Dead Dog's Tale

  Functional violence is not a concept grasped by the Western soft-bellied neo-bourgeoisie. Socialist and Marxist-leaning through indoctrination and still alive only by the grace of their ability to leech off their hardworking capitalist parents. The Western soft-bellied neo-bourgeoisie is pathetically and utterly incapable of defending itself from the devastation brought by the foreign horde (a horde it summons); it believes it might ally with to destroy its hated "patriarchy," a horde that will instantaneously turn on and devour them.  The Western soft-bellied neo-bourgeoisie understands indirect violence, mob mentality, riots, and looting. But when thrust into a situation without a driving force of destruction they can get behind (an Alpha to lead the Betas), they become what they are in nearly all other aspects of their lives: inept.   Functional violence means the ability to be the tip of the spear, with or without the support of others. To wound, injure, rend, ...

I won my black belt in Judo at 14 during a Batsugun.  A Judo Batsugun is when a tournament's competitors line up, from the lowest-ranked white belt to the top-ranked black belt. The lowest-ranked white belt steps out on the mat and challenges the second-lowest-ranked white belt. The contest winner challenges the next Judoka, and so on until the highest-ranking black belt is called out. I was third in line from the beginning. That night, I took my black belt off the highest-ranking black belt under 18 in Southern California.  Later, I discovered it's partly what got me noticed by some interesting people, and my name was "highlighted." I was 17 in the mid-1990s when an organization recruited me to hinder the advance of MS-13, looking to gain footholds in rural areas of Idaho, Oregon, Washington, & Montana. They would train males 15 to 16 years old and "seed" them in small Podunk towns in the Pacific Northwest. These seedlings recruited members, primarily o...

I first heard about him while I was in Las Cruces. An old Apache knife fighter and Brujo, still honing his edge and blooding his hands in the desert. Based on a rumor, I spent a week trekking up and down the Rio Grande searching for him but learned from his friend in Mesilla I'd missed by a few months. It was in Lordsburg I caught up with him, a short and round man with eight or nine rattlesnake heads circling his hat band.  He flatly denied he was who I was looking for. I wasn't buying it, so I lunged at him after a couple more protests that I should go away. He had a knife as fast as a rattlesnake's strike, the tip pressing firmly into the skin under my chin. I smiled as he rolled his eyes. He'd blown his cover.  That evening, we shared a pack of Pall Malls and a 12-pack of Modelo in the alley behind his house as candles to Jesus Malverde and Saint Jude flickered in the darkening shadows. We told stories about hunting down our common enemy when he stopped abruptly. ...