Dead Dog's Tale

  The sun lorded over 6th Ave like a vengeful despot, wringing every ounce of moisture from the land until the streets themselves seemed ready to split apart, groaning beneath the weight of its oppression. The heat was a tangible force, pressing down on the world, stifling, unrelenting. South Tucson lay in a kind of hushed submission, the silence broken only by the distant wheeze of a struggling air conditioner and the occasional muttered curses of men who had forgotten what it meant to feel cool air on their skin. At two in the afternoon on a Sunday, the streets bore the mark of neglect, filth clinging to the cracked pavement like the remnants of a massacre. Bottles lay shattered, their jagged edges gleaming like the bared teeth of something long dead but still menacing. Needles sprawled in the gutters like the spines of a dead thing's husk, discarded, forgotten, waiting for the next poor bastard to step wrong. The ants were the only creatures that seemed to thrive in this misery,...

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, leaving the Arizona desert to the night and the cold that seeped into Kevin Wikse's bones like an old, familiar ache. He limped toward his battered trailer, a solitary figure against the vast, indifferent sky. The structure itself barely stood, a forgotten relic in a world turned hypochondriac, gripped by the phantom of a pandemic. The desert around him lay silent, an expanse of shadows and stillness, where time moved slow and the land remembered everything. Kevin's dogged steps were heavy, each one a reminder of his mortality, but the pain was a testament to his unyielding resolve. Kevin's body was a canvas of bruises, each one a testament to battles fought and survival won. His latest wounds, fresh from a hunt along the border, spoke of a relentless pursuit of a member of El Salvador’s MS-13. From Nogales to Tubac, he tracked his prey with a single-minded fury, a wild pursuit ending in a brutal confrontation that left his q...

  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...