as far as white people were concerned.

They picked their targets carefully in the beginning. For instance, weaning the negroes out of the government's tit came in a much more suave and gradual manner. Don't want to have multitudes of feral apes burning down Washington DC, Chicago and Baltimore like they did in '68 when their sanctified dreamer Martin Luther Coon bit a bullet, right?

No, no. The first brutal cuts fell on the defenseless non-violent, and guess what? Dead soldiers make rather easy pickings. I mean, what was old Tom going to do when they slashed Angelica's pension down to nothing? Rise from his grave and head to the Department of Veterans Affairs to ask for a redress of grievances because they had thrown his widow overboard?
Even so, she had enough cash to maintain herself for a few years. It was not avarice that made Angelica join the NVA but a couple of visits by the same African hominid that had "done her husband good".

That fine, upstanding citizen had been released from jail, early release of course; he recalled a certain widow being present at his trial and wanted to make sure she got her comeuppance. So this animal does a little nightly home invasion, scares the living daylights out of Angelica and gives her a few bruises for good measure. God only knows what would have happened if it wasn't for a good samaritan out for a walk with his pooch within hearing distance of all the shouting and screaming. This man, who was a rare example of a White with a pair of balls, scared off the negro and stayed with her until the paramedics arrived. He never became a NVA volunteer but was one of our top collaborators in the area, years latter.

You can almost guess the rest of the story. The coon laid low for a few weeks then decided to repeat his visit. But by then, Angelica had gone to a certain nearly-forgotten box in the attic and taken out an old .32 revolver. I think it had been a gift or inheritance from her father-in-law, I'm not sure.
So right as rain in April, negro comes back for another visit one night...negro gets ventilated with five .32 H&R Magnum-sized holes. And Angelica realizes she just did a very, very silly thing.

You see, this happened about two months after Coeur d'Alene and by then self defense against shitskins was damn near a death sentence if you're a white person. As the negro was making a mess on the carpet, holes still smoking an'all, she's racking her brains thinking on what the hell to do. The TV was on and Lo and Behold! Some NVA dudes did something somewhere. Cue the media blabbering and showing stock footage from Coeur d'Alene: white men with guns, dead US Marshals and NAR Tricolors everywhere. That's when Angelica remembered a certain business card that some Party member had given her years back, now forgotten in a drawer somewhere.


It was damned kafkaesque. You don't know what surreal means until you go to a nice suburban house to meet German widow you've never seen that is standing over the bloody carcass of a dead nigger. I'd never seen a dead body before...ok, there was this retarded cousin of mine that died when I was really young and I remember seeing his paper-white face as he lay on the open casket. But the undertaker had done his job and he seemed to be sleeping. That was so long ago, I don't think my childhood self even understood the concept of death.

This was different. This was a freshly-dead nigger laying on a dinning room. Believe me, it was more that sufficient to make you loose your appetite...or your lunch. And it got grislier. Disposing of those remains was officially our cell's first field operation. That's where my experience working on a hog farm back in New Hampshire turned useful. Pig or hominid, meat is meat and a cleaver is a cleaver. And it's nasty, nasty work.

Then there was the trip to the middle of nowhere where we got dig a hole and end that nasty business. It was a car ride of nightly terror. I was scared almost to the end of my wits that we'd be stopped by a state trooper for some minor bullcrap, or whatever fancied his greedy mind.

"No officer we do not consent to searches, nothing to declare, no booze, drugs or guns. Just a dead negro hacked in 8 parts in plastic bags." Jesus! What a night...

But it all turned out well in the end. Apparently no one noticed or reported the missing negro, and if anyone happened to listen to Angelica ventilating him, all lips remained sealed. Angelica loved us forevermore after that, and paid us ten times over with her Oath and unreserved support. German-born and brainwashed to vomit automatically on sight of National Socialists, nevertheless her experience changed her mind. If the Tricolor Nat-zees could save her life then maybe a swastika here and there wasn't a sin. By the by, none of us was actually of the Nationalsozialisten persuasion. I'll get to that later.

So Angelica became our Quartermaster and Treasurer, which is a fancy way of saying she was the only one with a real house and any money. Susan was an underage runaway from home, Solvig was living in some Section 8 flea box and making a pauper's pay as a janitor, Jaques was a destitute tourist on the run from the US BCIS with frozen bank accounts and long-overdrawn credit cards, and me, I was an "illegal alien undocumented worker". Which means that ZOG thought I was a fucking extraterrestrial robot from Mars that needed to be fed printed paper to do even the simplest menial labor.

As the War of Independence progressed Angelica finally felt that rather than camouflaging her Germanic heritage, she should celebrate it. So when the feds lost de facto control over her town and the Northwest Tricolor was flying high and proud over the post office, city hall and private residences she changed back to her maiden name of Angelika Bachmeier. In my humble opinion, it sounds a lot better than Angelica Thomas.

As for her codename, a group brainstorming session came up with "Comrade Frau Blücher", Yes, that one! Young Frankenstein with horses whinny when you mention her name. Laughter staves off the fear of death, or something like that.


Last, but not least on this band of brothers and sisters there was me, Mario Verissimo. Actually my full name is Mario Dinis Cavaco Verissimo. Yes, we got big-ass names back in Iberia, some people have as many as five or six, which is a real nuisance when you have to fill in the "insert your full name here" line on paperwork.
I Americanized my name...or should I say "Amurricanized"? Anyway, I changed it because I saw no need to have my Anglo comrades twist their tongues over obscure Latin vowel sounds. So now you can call me Marion Dynes Truly, it's a good equivalent. I did away with "Cavaco" as it means "little guitar" and that's just silly.

And yes, it was me in that interview for KING 5 TV ten years ago, that joke never gets old. It was part of Operation Airhead, a Threesec gig where a bunch of ZOG media pundits considered properly conditioned, in the Pavlovian sense, to guarantee acceptably low levels of bias where selected for the "privilege" of face-to-face interviews with NVA volunteers. We used the Zionist media machine to air our own views en masse for free. The icing on the cake was that each reporter believed he or she was the only one being granted an audience with the big, bad, racist, nat-zee whithey supremacists that were running around and wrecking havoc on the Northwest. Smelling the media awards that such exclusive access to us would bring from a mile away, they jumped on the bandwagon as flies to shit.



In the NVA we always knew that if there was going to be a point of contention after our victory and the establishment of the Republic, it would be religion.
No offense meant to my theist comrades, but from my perspective people tend to go a little crazy about their imaginary friends. With all the saber-rattling Amurrican El Presidente Hunter Wallace is doing these days, with his goddamned "One Nation Indivisible" bullshit, theological concerns in the NAR take a back seat to national unity; which is as it should be. But the Deities where part of the parcel since even before day one of the revolution.

As far as religion goes our cell was rather non-pious, at least in the beginning. War and stress can help make persons more religious than they'd ever think possible, believe me. I witnessed several full-blown conversions to a variety of faiths during my time with the NVA, and a couple of relapses too.

Jaques was pretty much an agnostic with Catholic sensitivities, which meant he thought very ill of sending priests, specially Catholic ones, on their way to meet Jesus and helped old nuns to cross the street. He knew next to nothing about dogma and doctrine and could only tell apart Catholic and Orthodox priests or Protestant ministers by the way they dressed. As a good child of the French Revolution he saw any mixing of religion and politics (i.e. the Vatican) the same way a lactose intolerant man sees a pound of aged cheese, with unreserved disgust.

Susan was, I believe, an oddity. But I really couldn't tell because I had zero experience with Mormons until then. Back home in Europe you either were a Bom Catolico or you didn't give a flying fig about it. For me, since childhood Christianity meant there was this Pope clad in the purple of the Cesars, an old fart surrounded by a group of old farts, and what they said, goes! Simple. Protestants didn't care about the Pope because either a fat king or a Germanic scholar had a disagreement with him and all this Lucrezia Borgia-esque degeneracy that was taking place at the Vatican back then; they also weren't quite so big on the Virgin Mary...and believe me, no one loves the Santissima Virgem more than us Iberians, specially the Spaniards. They go positively nuts for her; I've been to Barcelona during Easter so I know what I'm talking about.
The Orthodox were like us, except they lived far in the East, had a Patriarch instead of a Pope, dressed in even funnier costumes, spoke Greek and liked religious pictures with no sense of tri-dimensional perspective. Mormons didn't even fit the equation.


Solvig was your typical disinterested European hoovering between agnosticism and atheism. But being assaulted by members of the "Religion of Peace" she discovered that while you may not give a damn about religion, religion sure gives a damn about you. She got more spiritual as the war went on but never went full-blown Odinist, I've meet her at a couple of festivals these past years, but like me she's there mostly for the food, drink, socializing and because viking helmets are cool.

After comrade Susan joined us and her Mormonism became more and more obvious, Solvig took to saying a prayer here and there to see if her sea-faring warrior ancestors could put in a good word with whatever big guy, or gal might be up there running the Fates of the universe.

You know, there's something about seeing a young woman get down on her knees asking Jesus and Moroni for protective guidance before we went out on a tickle; while besides her a giant blonde of a woman rasps a viking stanza in Swedish: "Lo, there do I see my father. Lo, there do I see my mother." that kind of thing. It gives even a jaded, cynic atheist like me an odd feeling at the base of the spine.

I used to tell this joke that while ZOG only had materialistic Mammon on its side, we had Christos, Thunor, the Triple Goddess and Virgin Mary on ours while the Zeus/Jupiter gang back on Olympus were coming out of age-old slumber and wondering what the heck their rowdy children where going on about. So there was no fucking way we could loose with a legion of Divinities betting on us.

I guess, in all honesty, I can't deny some spiritual awakening of my own, of the non-religious kind. Like Solvig, I too regressed a bit to my roots, or whatever melange passes for them. Romano-Greek culture, a tidbit of hairy, rowdy, Iberocelt stubbornness dashed with a dose of late-medieval Reconquista warrior spirit. And no, I don't mean freakin' Aztlan! Those people aren't Latins or Hispanics, they're Chicanos, half-bred South american Injuns with a galon-dose of African negro blood scattered around. Their Spanish is not the one spoken in Madrid and their Brazilian isn't the Portuguese you hear in Lisbon.

The very concept of "Latin" and "Hispanic" predate the discovery of the Americas by centuries, and I mean that counting back from the 10th Century and not 1492, when that Genovese sailor boldly went where the Vikings had gone several times before. Heck, there's even some evidence we Portucalenses had beat him to it too, before he convinced Queen Isabella of Spain that crossing the Atlantic was a sure-fire way to reach India. But even back then states had their secrets and this is a long story better left for another time. My point is; the Reconquista, the true Reconquista was never about brownskins crossing the Rio Grande and breeding like cockroaches until the American Southwest started to look like something out of Colombia or Chile. It was about white descendants of Visigoths and Francs with a few Cymri and Saxons thrown in for crusading giggles, fun and profit, going down the Iberian peninsula chopping every Moslem head they could find to finish the job Charles Martel had started back in 721 on the Battle of Tours.

And after the Moors scattered back to North Africa the boys sailed in pursuit to take the war into their lands. Eventually there was all that west coast Africa exploration business which led to unleashing the negro plague on both Americas. My ancestors were the very first to wet their toes on the renaissance black slave business. Considering where it led to, I can only say how much I lament it, to all Northmen and all whites back in Amurrica.
For those that believe in some sort of cultural karmic debt I say I pretty much settled my ancestors', with an extra free for late payment, during my time with the NVA.


Pardon the extended history lesson. As I was saying, my racial-cultural atavism manifested in several ways, some planned, some not. There was this one beautiful moment...back in Portland, when we taking iron and fire to the city to make them pay for Jesse "Cat-Eyes" Lockhart's death and the desecration of his body; he was my idol, because I did my fair share of snipping. Yes, as you can see I wear glasses and have been slightly less blind than a bat since I was 7 years old, but modern optics do miracles. And you really don't need eagle eyes to hit an unaware fat sheboon or mestizo at 200 yards.

So anyway, here we are in Portland on the night we painted the town red. My team had just finished raining down bullets and bombs on a FATPO vehicle column trying to get the hell out dodge and back behind the safety of their Bremer walls. Blown APCs all about, fire everywhere, dead fatties strewn around. Someone should have been there to take a picture before we E&E'd. I just know my frame was outlined by those roaring fires, my long jacket flapping as I held my trusty Mossberg ATR 100 chambered for 30-06. I felt something welling up within me and knew I couldn't just...leave; without thinking I lifted my rifle into the air, in a pale imitation of Zack Hatfield at Sunset Beach, no doubt, and the words care pouring off my mouth, screaming into the flaming night:

"Aqui D'El Rei por Portugal 'Aquém e d'Além-Mar!"

Here of the King, for Portugal over here and beyond-sea. Yes, I know it makes little sense. Typical early-renaissance mumbo-jumbo. I guess you have to born be unto the culture to understand. Sometimes even I don't understand it. My ancestors had their own little version of Manifest Destiny which they called "The Fifth Empire" and that line is part of it. I don't know why I said it. After all, I wasn't fighting for the King of Portugal and Algarve and beyond-sea Africa, Lord of Guinea and Conquest, Navigation and Commerce with Ethiopia, Araby, Persia and India, etc.

No, I was fighting for the Northwest American Republic. My skin was my uniform and my Race was my Nation. I lived and fought for the 14 words and I'd die for the 14 words if need be.


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Location: Iberia, Europe

Re: NAR Fan Fiction

Post by Sebastian »


I was inspired tonight. Here's another tidbit.

I don't know if anyone is really reading all this, but what the heck. :)


We were all Europeans.

The Past...

Our teachers
had taught us
we were
not Norse
nor Scandinavian
nor Slavic
nor Celtic
nor Saxon
nor Latin
nor Germanic.

We were all Europeans
that was all we were.

They said our flag
was not tricolor
had no crosses
no shield
no blazon
but only
the ring of stars
on the blue field.

Because we were all Europeans
and that was the flag of Europe.

We knew,
our Kings
were not our Kings
our Presidents
were not our Presidents
and we
should worship
and Maastricht.

Because we where all Europeans
and that's were the Masters of Europe lived.

Our Masters said
the Superstate
was our last
our best
our only chance
because otherwise
we would all die
in a third great war.

Because we were all Europeans
and war was what
Europeans always did.

We were told that
the Muslim
the Turk
the Sub-Saharan African
the Middle Easterner
the Urdu
the Rom
and the Han
coming into our lands
were our brothers
and our sisters
and our equals
and we should
welcome them
with open arms.

Because we were all Europeans
and so where they.

We were trained
to tolerate
the raping of our daughters
the loss of our jobs
the burning of our cities
the murder of our folk
the desecration of our cross
and the shaming of our culture.

Because we were all Europeans
and Europeans where intolerant
and should tolerate the intolerable.

We where told
to accept all this
laying down
grin on our face
by the articles on the newspapers
by the voices on our televisions
by the waging fingers of our peers
by the mandates of our masters
and by the gavel of our judges.

Because we were all Europeans
and that was what good Europeans did.

To us it was told
this was
the one way
the only way
the terrorists would win
Europe would fall apart
and we would be
just a bunch
of damn Nazis.

Because all the damn Nazis had been Europeans
and we were all damned Europeans.

And we were told
was the source
of all evil
and many of us
believed in it.

Because we were all Europeans
and Europeans didn't know about Amurrica.

The Future...

One night
in the streets
of Malmo
I was attacked
by three dark men.

Because I was an European
and they had chosen
not to become European.

A damn Nazi
came to my aid
and in the end
two of those men
were dead.

Because I was an European
and so was my rescuer
and Europeans helped each other.

I then left Sweden
without looking back.

Because I was an European
and Europe had turned her back on me.

there were four of us
all strangers
in a strange land
all children
coming home.

Because we were all European.

We spoke
with strange accents
with English
a second language.

Because we were all European.

We were
in the Land of the Free
where people were in bondage
in the Home of the Brave
where people cowered in their homes.

We were all European
and noticed this
it reminded us of Europe.

We were
in the country
our cousins had built
but everywhere
there were Indians
there were Africans
telling us to get out.

Because we were all Europeans
and that was all we were
and all we would ever be
or so they said.

A great war started
and we joined
and took sides.

Because we were all European
and Europeans did what was right.

And the fighting
and the fire
raged on
and our enemy
was great
and powerfull
and our will
and we didn't
knew why.

Because we were still Europeans
but were becoming something else.

Then one day
the fighting ceased
and we were
in another nation.

And we were no longer Europeans
because we had become something else.

The Present...

Now a tricolor flag
flies high
and our spirits
are free from fear.

Because we are all Northmen
and that is all we ever wanted to be.

"Mitt Hemland" a non-rhyming poem by Solvig Finnsdottir - recited on the 1st Anniversary of Longview

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Re: NAR Fan Fiction

Post by Nagyinc »

That was a great read. Thanks for posting it.

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Re: NAR Fan Fiction

Post by Sebastian »

Nagyinc wrote:That was a great read. Thanks for posting it.
Cheers. :D I guess I should haul arse and post some more.

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Re: NAR Fan Fiction

Post by Jesse »

Nagyinc wrote:That was a great read. Thanks for posting it.
I agree, keep up the good work.
The truth does not fear investigation.
David Lane, 88 Precepts # 12

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Re: NAR Fan Fiction

Post by HAC »

I'm fine with anyone who wants to add to the Northwest Mythos, so to speak, although I do ask that you try to stay consistent with the five original novels.

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