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Don't Cry For Me, Louisiana

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  • Don't Cry For Me, Louisiana

    [A truly prophetic article. ]

    C-GRAM: December 20th, 2002

    DON'T CRY FOR ME, LOUISIANA


    Dear Racial Comrades:

    I have received a number of comments and responses on the David Duke situation, which I will be publishing in NS Forum. However, my own view is not at all negative or pessimistic.

    Why not? Simple. I don't think all you Double Diamond fans need to sing the blues at all. It's only a few months in the clink, and HE'LL BE BACK, most likely with a new book on his prison experiences and a whole new line of merchandise.

    Ernst Z?ndel once said "I am in the business of selling hope." So is Dave. He's made a good living in this business since he was in college, and he knows the ropes better than anyone else. He'll bounce back, and he'll do it with vim and charisma.

    And we will welcome him with open arms. All forgotten, all forgiven. We always do.

    Duke is taking the "I wuz framed and I wish I could have defended myself but I didn't dare go in front of a black jury" line, and this is at least half correct. As for not wanting to go in front of a jury full of niggers, I can well understand that. White men don't dare risk any entanglement with a judicial process that Ed Steele has correctly described as broken beyond repair. That's one of the reasons we need to be talking about little things like seizing the power of the state from the evil men and women who now hold it. That's one of the reasons that we need to make our own country. (That trampling sound you hear is the herd of racist couch potatoes stampeding for the tall grass.)

    His secondary line of defense is a classic and expertly done diversion, a semantic sleight-of-hand deftly misdirecting his audience away from the sleazy business behind the curtain that they don't need to see. Above all, that riverboat gambling and those junkets to the Bahamas need to disappear. We can already see this happening, and it is fascinating to watch.

    Dave's doing it even better than Erich Gliebe did when he deflected our gaze onto the Skinhead Yea or Nay issue last September, and away from the question of who was the NA conference participant wired for sound who recorded it all for Dees? The audience must at all times watch the birdy, not what the magician's hands are doing. Above all, they must never peepbehind the curtain.

    Duke says, most likely correctly, that his mailing list sale to Louisiana governor Mike Foster was "investigated four times and found not to be illegal," thus neatly deflecting the moral issue of whether or not he should be selling his mailing list at all. But even if someone is so unkind as to bring it up...hell, that's just David. And we all know David. We've known him for thirty years. David Duke sells his mailing list on a regular basis to anyone with the cash. We have always known this about him. We long ago accepted this and forgave him for it, as we forgive everything else our self-appointed leadership does. It doesn't even raise an eyebrow now.

    By concentrating on the mailing list sale and IRS-related issues, the gambling and mail fraud fades. The stunning and horrendous gambling away of hundreds of thousands of dollars of his supporters' political and racial donations on riverboat casinos, as David partied hearty with Vince Breeding, is already being swiftly and efficiently air-brushed out of the picture by Duke's amen corner.

    Don Black barely touched on it at all in his article that I sent out yesterday. In a short time that uncomfortable and inconvenient subject will have disappeared completely. By the time he completes his stretch, Duke will be compared to Hitler in Landsberg. He may even use the time to write another book.

    How can misconduct and betrayal that gross and egregious disappear down into the bottomless Movement memory hole? Along with the beatific buggeries of Benny, Glenn Miller's testifying in open court against his own men, and Dr. William Pierce's "inappropriate relationship" with Federal law enforcement?

    Simple. Our people do not care about it.

    David Duke be de Man. Period. End of story. Since David Duke be de man, he gets a pass. Period. End of story. Just like Klassen. Just like Pierce.

    You need to imagine David Duke standing at the gate of whatever minimum-security Federal prison he is ordered to report to serve his 15 months on the plea bargain, his suitcase beside him, singing an aria of "Don't Cry For Me, Louisiana." He even looks as pretty as Madonna. (Sorry. Yeah, I know, that was nasty, but I am just shaking my head in bemusement over the whole wretched business.)

    You know, I have spent almost all my life trying to force us all to confront uncomfortable and unpalatable truths, so I suppose it's only fair that I should be forced to confront some myself. Along with the resurrection of Glenn Miller, the employment of feminists and miscegenators by the NA, and the rampant cult of Old Benny Buttfuck, the David Duke episode is simply one more example of the reality (to me very uncomfortable and unpalatable) that our community totally lacks any ethical principles whatever, and that we are devoid of any moral basis of any kind for what we do. There are no red lines. Nothing is forbidden and all is permitted.

    I have come to understand and accept the fact that we as a community are completely devoid of any kind of moral or ethical compass. It doesn't surprise me or even bother me any more. This Duke thing has left me cold. Like everyone else, I simply shrug it off in my own mind. "Nyeh, that's David. We all know David." I've kind of gone numb, I guess.

    It is a fact of life that once one achieves officially recognized "leader" status in the RCC, one can quite literally do no wrong. One can drug young men and sodomize them on the rec room rug. One can allow one's group to be used as a listening post and provide logistics to the government for mass murder. One can testify in court at a trumped-up sedition trial. One can file baseless and malicious lawsuits. One can leave one's feces on the doorstep of critics. One can commit vandalism and petty criminality.

    One can hand over the mailing list to the FBI on demand without so much as a whisper of protest. One can promote Satanism in order to sell CDs and make money. One can shack up in a Nazi headquarters with a coffee-colored Third World mistress. One can use Party funds to pay for one's girlfriend's abortion. One can dance around bonfires with goats and naked youths. One can house and pay a generous salary to a government witness during the year while he waits to swear away the life of another White man in a ZOG courtroom.

    One can put up homosexual porn websites. One can be Jewish. One can be arrested in possession of an entire barn full of kiddie porn videos and magazines. One can murder a guest in one's home and disguise it as a suicide. One can have conferences where a spy for Morris Dees records the whole affair and then pretend it never happened. One can stalk women until they flee to the courts for restraining orders. One can beat one's wives bloody and force them into anal intercourse with dildoes. One's business manager can be found shot execution-style and stuffed in the trunk of a car, and no one bats an eyelash. One can appear drunk in public twenty-four hours a day. One can post soft-porn pictures of oneself in one's underwear on the Internet. One can appeal for funds to pay for medical expenses for the family and then gamble it away on riverboats and trips to the Bahamas. Basically, if you're a racist "leader" you can pretty much do whatever the fuck you want, and none of it matters.

    If one is a "leader", one is teflon. None of it sticks. It is not that our self-proclaimed Men of Destiny make some Nietzschean claim to be Ubermenschen and above the rules. There are no rules. We have pretty much made that clear.

    Our community is essentially feminine in nature. We as a subculture are a neurotic abused spouse. We know in our heart of hearts that de man is cheating on us and drinking up the rent money, but we pretend we don't notice the lipstick on his collar or smell the whiskey on his breath. We are a battered woman who just knows that this time the man who beats her, rapes her, and robs her can change. And anyway, don't we really bring it on ourselves? (Well, actually we kind of do, you know.)

    Our capacity to believe whatever the hell we want to believe, even in the face of overwhelming evidence, even in violation of every tenet of common sense and simple human decency, seems to be pretty much infinite.

    You know, I have always wondered what would happen to me if I myself did any of these things and got caught and exposed? I'd love to find out. Could some of you please send me a couple of hundred grand so I can gamble it away?

    [Sigh.....] Oh, well. Damn. I never get to have any fun.

    Guys, I know this sounds like an exercise in sarcasm. It isn't, and that's the tragedy of it.

    I'm as serious as a heart attack. Don't worry about David Duke. He's going to do his time and bounce back, re-invented and re-packaged, probably with a new book under his arm, wrapped in the shining robes of martyrdom. My guess is that Breeding will dismantle, loot, and asset-strip whatever there is left of NO FEAR and EURO while Duke is in the can, but when he gets out Double Diamond will be back in business at the same old stand in no time under some other name. Plus ca change, plus ca m?me chose. And the gambling?

    What gambling?

    *****************************************

    "....It appeared that there had even been a demonstration to thank Big Brother for raising the chocolate ration to twenty grams a week. And only yesterday, [Winston Smith] reflected, it had been announced that the ration was to be REDUCED to twenty grams a week. Was it possible that they could swallow that, after only twenty-four hours? Yes, they swallowed it. Parsons swallowed it easily, with the stupidity of an animal. The eyeless creature at the other table swallowed it fanatically, passionately, with a furious desire to track down, denounce, and vaporise anyone who should suggest that last week the ration had been thirty grams. Syme, too--in some more complex way, involving doublethink--Syme swallowed it. Was he, then, ALONE in the possession of a memory?" - [From 1984]

    Klassen's rape of Chip Myers.

    Glenn Miller's testimony at Fort Smith and the Shelby trials.

    The murder of Harry Kelly.

    The murder of Dennis Witherspoon.

    The suppressed second photo-fit of John Doe #2 that might have been drawn from a photograph of Willard.

    Duke testifying before the Dominica grand jury in New Orleans.

    The spy at the NA leadership conference last April.

    Jerry Michael Pace. Bill Riccio. Eddie Dawson. Cecil Cox. The murder of Tony Wydra. The Steven Thomas incident.

    The Rudy Stanko affair. The Virginia Beach machine gun deal. The death of Theon Tomcheff. The murder of Dominic Lewitzke. The liquidation of the NSWPP by Koehl. Tom Metzger's financial "arrangement" with Morris Dees on foot of the Portland civil judgment.

    Pierce's promenade through Germany. A Federal fugitive taking his ease for two months at the Hillsboro compound while the Federal marshalls politely waited at the gates, hats in hand. Todd Van Biber, Brian Pickett, bombs in Disney World and paper bags full of bank robbery cash dumped on Pierce's desk.

    The grand jury in Fayetteville that politely excused Willard from attendance because the weather was inclement. The Resistance Records scam. The Bryson City lawsuit and a six-figure check written to Morris Dees. The Philadelphia cannibal. Buford Furrow hearing voices in his head, shooting up cute little kiddies in yarmulkes in a kindergarten, then taking a taxi to Las Vegas to turn himself in to the FBI.

    The murder of Johnny Sharbnow in the Aryan Nations compound. Ronald Lambert prowling outside my apartment in San Antonio with a video camcorder trying (by his own admission) to film me naked through the curtains, and leaving an NA calling card on my windshield when he left. Glenn Miller in full Nazi Stormtrooper uniform, with sidearm, passed out dead drunk behind the duty desk at the North Street headquarters and the floor soaked with his urine where he pissed himself---when a reporter shows up for an interview.

    Fifty years of failure, humiliation, lies, embezzlement, corruption, perversion, treachery, insanity, weakness and grief.

    Shame. Shame. Nothing but shame.

    Am I then, ALONE in the possession of a memory?


    -Harold A. Covington
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