acting neighborly

ACTING NEIGHBORLY


Hmmmm. It seems that my absinth article didn’t go down too smoothly. I’m afraid that you all place way too faith in your neighbors. I’m going to pretend that every one of you is a new minion and never read my “ass hat neighbors” article. The one about the scrot sucking whores that dropped a dime on me because I had a non compliant gray water homemade septic. The same anal spelunking illegitimately conceived mouth breathers that allow their dogs to try to use my ankle as a snack. Those neighbors? Yes, I have really friendly neighbors. I also have, intermixed with them, worthless sacks of fat masquerading as humans. Those are the ones who will call Homeland Security and report I appear too well nourished during the coming rationing. They will be the ones that are totally convinced, as they go to church on Sunday morning, about how great and moral they are as they inform the jack booted thugs that I’m armed. We all click our tongues over micro-regulations and snooping bureaucrats, at the same time we complain about our non-regulation next door neighbor. Grandpa puffs out his chest and proclaims he is a super patriot that saved democracy from those evil Nazi’s, then he phones the housing development manager and complains the condo next door has an off shade of brown that is clashing with the others, and by gum how is he supposed to keep his property values up?

*

American wealth and empire was built on resource depletion and surplus energy, and now that the wealth is contracting, neighbors will become more vicious as they try to keep their wealth. Your neighbor assuredly will not give you a big hug and some sweet tongue action if it means his money is in danger. There is no such thing as fair or kind when they are getting poorer. Sure, when people were always poor, you pool together and help each other. But not when going from rich to poor. And who are the first victims of criminals? Their neighbors, because the lazy pukes are going to pick the low hanging fruit first. Does your busybody neighbor spy on you, or a neighbor blocks away? Does a neighbor narc on you to the regulators, or someone blocks away? My goodness, pull your pampered head out of your butt. People will use you as a victim if they need one. How many episodes of Leave It To Beaver did you ingest as a bed wetter?

*

Which brings us to surviving the economic non-collapse. Yes, we are almost forced to act as business as usual, because either the collapse never gets here or we are unaware of its arrival time. Obviously. Which makes the situation that much more intolerable. To earn a living now, we are forced to stay in a vulnerable position. It’s bad enough that you must suck it up and go to the gerbil wheel in the cubical every weekday. All because the only other choice is being homeless or being moneyless and divorced. Each alternative bites farm animal member. It is the lesser of evils. But to also be aware of impending doom, and be able to do little about it, because all the freeze dried yak ass and AR ammo in the world will do you little good when the neighbors turn against you. Right now, they are timid little ferrets, afraid of their own huge ballooned shadow. They need Johnny Law to do their dirty work for them. Come any prolonged supply disruption, with the wife screaming in their ear about how her size Super Xtra Large ass is shrinking without her daily ho-ho’s, they will man up, grow some balls and kindly “ask” the neighbor for help. Try refusing. Neighbors will only band together if there is an outside source of plunder. They will fight each other if there is none. You can’t invent food with kindness, fair play, morality or cooperation. In every famine in history there is cannibalism, yet you want to tell me how kind everyone treats each other?

*

And, yes, I understand that getting laid would improve my disposition tremendously. I would still panic, but I wouldn’t try to worry you all so much. Sure, prostitution here is legal. It is also very costly. And most of the bitches are ugly. It ain’t like the HBO version of ho’s. These ho’s be homely. So, I’d be screwing an ugly bitch, I’d have to wear a condom which is almost like humping an erasure, and I’d pay $300 for the privilege? Home Slice certainly thinks not. I’d rather become more and more bitter, disillusioned and shrill. Hey, I understand I’m not helping anyone out here, making you feel snug. I tell you to prep cheaply, then tell you your odds still suck at surviving. Excuse the crap out of me. Reality bites. I wish I could tell you your odds of continuing to live in luxury and decadence are really good. I could be selling you the dream. Or, I could do as I’m doing and yell at you to get realistic and actually improve your odds because you can see much clearer with your head pulled out of your ass. People are sweet and loving and helpful. Until they start getting hungry. And Americans are not only lazy, selfish and have a feeling of entitlement, they are mostly armed. Your neighbors ain’t Mr. Friggin Rogers.

*

They are indoctrinated into the ever easier, ever wealthier life and if it isn’t delivered we will revolt like Rome when it couldn’t bride the masses with bread anymore. Thinking human nature will change and the politicians will save us, or that starving neighbors, if armed and think we have food, will leave us alone, is squinting through the looking glass. Perhaps nine out of ten neighbors are saints. The other ten percent will be a threat. And the odds really are worse than that. 99.99% of Americans have SUV’s and big screen TV’s. They will wish help from the .01% that used those funds to prepare. And they will get it. Even if the neighbors stick with you, the one on the edge will be invaded and assimilated by crowds and they crowd will move towards you. Your neighboring home might get a new “renter” and they won’t be as friendly. Any way you look at it, only total seclusion will be better odds.

END
The Official Bison Web Site http://www.bisonpress.com/

*
My e-mail is jimd303@netzero.com
*
Anyone can submit a guest article. No minimum word length, no writing skill necessary ( just get the idea across ). You retain copyright ( this must be your original writing ) and I’ll just use the once. I’ve yet to turn down an article, just don’t use the N Bomb or libel another that can sue me. Send by e-mail ( please, label as “guest article” so I can find it easily later ). Payment will be your removal from my enemies list.
*
By the by, all my writing is copyrighted. For the obtuse out there.
*
Please support Bison by buying through the Amazon links in each article. You can purchase anything, not just the linked item. Enter Amazon through my item link and then go to whatever other item you desire. As long as you don’t leave Amazon until after the order is placed, I get credit for your purchase. Thank you.

overwhelming preps

OVERWHELMING PREPS

I just got "As Wind In Dry Grass" and read a few pages.  Wow!  The style is very engaging, grabs you right away.  I'll have a review early next week.  Last days before the fed gov is suppossed to pass a debt increase.  Yawn.  Who cares?  But I'm wondering- orchastrated to delay all entitlement payments/military checks a month or two?  Are they that desperate?  Good stuff.  I hope you seniors have that extra case of dog food cans set aside.
*
About once a week or at least once a fortnight, a disgusting scene unfolds where a eternally grateful yuppie gushes that Rawles saved their life by introducing them to the prepper lifestyle. Okay, honestly I’m glad that one less Yuppie Puke is going to be trying to stuff me in the stewpot as they camp out of the back of their stranded SUV on the edge of suburbia. And, sure, I’m a bit jealous because my minions always say things like “you ignorant slut” or “thanks for entertaining me while I waited for next payday so I could buy more AR mags”, but rarely do I get a “you are my favoritist in the whole wide world and I worship you as a false idol” and I never, ever get a “I’m a bosomy wench and wish to have your baby”. I’ll bet Rawles gets naked pictures of devote Christian wenches ( they are only wearing a crucifix ) all the time, damn his eyes. And they probably are in really good shape from singing hymns really enthusiastically whereas I’m only asking for a fat chick that sits around and eats ho-ho’s ( remember the ho-ho thing we had going in the comments section years ago? ). And, in case you are humor impaired, that was a joke. Devote religious types only fornicate under Papal guidelines and I’m sure there is no nudity involved. In pictures or in the bedroom. Anyway, as joyous as it is to have yet another ignorant bastard finally waking up and realizing that all is not well and perhaps we should all be panicking, the issue I wish to address today is their common complaint of being overwhelmed by the task at hand. This is were I hitch up my red super hero underwear over my tights, adjust my bike helmet to avoid forthcoming injury as I have a seizure, and proclaim that I am here to save the day!

*

Forward this to every Pollyanna Puke on your mailing list. No need to be overwhelmed by the need for a twenty acre retreat, concrete bunkers, five plastic carbines or a semi load of freeze dried foods. And, no need to move your lips as you try to read yet another book on the subject. The problem is simple. Assume the worse, then do the absolute minimum to ensure you live, and every payday thereafter you aren’t dead, prep better than you already have. I’ll assume you are a middle class zombie just waking up. No firearms, debt out the kazoo. No idea the Federal Reserve Bank has doomed us all. No idea how to get out of debt equaling your wages for a decade. Go down to Wal-Mart ( or wherever ). Buy a single shot break open twelve gauge ( and a box of shells with something larger than birdshot ). You want a novice friendly firearm that is affordable. You have to be unable to hold a job to NOT understand this firearm, so that naturally breeds out the dangerous idiots. Do not over buy your first firearm. You can do that later as you learn more. Here’s your firearm safety class- always assume it is loaded and never point it unless you are planning on shooting someone. Buy a fifty pound sack of flour for each person in the family. If you can’t cook, I’m sure you can master pancakes, so buy some baking powder. Buy a case of beans per person. For $20 each, everyone eats for a month. You can add better food, and more of it, later.

*

To cook, if there is enough brush and wood around, dig a Dakota Hole ( one hole down a foot or so, the other joining that at the bottom at an angle like such ( I / ). If you must, buy a $15 single burner propane stove. Each $3 disposable fuel canister will cook around six to eight hours roughly. If you have no other way of filtering/purifying water, buy a gallon of unscented bleach. Fifteen drops per gallon, and allow to sit open overnight to evaporate some of that out. Don’t drink it forever, but short term it will be fine. Look up on the Interweb, there are plenty of ways of making water safe. To stay warm, a space blanket. To stay dry, a tarp. To see, a few dollar store LED flashlights and some batteries ( yes, dumbass, rotate them ). This will keep to alive for a month. Each $8 after that will buy another months worth of starvation level calories in wheat kernels ( buy a grain grinder first, then the wheat ). After that, it will never end. Alternate energy, alternate shelter, better food, better firearms, getting out of debt, etc. But start with your basics and then work towards better and more. No need to panic over not having that bunker. No need to be overwhelmed. This way, you feel safer immediately.

*

On another topic, I must profusely thank the beautiful minion who bought a 180 watt mono solar panel and huge inverter. Almost a grand extra credited to my 7% commission fee. So instead of my normal $200 a month, I’ll get closer to $300. Thanks! I’d offer to have your baby, but I think I’ve reached menopause ( I can have your food baby if you’d like ). Next up, does anyone have time to research something for me? I’d like to find out my blog site stats on visitors. I’m showing the 1200 to 1300 page impressions per day, but I wonder if that is the same as unique visitors? I tried a Google search and only found the page impressions reported.

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Nothing to do with survival, preps, militia porn or anything else, but I simply must report a very good book put out by a loyal minion. The Road To Roma by Dave Kukne. It is one novella and several short stories. Just really, really good reading. I normally don’t like short fiction outside of Stephen King, but these were so good I’m still thinking them over days later ( usually I promptly forget a normal fiction story ). I highly recommend the book.

END
The Official Bison Web Site http://www.bisonpress.com/

*
My e-mail is jimd303@netzero.com
*
Anyone can submit a guest article. No minimum word length, no writing skill necessary ( just get the idea across ). You retain copyright ( this must be your original writing ) and I’ll just use the once. I’ve yet to turn down an article, just don’t use the N Bomb or libel another that can sue me. Send by e-mail ( please, label as “guest article” so I can find it easily later ). Payment will be your removal from my enemies list.
*
By the by, all my writing is copyrighted. For the obtuse out there.
*
Please support Bison by buying through the Amazon links in each article. You can purchase anything, not just the linked item. Enter Amazon through my item link and then go to whatever other item you desire. As long as you don’t leave Amazon until after the order is placed, I get credit for your purchase. Thank you.

peak economics

PEAK ECONOMICS


I don’t think I’ve irritated everyone with Peak Oil blathering for a week or two, so here goes. I know a lot of you dismiss Peak Oil. Oh, we’ll have North Dakota shale oil, oh, we’ll have bio-diesel, etc. I don’t necessarily care that you disagree with me, and in fact I’ve been known, on special occasions such as my birthday or a day ending in “Y”, to play the devils advocate just to amuse myself and piss people off. My father is quite proud, as I’m carrying on the Blarney Gene of the Dakin clan, last manifested in his father who, as a bartender, could convincingly argue both sides of every issue with ease and style. I do believe that you are already being affected by the oil issue and to hope for a far off fix will endanger your life. I don’t argue about this to prove myself right but to try to share my sense of danger. Today I’d like to talk about total delivered energy. And why, since it is down, this means the economic depression is both here to stay and guaranteed to get worse. If you knew we would see an economic depression so bad Argentine would feel bad for us, prior to the die-off, would you be doing anything different right now?

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When the Oil Age started to transform our economy in earnest, say for the sake of argument around 1930, an oil well could return as much as 200 to 1 in energy invested. The norm was about 100. Today, the norm for conventional oil is closer to thirty, and a large majority of all other energy is far worse. Deep water wells can be as bad as 10 to 1. Tar sands are around five to one, ethanol is around one and a half to one. Now add in population growth, parasitic government and monopolies, and chocking complexity to the decrease in energy yield. All in all, the extra oil and oil equivalents being produced are yielding less in real energy terms on a per capita basis, even in first world nations, and we have already entered negative economic growth. As has been Dead Horse Beat, a shrinking energy supply is the death of our banking system ( which IS the economy, outside of resources ). So, yes, that 20% decline in petroleum use we’ve seen since 2005/6 does mean the economy won’t recover. BUT. It is far worse than that, if that is possible. Our energy return keeps getting worse, so you don’t just see a 20% decline but an additional decline of whatever the BTU decrease was. As I’ve said of coal, we’ve been at BTU Peak for ten years. How can coal save us if its energy return has already started to decline? If a good portion of our electricity is coal powered, and the coal being burned delivers less BTU’s, do you see how this effects the grid?

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Take ethanol as a fuel. Around 10% BTU decline compared to oil. If it is 10% of our gasoline supply, you are getting a total of a one percent decrease in available liquid fuel. Add in that to the percent of import decline we see every year which is about five to seven percent. That is worse than the 1970’s OPEC oil shock in terms of energy availability. And look at the economic ramifications of that. Our economic growth has always been based on an increase of energy availability. We are already in decrease, and have been for years. Economically, things have no direction to go but down. Which means that every year that passes, your options as far as taking action to protect yourself decrease. So, really, what is the point in paying off a house which will be surrounded by more blight and crime every year? Why are you staying at a corporation if they will soon be bankrupt? Why pay for a car for seven years when its fuel will be unaffordable in three years?

*

Yes, in the end a few of your decisions might look foolish. You might be a few years too early, should you panic now, cash out your 401k, and grow organic asparagus atop a concrete bunker. But the trend will continue. Can you afford to be wrong on your timing by sticking it out indefinitely? You can always pour money into the junk land and make it closer to a real home. But there is nothing you can do to a conventional home to make that mortgage go away as your hours are cut at work, a job in a soon to be outsourced or dinosaured industry. All I’m doing here is pointed out the historical trend, and asking the obvious. Why would the trend reverse?

*

Veering off topic wildly, as I’m sputtering out on the above topic and need to fill today’s quota, a word on the US currency. Whenever I hear a college educated idiot or a parrot in the media make some kind of retching noise that sounds something like “the dollar is still the worlds currency, the safe haven for value”, but which is really only the sound one hears when a bloody brain is forcibly pulled out of ones anal orifice, I have to restrain my blood pressure. Every single currency in the world is a big pile of feces which holds no value whatsoever. All the remaining oil, even using generous estimates, and all the gold above ground, combined, don’t equal much more than the official US debt. Real wealth, in the form of precious metal and energy, can’t even match the global economy for one year. Because there is more paper and computer money in creation than there is real wealth to back it up. The only reason foreigners pinch their nose shut and accept dollars is because we control a military than safe guards the oil transportation infrastructure which keeps everyone warm in winter and eating year round. Otherwise, a million dollars isn’t worth the sweat on the underside of my testicles. All currencies are Monopoly money, in a race to the bottom ( as one financial wit has put it- although I like my man junk perspiration description better ). And what are the three things which allow our military to play policeman? Oil, surplus food and control of credit markets. The oil supply shrinks, the food supply ( widespread hunger and our military couldn’t control squat ) globally is in more danger every year from weather, and our credit market ( which allows fuel and food to flow ) is about one act away from meltdown ( perhaps when PIIGS fly- I think that one was from Kunstler ).

END
The Official Bison Web Site http://www.bisonpress.com/

*
My e-mail is jimd303@netzero.com
*
Anyone can submit a guest article. No minimum word length, no writing skill necessary ( just get the idea across ). You retain copyright ( this must be your original writing ) and I’ll just use the once. I’ve yet to turn down an article, just don’t use the N Bomb or libel another that can sue me. Send by e-mail ( please, label as “guest article” so I can find it easily later ). Payment will be your removal from my enemies list.
*
By the by, all my writing is copyrighted. For the obtuse out there.
*
Please support Bison by buying through the Amazon links in each article. You can purchase anything, not just the linked item. Enter Amazon through my item link and then go to whatever other item you desire. As long as you don’t leave Amazon until after the order is placed, I get credit for your purchase. Thank you.

second glass of absinthe

SECOND GLASS OF ABSINTHE


A second glass of absinthe will make the drinker “see things as they really are, and that is the most horrible thing in the world”. A warning from Oscar Wilde. Oh, how we all avoid reality. In the case of absinthe, a potent liqueur made from woodworm, who wants to visit RealityLand when you are drinking to dull the frightening things around you? It ALMOST makes you glad the government has your best interests at heart and makes everything that could heighten your senses illegal. LSD, absinthe. Bless them for caring. Keep contently grazing at the edge of the cliff, nothing to see here, move along. Above all, do not panic.

*

You know who else doesn’t panic? Survivalists. Those thirty thousand folks over at Rawles? They aren’t worried, they have twenty years to pay off their retreat, stock up on freeze dried foods and buy plenty of plastic carbines. Those eight thousand over at Creekmores? No panic there. The one article I submitted there was met with primal screams of disgust and anger and very hostile reactions. Not against my saving them $20-$30 by not buying a French press to make campfire coffee, the ungrateful turds, but because I very casually mentioned Peak Oil in relation to future increased fuel costs ( I also tried to save them on energy costs, the unappreciative scumbags ). Peak Oil!?! Surely you are simply mad! Peak. Oil. What a strange and uncivilized concept. Okay, I get being skeptical five years ago when I first started writing about it ( five years after the experts started seriously talking about it ). But since then…?

*

Since then, all the fuss made five years ago has been made to seem mild and lame. No one had any idea how bad it could be back then, still assuming magic bullets or quality leadership guiding us through the devolution. Today, not only is the oil running out faster, proven in rear view facts and figures, but all magic bullets still remain mere theory, and our leadership has actually gotten worse ( who could have guessed after Bush lowered the bar so low? ). Reading six and seven year old books on Peak Oil, the alarmists really look like Pollyanna’s now. They weren’t actually panicking, but selling us just the one glass of absinthe. My beautiful, wonderful minions? Not panicking that much. I can’t even get the 3% to panic ( the 3% being the total number of survivalists out there that stick around and listen- they won’t do anything, but at least they listen ). I can get them better prepared, teaching frugal ways, but they refuse to panic to the point of safety. Me? I don’t panic enough either, so I certainly can’t blame any of my readers. None of us will willingly drink the second glass. Mohave Rat, bless his old scaly hide, senses my impending descent into madness and roots for me to resist. But until, or if, I drink, I can’t go mad. I’ve built a barrier against reality as surely as a Rawles Ranger. Sad, but true.

*

We all willingly drink the grape Kool-Aid of reality avoidance, even if it kills us. But a magnifier of reality is reserved for the few mad fools living on the fringe. This is how a die-off happens: we all go about our normal lives, even those who see storm clouds and marginally prepare, and once 99% die off from an interruption or complete withdrawal of resources, the “lucky” few, not necessarily those that prepared, emerge to repopulate. You might think it crazy, but my view is that the human race has a built in mega-catastrophe survival trait. All the strange, abnormal, unacceptable mental states the weird people possess are traits that could help them survive. The mad desert rat who shuns all people and only comes to town once a year? A safe sperm bank, from a species survival point of view. The normal survival trait of the species is to kill the other tribe, steal their resources, and live and repopulate. You really think Afghanistan and Iraq are just bad policy decisions? Supporting the military-industrial complex? Bribing the bankers with more interest payments? Those are secondary results. Essentially, our tribe is stealing food to survive. Every thing else is Grape Kool-Aid.

*

Do you really think I’m going mad? Do you really think I’m so frightened, paranoid and realistic? I avoid the cold hard truth just like the rest of you. The only difference is that I occasionally dream about drinking the second glass of absinthe. That is all, just a hazy, far off, indistinguishable glimmer of what might be. The crazy rat bastard that constantly looks over his shoulder, shuffling in the shadows, afraid to talk to anyone, afraid to show ID to get a free meal so he eats out of dumpsters, that is the guy most in touch with reality. Because he knows they are out to get him. And he won’t allow that. Me? I’ve got five neighbors within a half mile, and another five within the mile mark. Unless I swallow that second glass and go postal at the first sign of trouble and preemptively pacify them with a shock and awe campaign ( which I simply can’t see happening as I’m just a live and let live fellow ), those neighbors will be my death warrant. I know that and I stay where I am. I live a mostly frugal life. Whatever preps I make are only a marginal increase in my survival odds. I know what it would take to go from 10% odds to 90% odds of survival, and refuse to acknowledge that reality. Whatever paranoia or fear I display, it is still tempered with reality avoidance. Take whatever I say in warning of the future, and multiply it by ten. If you want to drink up.

END

guest article

GUEST ARTICLE
My article posted earlier.  Enjoy this chapter, it'll be the last one for a week or so as the author has another life. 
*
The Border
Chapter 7


He navigated to the heart of the city, through which he must pass. The towers had been growing and he found himself in their canyons. They out-loomed those of the old Manhattan of New York City. His every sense protested. His hands were sweating as he saw the banks of cameras at every intersection, dozens of cops, sensor gates, dogs, and helicopters near the financial district. He thought again about the trillions of electromagnetic emissions that were about, and the ultra-secret government reports about their effects on the human neuronal system. Basically they were all slowly short-circuiting to death, slowly going mad as their organs grew disoriented from the commands of their brains. Thus the mass psychoses, the murders, drug addictions, child abuse, cruelty to animals, and the rest. That and the poisoned food, air, water…

He was coming to Broad Street. The canyons were growing deeper, the hum boiling around him like a whirlpool. Millions of windows were emerging from dusk, millions of illuminated eyes appearing in the molido above. On the ground walks and sky walks millions of people. On the sides the bikes and jitneys.

He saw a city rescue service ambulance parked ahead, its cherries whirling. Betts tried not to rubberneck, but like everyone he gave in. Two motor scooters had run into the rear of a government food truck. The drivers had clotheslined on the loading bed. Their scooters had kept going and were crumpled under the front wheels. Suddenly Betts glanced at one of the rescue men—yes, it was Gilmor, zipping up a body bag. Betts nearly shouted, checked himself just in time.

“Get on, or I’ll scan you!” a cop snarled at Betts. And Betts stepped on the accelerator, remembering there was a fine of a day’s rations for rubbernecking. And if he was scanned it would be discovered he was on the unreporting list…. And again the computer would have done him in.

Betts glanced at a camera as he passed on—another mistake. Well, he was grateful anyway that this accident hadn’t occurred deeper in; traffic there was worse. He didn’t want to slow down. No. In the System you were always safer if you were moving quickly. The abnormals exposed themselves by moving slowly. The traffic curled again as he approached Market Street.

The System always wanted to know where you were, even if you were poor and had no debt. Betts, no stranger to vanity, thought the System had classified him a “one percenter”—a high security risk. He had the background: prole parents, athletic, high grades in school, an “Unreliable” political rating in college, which he left after three semesters. Then his combat infantry experience. Such a profile interested the System, especially Executive Rescue, which was always looking for talent—or ferreting out potential insurgents. As he crawled along in traffic his mind wandered; he found himself relaxing a bit as he approached his neighborhood.

He passed a billboard; an attractive woman was about to sip her bottle of “Sabra” brand beer. He thought of Executive Rescue’s special branch staffed by women agents. They were polished and beautiful, often the daughters of the elite and bored with the prospect of matchmade husbands and easy living, of political dinners and parlor intrigue. They wanted action, they wanted to ride the bus, they wanted to meet interesting men, who were few in their class. They were called “butterflies.” Any man a butterfly targeted was pretty much finished. Human quality, a cultured person of manners, had become so rare that to even be near one unsettled you.

He ached to be in the Free Zone. This life exhausted him, demoralized him, insulted him. Any open space free of cameras, proles, cops, helicopters, ads and buildings, filth and brutishness and squalor, sounded to him like paradise. He particularly wanted to see the desert country of the southwest. He had found a picture book in a dumpster, a century old, of spectacular sites in the old states of California, Utah, Arizona and New Mexico. The stone formations of the Ancient Ones, their cliff dwellings; the starkness, the pure sunlight coming down through a clean sky and purifying the land—to him it was fantastic, a living hallucination which the System prohibited. He wanted it. He would die trying to get it.

Above all sometimes, he wondered if the people of a century earlier in the United States understood what they had. It was the nearest to paradise a common man would ever have on Terra. And Betts understood why they lost it: they got too soft. It would happen to any people, any culture, that had ease too long. This was the weakness of the human animal. Jack London wrote about it.

Betts passed a man and woman fighting on the sidewalk. The passing crowd was pooling around them. The man had the woman by the hair and the woman was flailing at his groin. Betts found himself thinking now about the animals of the wild spaces. He thought them more valuable than human beings. Every time he glanced a fox in the city, or a raccoon, he saw a mutant trapped by human habitation. In the old United States millions of intelligent, sensitive people were horrified by the rape of Nature by the System, a juggernaut of destruction established by needs of debt servicing. Thus the banks had established a system that placed military and police power at the service of private corporations. All over Terra no cultural or ethnic resistance, no defiance based on traditional borders, was tolerated. The United States military had become a hit team, deployed to crush opposition. If the situation required finesse, so-called “elite” units would be deployed to assassinate key resisters. In the jungle night, in the altiplanos, on the coasts, naval and army teams would enter a village, a town, and kill the natural leaders of a community.

And all the time the System’s media peddled military adventure to the increasingly soft, degenerate, male slaves of the Federation’s termite colonies, implanting the lie that the military life was most virile.

Betts piloted on. There now was the bell tower of St. Agnes’s Church , a navigational mark. St. Agnes was remarkable for one thing most important to the culture now: it had its original windows. They were ten meters high, stained glass made by Flemish glaziers in the 19th century, imported specially for the job. They were extremely rare; original stained glass was prized by collectors. Most windows had been looted out decades ago, or destroyed in the wars. Betts looked at them as he passed. There was Jesus, there his Disciples. Christianity was gone from the cities now. He barely remembered his grandmother, Sophie, a pious Christian. St. Agnes was her church. She gave up her Presbyterian church and took after this one. Christianity was cultural sabotage, Betts had concluded. What tore up Europe more through the ages than the Christian schisms?

He thought of her as he crept the car along the beaten streets, smelling her perfume again, hearing her voice. She was holding him; she was gentle and soft, unlike her son, his father. And then he was thinking of his father, when the man punched Betts so hard he flipped off the back porch. He was seventeen. The next day Betts joined the army. Betts never saw him again. Any of them.

He came to an intersection. On his left the corner of the St. Agnes yard. There in the shadows she was: St. Agnes herself, behind the iron fence. She was of exquisite marble—what skill!—and the air had not eaten her too badly. She was sitting there, a virgin in the folds of her pastoral clothing, her face haloed by her head dress, head bowed as she was hearing the eternal promise of the Martyr, the lamb in her lap blocking the advances of men.

He came to Third and Market. He saw the river. The traffic was thinner here, much thinner, and the forms of human wrecks were appearing in place of the more energetic workers of downtown. But he was relieved to be home; as always the ancient streets and buildings warmed him. He turned into the alley, passed Church Street, Arch Street, the dark old doorways. The car bouncing on the cobbles. He blinked—a hem of skirt flashing in the corner of his eye, disappearing in a doorway. He yanked his head around; no one was there. He dismissed the apparition. He was nervous, that’s all.

He slowed to go around potholes. He turned into his alley, passing under clotheslines. The carriage houses appeared, some burned hollow, violated by graffitti. There was the eyeball, the giant bloodshot eyeball that had been there for years, done with skill and anger. He remembered seeing it the night Gilmor and his partner had snuck him home, when everything looked underwater. The giant eyeball.

He bumped down the 400 year old alley, wondering what his neighbors would think of the Ministry Of Health car. He passed the crowded old tenements, whose windows were so close together they looked tiny. Prole windows were like that. He came up beside the only street lamp in this alley; a railroad rail served as the post, with a crudely-welded arm at the top, and a dim bulb protected by rat wire. That was the best the city government could do for Betts’ alley. But the Old City took care of its own.

Darkness, weeds, litter, an atmosphere of psychic disorder. Betts cut the headlights and could barely make out the walls as he backed the little car into a garage. He cut the engine and sat there a few minutes, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness, listening. It was remarkably quiet; he heard muted music, insects in the weeds. A car horn from far off. He felt the eyes on him from windows. He cut the two-way and got out and locked the door and moved across the alley to his apartment building. A minute later he was back with aluminum foil and electrical tape. He popped the trunk and with a flashlight to see, covered the transponder with the foil. He wrapped it tight with several layers. Taking the dead man’s clothes and his agency notebook, he returned to his apartment.

He only could hope a DPS cruiser didn’t notice the car. Well, he didn’t have time to hide it better. He would leave in a few hours anyway. There is no perfect plan. But you tried. Action was the only way out. Better to light a candle than curse the darkness.

When he came back into his apartment building the familiar sensations hit him: cheap greasy food, cigarettes, beer, garbage, anger. People in the old days were smaller; he always told himself that whenever he maneuvered his way up the narrow stairs, his head just inches below the ceiling. Yes, people were much taller now—but less healthy.

He entered his apartment. He faced the first object, placed purposively: the old painting Grandma Sophie had given him, a landscape of what was called Bucks County. That was an administrative unit of Pennsylvania in the old United States. The country was just north of Philadelphia, along the upper Delaware. The painting showed a barn and below it a farmhouse, made of stone. The land was green and rolling. The country there, if it was really like that, must be very beautiful. Betts knew the elites favored that area and many had permanent homes there. Over there, his grandfather’s portable radio… This was Sophie’s couch, too. Betts had gone back to his father’s house, when the man wasn’t home, and taken all this. Poor Sophie had died in a terrible rail sabotage during the second insurrectionary period. That one failed, too.

The resisters were very stupid about target selection. Provocateurs had infiltrated their groups and induced them into self-defeating actions. The resisters now were much, much smarter. Forget about leading the masses. They are are cattle.

Over there, the television. It was built into the wall and it came with the apartment. Every apartment had a television—by law. The landlord must provide it. The lessee paid a small fee every month for the programming. It was almost nothing, essentially free. It was the greatest narcotic in history. Tyrants of old would salivate over TV. Betts watched the evening news, when he didn’t feel like reading, to practice his analytics, to gain a sense for the System’s intentions. The System’s planners were always twenty years ahead of the herd’s thinking. Generally, he reasoned in the opposite direction from what the broadcasts were saying.

For example, if the System was claiming great progress in the war against the Australian resistance, Betts figured the resistance there was nowhere near defeated. Or if the broadcasts said the wheat harvests from the Ogallala Cooperative was a record this season, he assumed it was short and more would have to be imported from South America. Generally, if a thing was going well the System was quiet about it, because if a problem was solved the public expected the System to lighten up somewhere else—on taxes, on travel or the price of cigarettes. But there was always a new emergency, and new threat. The System maintained itself by evading comprehension, by chaffing, by diversion.

Betts turned on the box and dropped onto the couch, bone tired from the stress. Would there be an alert about a missing MOH inspector? The screen lit up; a commercial was on. It was a toothpaste ad. The guy was impossibly handsome and the girl was Aphrodite, and their teeth were perfect and white as the polar caps were said to be in the old days. They lived the good life and what was wrong with looking at people who lived the good life? It kept you going… The news program returned. Betts often thought how standardized these faces were. The presenter’s makeup was so thick he thought she looked like a corpse. Fuck this. He seized the remote and shut it off.

He shut his eyes, but knew he wouldn’t sleep well. Not yet. He was still wound up. Goddamn, he was fucking wired. He would never sleep. But he would have to try. In the army he had been much more tired than this, tired after a week sometimes of constant movement, of firefights and artillery strikes. This was nothing. But still, he was tired and this was twenty years after. He started reviewing what he must do with that little car out there. It was his passport to freedom. It had fallen into his lap and he must use it carefully, as if the gods had given it to him.

grand pooba

GRAND POOBA


A few of the comments on the American Redoubt article were a bit harsh in their judgment of Rawles, Patron Saint Of American Survivalists. A funny one, he shall lead the legions of AR toting Yuppies to victory. A vicious one almost sounded like Rawles owed them money or borrowed the family dog ( don’t ask ) for the weekend and never returned it. Folks, here at the Bison Compound, we are rude, crude, socially unacceptable, bitter, petty and judgmental, but the one thing that we strive for is giving the devil his due. Rawles is merely a successful businessman. I don’t mean to detract from his accomplishments survivalist wise. I’ve said many times that following the Rawles plan is highly impractical for almost all of us, but it does smack on being nearly the perfect plan. And Rawles has done it without any help. He didn’t marry into money, or get an inheritance, but built up a safe refuge for his family one cup of sweat at a time. The man I can admire, which takes a lot to admit since he was both an officer and an MI puke. I just disagree with certain elements of his teachings.

*

Rawles isn’t trying to gather an army of darkness to swallow the pagan hordes into the benign shadow of his righteousness. He has just developed a business plan that follows his accomplishments. You can’t praise me or Creekmore for “living the life”, which really isn’t much more than living in a tin box on junk land, without acknowledging how great Rawles has done to practice what he preaches. I might disagree with his media whoreing, but that is just me and a reflection of my personality. He isn’t doing anything that Howard Ruff or Kurt Saxon didn’t do, playing by the medias rules to get publicity to sell their product. I’d even go so far as to say he is more hardcore than Ruff, and certainly more practical than Saxon ( Saxon is a god to me, the grandfather of frugal survivalism, but still a bit of a fruit loop ). Rawles strives to keep his stronger opinions to himself which might make for a bland product at times, but does keep that unwieldy ship of fools afloat. Imagine the backstabbing and infighting of thirty thousand different brands of idiots if he encouraged anyone.

*

We really shouldn’t fall for our own hype. When an outsider who has no idea of what we are all about, who passes sentence on ideas that are only superficially understood ( hint, hint, like Greer ), that is bad enough. But when we perpetuate the stereotypes ourselves, which only adds fuel to others fire they are trying to build under us, we are not doing ourselves any favors. The Great And Wise And All Powerful Grand Pooba Of All He Surveys is one of those myths we need to not encourage. Of course, survival fiction is full of them such as the benign father figure of Lucifer’s Hammer ( the senator on the ranch ), the battle god but merciful leader in Dies The Fire, from the same book the deluded medieval evil baron wannabe of the Portland bad guys, the hockey mask dude in The Road Warrior ( the only good movie of the trilogy-the first was a “out of control crime wave of the 70’s” flick, the third an implausible cartoon [ where does the pig food come from-camel back?- to generate the methane? ] ), etc. But fiction is all about defeating an antagonist with a happy ending. Life doesn’t need a great and all powerful enemy to be normal, and happy endings are rare.

*

There will of course be every conceivable type of leadership after the collapse. Dictatorships, military governments, some fools will try a genuine democracy. Perhaps a lucky few will have a defensible position blessed with resources that allow a libertarian community. No one knows for sure which will be successful, we can only guess from history. My bet would be on a board of directors type of arrangement being the second most attempted ( after warlords of criminal gangs ). Successful? Who knows. But since no one knows how to survive in an oil free society, we are all feeling around blind ( we know how in general, we just don’t know how in a mined, polluted, resource scarce world left us ). By having a band or group trying to lead, you not only defend against your own ignorance of many things, you can’t be the sole target of discontent. For instance, I joke about leading the masses of admirers in Bisonia, but I’m sure I would make a poor manager. I focus on what should be rather than how things are. I would need others around me to soften the hard edges ( all women in veils! All children to the fields! Into the breech you cowardly dogs, to the greater glory of Bisonia! ), while I would remind them how far away from the cold hard reality they are. One hopes the middle ground turned out to be the best solution.

*

Yes, becoming the Grand Pooba is a pleasant fantasy. But it is just another one of those “sitting around the country store stoves solving the worlds problems” ways to pass the time. It is unrealistic to think any of us could do a good job leading and make good decisions most of the time. And predicting others will lead against us assumes natural selection won’t kick in. Incompetent leadership is possible, but only after a kingdom is established and secure. Before that, when leadership is being created, bad leadership is violently purged. The consent of the masses is always needed, even in a dictatorship ( outside looking in you can miss this point. Germans embraced Hitler as the alternative was continued starvation and hyperinflation and mass unemployment. Iraqis tolerated the man who kept the religious factions from continual warfare, allowing a peace to the masses- above all the prime directive is to earn ones daily bread and feed the family ). Leaders don’t emerge from a vacuum, they are allowed to rule. The one who provides the peace and stability will be that ruler. Simple cost/benefit ratio is that even an extreme government is tolerated as long as the alternative is worse.

*

There will be Grand Pooba’s, but there will also be other forms of rule. The process of Darwinist selection will be brutal, but don’t fear the eventual outcome. The masses will get the type of leader they need in the end. Governments thrive always and forever as a benefit, a free lunch, a better alternative. Hell, even “the lesser of evils” is preferable all of the time. Forget civics class propaganda. The perfect form of rule doesn’t happen. The kind we need does. And we are usually happy for it. But it isn’t always or by default a one man rule of oppression.

END