Everyone’s feeling it now

The mood on YouTube:

“Even on Fiverr you can get banned nowadays. I guess Fiverr is owned by the same people that own everything else” *raises eyebrows at camera.*

I remember seeing things 15 years ago that were completely opposite to what everyone told me I saw. I distinctly remember concluding, approximately 5 years ago, that if either the world was crazy or I was, I guess it had to be the world because I did not want to lose my sanity. Then I found NRx and it turned out the world was a little crazy after all. Then, and I remember this moment very distinctly, immigration suddenly became a mass normie issue — something NRx had exactly predicted would happen suddenly had happened. I felt an immense wave of vindication at the time: holy shit, I’m really not crazy, the world is.

Fast forward to today and it is hardly a secret anymore that the world has gone crazy. It’s everywhere now: you tried to not be interested in politics, but politics has become interested in you. They’re everywhere: at your work, on your internet, in your hobbies, in your family, in your money… There is no escaping it. Which again, we predicted would happen: as chaos escalates, repressive terror escalates with it, which escalates chaos, which escalates repressive terror, etcetera… The leftist singularity approaches.

Now you might say: alf, cool story bro, love how you were into dissident rightism before anyone else, you fucking hipster, but why dwell on it?

I dwell on it because I like doing my told-you-so-dance, thank you very much.

But I also dwell on it, because the combination of accurate prediction -which is hard- and mass dissatisfaction turns into momentum, which means an important thing: we will have a window of opportunity.

That’s right, we will have our chance. I am convinced of this, because where I used to think the elite had their hands on the ropes too strongly, I now think they have lost control. The holiness spirals have become too much, to the point where they can’t even keep the population doped with games (which they can’t help but ruin) and entertainment (which they can’t help but ruin). It is like with the French revolution: no one can say it was a ploy by the elite to amass more power, because near the end of the revolution the elite had its head guillotined off.

We are heading (heh) towards the same point, which inevitably means that at some time someone will step in and says: enough is enough, for which the population will be eternally grateful. So, we have a window of opportunity.

Of course, the question is, who is this ‘we’? My political allegiance is pretty obvious: I’m on team Jim first, team NRx second, team Alt-Right third. Which is to say, if we want to get it exactly right, must go with Jimianity. But you have to be practical, so might be necessary to expand to NRx, but you have to be even more practical, so might be necessary to expand to Alt-Right, but you might have to be even more practical and expand to the boomer right but at some point you’re going to have lost what you were aiming for in the first place and at that point I’m out. So in practice it is always tougher and messier than in theory.

But I do believe the window of opportunity does not exclude me prematurely. I used to think Jim was too optimistic on Trump’s coup, and he probably was, but I get the need to push for a coup. We must prepare for the worst case scenario, which is hundreds of years of darkness following the end of democracy, but we must also fight for the best case scenario, which is a coup within our lifetime followed by the first American king, be it Trump or someone else.

While this political corner of the internet has always been small, it has been growing relatively explosively. And while we have many enemies, I notice we have many friends, even if they are observing us in silence, disinclined to speak in fear of revealing their hand. I believe there is a silent majority on our side, if not a literal majority in bodies, a majority in capable men. I hope we can put it to use.

 

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Classical music and Tool

A while ago I got into a fight with some wise men. The fight was about music.

‘Obviously,’ they said, ‘classical music is the music of the huwhite man.’ To which I replied: ‘I think classical music is overrated. In fact, I think Tool is just as good as classical music, if not better.’ Naturally, shock and horror followed, and after being ridiculed for my bad taste in music I went with the Trump defense and informed them that I have great taste in music, the best. I still stand behind that defense. I have great taste in music, just great.

Classical music isn’t bad. It’s actually pretty good. Better than most pop music made nowadays. But classical music is… I dunno… Music from a dead era. It doesn’t ‘fit’ in our modern society. It’s out of sync.

I like classical music from Vivaldi and Debussy, whose pieces I can accurately attribute to their unique styles. I also like Bach, Mozart and Beethoven, but in my mind they are so alike that I don’t know which song belongs to which artist. Für Elise is by Mozart right?

(I’m not kidding.)

The big advantage classical music has over its modern successor is that in the period of classical music, the patriarchy was alive, kicking and proud. All the instruments were played by white men, the music was played by white men, the orchestras were directed by white men… All the music of that era has a quality of mass cooperation, of harmony and pride that has since been lost. Radio music is almost without exception music of pain, music that signals frustration or escapism or failure or just plain bullshit. So in that sense I like classical music. I often prefer classical music radio to other radio.

But classical music is also a product of its time. It gets old, boring. There is a staccato quality to classical music that has always kept me from really enjoying it the way I enjoy some obscure modern music. The instruments are too recognizable. At a certain point I know all the sounds a violin or a piano can make. I want to hear something new. New music has all kinds of surprising sounds which classical music does not offer.

Of course, conservatory students instinctively know this, which is why they’re so unhappy. It’s similar to guys investing hours to learn the electrical guitar only to later learn that rock music died a while ago.

As society changes, so does our art change. Just because society is changing for the worse does not mean we can copy-paste old music and call it a day. More specifically: it may be better to copy-paste old music than listen to top 50 music, but it is still a sub-optimal solution. We want new 21st century music that is on par with what classical music was to a 17th century crowd.

We have that music, if you look for it. It represents the current peak of humanity, even if that peak is a lesser peak than in the time of Mozart.

What do you mean by peak?

Classical societies functioned better. They had better Assabiyah. Assabiyah is a vague term, but it is easily observed: average socio-economic position has worsened. I know this because I observe crappy socio-economic positions around me: even for all traditional high-status socio-economic positions such as lawyer, doctor and pilot, socio-economic position has worsened over the years. A doctor 50 years ago walked around with straight back, had pride, a doctor nowadays is bent under the weight of bureaucratic tape and fear of patient lawsuits. I know it used to be better because everywhere around me I see memories of such times, most notably in architecture.

As is often said, our ancestors have invented electricity, industry and mass transportation, but we don’t really know what to do with it. We are squandering it.

So it makes sense that classical music, like classical architecture, is better than its modern counterpart. But I don’t live in a Parthenon. I live in a place which has been so thoroughly infected with leftism eating in-groups that there are few in-groups left.

(Boomers don’t get this; they act as if we are still one big in-group and their boomer money shields them from learning the real score, which millenials know: everyone is in competition with everyone.)

Luckily, music can be made in a much smaller group than architecture. Hence, the existence of good contemporary music.

As said, my nomination for Peak Modern Music goes to Tool. I’m bad at labeling music like hipsters do, but I guess the were an LA based progressive rock band with some metal. I was really into them as a teenager and I still sort of am. All music gets old, I try not to listen to the same songs too often.

But yeah, Tool. I feel silly explaining why I like them, I know the wise men didn’t like me more for explaining my reasons. I guess… Their music is leftism at its peak, at its best; Tool’s music is about conflict, finding harmony in conflict, but in the end only conflict. It’s about schisms, about unresolved desire for unity or enlightenment that is never achieved, or only grasped temporarily, then lost. You could say that is a metaphor for life and perhaps that is how Maynard/the band intend it, but its more about leftism, but that’s OK, because in the end that is what 20th century Western society was, after all. Take the prophet hate in Eulogy: it is directed at Jesus, and implicitly towards all forms of religion. So, leftist boilerplate you’d say.

But at the same time Eulogy could just be about false prophets. It’s never specifically progressive music, it’s timeless leftist music.

All the instruments in Tool are in harmony with one another, the same kind of harmony an orchestra was able to pull off in the time of classical music, harmony which is now lost on a larger scale and thus confined to small groups of people.

So that’s my case for Tool.

Part XIV – A tough pickle

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‘RUDI!’ The word had left his lips before Barron consciously registered what happened. He lunged forwards, but Rudi pushed him back, coughing up blood as he did. Inspecting his bloodied hand and shirt, Rudi realized what had happened, realized he had made a fatal mistake. There was only one thing left for him to do. Looking Barron in the eyes, he dropped the keys in the front seat. He shifted backwards, gritted his teeth, balled his hands into a fist and with a loud scream turned around to punch his attacker in the face while at the same time closing the front door.

His attacker simply grabbed and stopped Rudi’s fist mid-air. The man then raised his pistol to Rudi’s face and calmly pulled the trigger. That ended Rudi’s battle scream.

Barron shook off his paralysis, lunged forward and with a press on the car key button locked all the doors. The man outside gave an amused smile as he heard the sound of the door locks sinking down.
‘You think that will save you boy? It is over.’
He raised the pistol through the window, aimed it at Barron. Another gunshot.

Barron slowly opened his eyes and inspected himself; no wounds. He was still alive? He was still alive!

Outside, the man tapped on the window with the back of his gun. ‘Hm. Bulletproof glass. Did not expect that. No matter.’ He took a few steps back and aimed the gun at where he knew the tank was. ‘It’s still over boy.’ He shot once… Twice…

An exploding car filled the exit with deafening noise and searing heat. But it was not Barron’s car that exploded – it was a police car. Car sirens blared, smoke flared up and those that were not hit by the explosion ran the hide behind cars, at which point a second car blew up, this time an undercover civilian vehicle. Big Man did not hide, but looked around to see what the hell was going on. What happened next, Barron would not have believed it if he wasn’t there to witness it.

From the other side of the exit, over the top of a low hill, came flying with roaring engine sound a black and red Ford Mustang. Well, flying for 2 seconds or so, before it hit the ground and drove towards Barron’s car at alarming speed. Meanwhile, a third car blew up. Just as Barron thought the car was going to crash into him, it braked and made a 180 degrees’ spin turn so that not only Big Man had to jump to avoid getting hit, but the car stopped right next to Barron. The front door opened. Barron did not hesitate for a second, unlocked his door and jumped into the Mustang.

‘Good. Close the door’, a voice with an Australian accent bellowed. As Barron did so, tires screeched and the car sped off. The police and civilian squad behind them had partly recovered from the chaos and shot bullets in the direction of the car.
The man laughed. ‘Don’t worry, it’ll take more than bullets to get through this baby.’
Barron took a look at his savior, and was quite surprised to see a bald fat man behind the steering wheel, wearing nothing but a blue bathrobe and a pair of slippers. Barron couldn’t tell, but really hoped the man at least wore underwear.

The car roared towards the same exit Barron had earlier entered from the other side when Rudi was still alive, and even more adrenaline pumped through Barron’s blood as he realized that they were going to drive in the wrong direction of the highway traffic.

Part XIII – Roadblock

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They stopped only for gas, drinks, snacks and peeing. The latter only in secluded parking spots – Barron did not want to risk being spotted by security cameras. Rudi also avoided turnpikes which were apt to register their plate numbers. Barron thought that was clever and picked Rudi’s brain on more secret service stuff.

– ‘Can they spy on us with satellites?’
‘They used to. Satellite technology at its peak was pretty good at recognizing humans from above, but satellite maintenance has been lacking for the past decade or so. Perhaps 1 in 10 CIA satellites is operable, if even that, and they’ll lose you as soon as you change hats. Which I do recommend.’
– ‘Why shouldn’t they follow me to Hungary?’
‘They probably will, but Orban is one of those men who has made it his life mission to crap in the faces of the globalists. Secret service networks have their claws all around the West, but in Hungary less so. All other countries between England and Saudi Arabia are dangerous though. Even the Turkish dictator Erdogan may betray you in exchange for political favors. Although some countries like…’

Rudi stopped talking as a red message flashed in his forward window: “STOPPEN SIE DAS AUTO AN DER NÄCHSTEN AUSFAHRT—- PULL OVER YOUR CAR AT THE NEXT EXIT”

Behind them a police car shortly sounded its alarm.

‘Shit’ said Rudi.
– ‘You think they’re looking for us?’
‘They couldn’t. How could they possibly know where we are? It’s probably just a routine check’ Barron wasn’t sure he agreed. Rudi pulled over the car at the next exit.

There were multiple police cars waiting for them, inspecting multiple civilian cars.

‘See?’ Said Rudi. ‘Just stay calm, we’ll be OK.’ A cop from the car behind them walked up to the car and signaled Rudi to get out. Barron looked around at the other cars. Something felt very wrong… He had that same feeling as in London, when Nigel Farage opened the door with a forced smile… But a feeling was only a feeling, right? Maybe he was being paranoid?

The cop asked Rudi for his papers which Rudi promptly handed over. Barron noticed the cop, a gigantic man with thick black beard, had a white earpiece. Was it strange for a cop to have an earpiece? Back home it would be, but perhaps Europeans did things differently… He looked closer at the closest civilian car being inspected.

The cop, having gone through the papers, asked Rudi to perform an breathe alcohol test, which Rudi promptly did. Barron looked at the civilians. They seemed to be doing routine checks… Yet, there was this undeniable feeling of danger encroaching on him… But this was just a random, ordinary check, wasn’t it…?

Suddenly, it came to Barron in a flash. It wasn’t just the cop who had an earpiece. The civilians. Had. Earpieces. Time slowed down to a single heartbeat: this was a set-up. They somehow found him. They found him. These were fake civilians. Probably fake police. Holy shit. Barron’s body froze in utter fear.

‘Danke, in ordnung. Sie möchen weiter fahren’ the cop handed Rudi back his papers and signaled that they were free to go. In slow motion, Barron saw Rudi turning around, entering the car. Rudi must’ve seen the absolute fear in Barron’s eyes, for he froze in place, a millisecond. What he would have done after that, Barron would never know. A gunshot sounded, and Rudi fell to his knees as a bloodstain formed on the chest of his white dress shirt.

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Passiveness

If there is one thing the children of modernity are blamed for, it is passiveness. We drown ourselves in video games, mindless entertainment, porn. We do not know how to maintain a car, how to build a shed, how to raise children. ‘Nietzsche’, the accusation goes, ‘turns in his grave.’

Well, OK. Sure, we’re not striving to become übermenschen. I’ll grant that. Then again, I have to meet the first generation who did strive to become übermenschen.

In fact, I believe passiveness is an entirely rational and human response. Passiveness saves energy, prevents doing unnecessary shit, prevents doing stupid shit.

‘But alf, raising kids is neither unnecessary nor stupid!’

Who decided that? Fuck you.

… I’m sorry for saying fuck you. I got emotional for a second.

See, peer pressure only works when incentives are lined up correctly: you pressure me into having kids because it will raise your status and it will raise my status, and we’ll all be happier. But that’s not how it works in modern times. Not only will nobody care for me having kids, I am in fact pressured into renting my house, leasing a car and handing over any hypothetical kids to the state apparatus. Not only that; my woman is encouraged to chastise me for every sliver of weakness I show and leave me for her personal trainer, taking with her the kids and half of what little I own the moment she is unhaaaaappy.

But wait, there’s more!

I actually did put in the work. I finished school, I have the diplomas, I worked my ass off for a nice career. And guess what — nobody cared. I was not awarded any status. In fact I was told that I was evil for being white and male and heterosexual, and the only thing I was given was a big sack of debt and some silly diploma which I ripped into tips to roll joints with. I trusted the system and because of it I was abused like Jimmy Savile abused young boys. I was, in short, punished for being active.

So hence my fuck you for accusing me of being passive.

At least in video games I am rewarded for putting in work.
At least in mindless entertainment I enjoy myself.
At least in porn I get to see pretty naked women without being #metoo’d.

….

… But of course, escaping from reality does not make one happy either.

So, we need to correct our reactive passiveness, find a new balance.

We need little to correct our useful passiveness, meant for relaxation, thinking and enjoyment of life. Personally, I like music, meditating, watching online videos and the occasional video game. If you like video games, there’s no reason not to play them — people who claim otherwise are self-appointed martyrs who hate fun.

We do however need to correct for useless passiveness, for the passiveness of the prisoner. What do?

A pretty good answer is to treat life as a video game. Beware, for the game is rigged against you! Do not play by the rules that the authorities tell you, for that is what got you to be passive in the first place: deep down you already knew the game was rigged against you, which is why you stopped participating. So, need to figure out a way to play the game that is not rigged against you, or rigged against you as little as possible.

How you play the game differently is up to you. I have my ideas, but they are hard to put correctly into words, apt to come out garbled. But I will try anyway. I feel like there’s two things that need to happen.

First is disconnecting from bad coping behaviors, for behind many of these coping behaviors hide people that hate you, that want to see you weak. The alcohol salesmen has nothing to gain from a sober customer. Too much TV melts your brain, makes you believe being cucked is the only way to live. As for porn, I like the story that when the Jews conquered parts of Palestine, first thing they did was broadcast porn to all their new subjects. Get ’em docile and obedient.

But in honesty, to break with bad behaviors is not remotely as important as the second thing that needs to happen: to live in line with your purpose. I apologize for not being able to express that sentiment in a less gay manner, but that’s what it is. You need to find your purpose. This is personal, but it can in large parts be generalized among men. I will not repeat in what manner I think it can be generalized, for I have repeated this too often already.

That’s my thoughts on the rational choice of passiveness, and the way to overcome it should you so choose.

 

Part XII — Into ze Germanland

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Hours had passed. The black car sped over the highway, nearing the German border. In it, Thierry was explaining his view on the Western political landscape.
– ‘…So then I figured: if the elites don’t represent the will of the people, we should give the people better representation, and what better to do that than public voting on important issues? That’s why my part is called Forum for Democracy: I wanted to give the power back to the people, away from the corrupt elite in Brussels.’
‘But…?’
– ‘But it did not work. Not at all. Well, I lifted along with the right populism wave and became prime minister, so that worked all right. But beyond that, nothing. In order to get the power back to the people, the people need to have a vote on it, but because they don’t have the power, they don’t get a vote… It’s a Catch-22.’
‘How will you solve it?’
Baudet’s face turned grim. ‘Not sure we can, to be honest. I used to trust in the rules and traditions to pull us through, but lately it is hard to see the silver lining.’ Baudet leaned closer to Barron and lowered his voice. ‘…They say that the end of democracy will arrive soon.’
Barron looked skeptical. ‘My dad has got a great deal of supporters that call him the God-Emperor and beg him to make himself emperor. He always said those people were taking things too serious.’
– ‘Look, I know what you’re thinking. Are we going back to the age of kings and dictators? I don’t know. But I’ll tell you one thing: I used to be the biggest fighter for democracy, back when the left was trying to kill it. But now…? Now it seems only suckers and gullible people still believe in it. No one takes the official system serious anymore. Something major is going to happen, you can bet on it.’
Barron said nothing.

Baudet inspected their location on his phone. He turned towards the chauffeur. ‘Next exit, Rudi!’
– ‘Yes sir.’

The car turned off the highway and came to a halt on a parking spot next to a gas station.

‘Soon you’ll be crossing the border into Germany’ Thierry said as they stepped out of the car. ‘We’re all part of the Schengen area family, so you don’t need to be afraid of border patrol. I’m afraid that I can’t come with you. Too risky. However, we’ve already decided that my chauffeur, Rudi, is yours for as long you need him. He knows what roads to take.’
Baudet pointed towards a dark green dilapidated station car. ‘That’s your vehicle. Good luck, son of Trump!’

And with that, Barron once again said goodbye to a recently made friend. He entered the car (it smelled of old people) and Rudi took the wheel and sped off, into Germany. Although he did not want to jinx himself, Barron could not help but think that, finally, things were looking to go his way.

The phone rang twice before it was answered. A gruff voice.
‘Yes.’
– ‘We have information. Dutch prime minister missing from his post. His car was spotted close to German border near Düsseldorf before turning around. Our agents say a switch was likely made into the following car: Dark Green Toyota Corona, license plate VL-SE-937. Spotted on route 3 past Frankfurt.’
‘Good. Alert our friends. I’m on my way.’
– ‘Will do.’
*click.*

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Part XI – Politics politics

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‘That I would ever give Barron Trump a ride across the Netherlands!’ Thierry’s eyes twinkled as he moved his hands to the violin music. ‘Ah, to escort Donald Trump’s son while Bach plays in the background. Dreams really come true!’ Barron knew Baudet a little from TV. They also met once in the white house, shortly. He remembered Baudet as an intellectual man, and a fan of his father’s.

Thierry continued: ‘I understand you are heading for a certain country to retain a certain… Orb, is it not?’ Barron was shocked. ‘How do you know?’
– ‘Word gets around. Well to be honest I was not entirely sure until your response, which confirms my suspicion. I have been asked to get you as close to Saudi Arabia as possible and I know of only one object you’d find there that would help your father.’
‘Do you believe the orb can heal my father?’
Baudet let out a long ‘eeehhhh’, followed by: ‘honestly, I’m not one for voodoo and magic. But people I respect tell me the orb of Covfefe has certain… Powers… Which our scientists cannot explain. So, who knows. But do tell me, how has your journey been so far?’
Something told Barron he could, to some extent, trust this man. He sighed. ‘You’re not the only one who knows what I am doing. I was almost arrested in London.’
– ‘wait, that affair with Farage and Khan… That was you?’
Barron nodded. Thierry squinted.
– ‘Oh my. I thought that was weird. So it’s quite the diplomatic scandal… Arresting political opponents, apprehending the son of the American president…
‘it gets worse. I was never supposed to be in England. They shot down my plane.’
Thierry was shocked. ‘Nooo they couldn’t… They did?’ Barron affirmed they did.
‘Well…’ Thierry said as he rubbed his chin, ‘things are even worse than I thought. Although I should not be so surprised… Things have been escalating since your father did a step back. I’ve noticed the EU commissars being a lot more confident lately, more scheming than usual going on. They are planning something. I guess they really are scared that you’ll save your dad. With him out of the way, there will be nothing to stop them from appointing a sock puppet president to rule over America and the EU alike.’

Barron did not like to be reminded of his father’s situation. He switched subjects.

‘How’re things in the Netherlands?’
– ‘Rough. No doubt you’ve heard of Brussel’s latest legislation; they are getting very close to passing a law making it illegal to leave the EU. And, well, with the EU army funded and the Dutch army unfunded… This country could very well face EU occupation, which among other things means the end of my career.’
‘Why don’t you leave the EU before the legislation is passed?’
– ‘I’d wish. We’re completely stuck; if you thought your father had it rough with two parties, imagine how I’m dealing with 17 parties. It’s impossible to get anything done. For instance, we tried very hard to organize a national referendum on leaving the EU, like the Brits did, but referenda were outlawed before I got in office, and no matter how hard I try to get them back, I am blocked.’
‘That’s rough.’
– ‘There is some hope. When I campaign and talk to the people, many agree that things have gone too far, prices are up too high and the commissars in the EU are sucking us dry. The assassination attempt on Sinterklaas by radical leftists made a lot people angry.’
‘Who?’
– ‘Sinterklaas. Ah never mind, it’s a Dutch thing. Anyways, plenty of support in the streets. But in the office, much more huddled voices. Politicians choose the side of the strong horse, and with your father’s state being what it is, they’re not so sure who the strong horse is anymore.’

Realizing his mistake, Thierry quickly added: ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be insensitive. It must be hard for you.’
‘It’s OK. I’m used to people talking about my father.’ They both smiled.

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Part X – friends in high places

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“We’ll be entering Rotterdam harbor in 15 minutes” a lady in navy blue personnel costume told Barron as she gave him a pink sheet, “be sure to fill in the custom form”. Barron threw it away as soon as she was gone. He went on deck to admire the Rotterdam view: beneath the clear blue sky, the bustling activity of the harbor, with ships and containers and cranes everywhere, and in the distance more than a few skyscrapers, which were nothing compared to New York, but impressed Barron nonetheless.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Colin.

‘Not bad huh?’ Colin said. ‘you’re looking at the biggest port in Europe.’
– ‘It’s nice.’
‘It is. Know what else is nice?’
– ‘What?’
‘I got you a ride. I won’t spoil who it is, but he can be trusted. Should take you all the way to Hungary. I hear you have some friends in high places over there. You might even be able to catch a plane in Budapest, if you’d want to.’
– ‘That’s pretty amazing. Thank you.’
Colin grinned. ‘My pleasure. The only thing better than serving the God-Emperor is serving the son of the God-Emperor.’
Barron looked down and laughed.
Colin’s face went serious. ‘Considering your profile, I’m sure they’ll have a picture of you at customs. You’ll need to exit Rotterdam harbor the same way you entered Ipswich harbor. Lucky for you, at one point there were so many illegal immigrants creating so many alternative routes, it was impossible, not to say disallowed, to stop them all. I’ll show you. Also, once you’re out, head for the New York hotel, near the Euromast, across the bridge. Look for a man holding up a sign saying ‘Godfrey Elwick’. That’s your ride.’

After the ship ported Colin once again led Barron through a maze of industrial activity. This time the hole in the fence was quite creatively hidden between two old containers, both of which were pushed together one either side of the fence. From the outside it seemed like they were closed off, but after Colin opened one of the container doors it was revealed that both ends of the containers had a man-size hole welded in between them. Barron stepped through, thanked Colin, and felt grateful for having entered the Netherlands in one piece.

He crossed the Erasmus bridge, remembering one of the few things his dad had to say about the Dutch: ‘they’re good at building things with water.’ Looking at the giant white harp-like bridge, Barron was inclined to agree. At the New York hotel he saw a man in chauffeur’s uniform holding a sign up with on it in black marker letters: GODFREY ELWICK. Barron went to the man and shook his hands. ‘A pleasure to meet you sir’, the man said in fairly fluent English. ‘My boss is waiting in the car. Please follow me.’

They crossed the road towards a black BMW with tinted windows. The chauffeur opened the back door. Classical music and a faint smell of lavender came out of the car. Hesitantly Barron looked in. Immediately, a hand was extended.

‘Welcome, Barron Trump. Considering the circumstances I am nonetheless glad to meet you.’ Barron followed the hand upwards and saw that it belonged to no one but the prime minister of the Netherlands, Thierry Baudet.

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What are false prophets?

Tradition, knowledge and habits are passed down by our forefathers. Every story we know, every book we read, has been created by someone, passed onto you. A prophet is one who takes the role of forefather upon himself; he is a mentor, a fatherfigure, a guide.

Your father is the first prophet in your life; when you are young, he is your symbol of strength. He teaches you, but although he is your first and perhaps most influential teacher, he is not the last.

Unfortunately, many fathers have forsaken their role of their son’s teacher. Divorce is endemic, and any son with divorced parents knows that at some level, his father has failed. Of course it’s not just divorced fathers. For the last decades it has become fashionable for fathers to not teach their sons; best to leave that to the government! As a result, sons are put through an endless succession of half-interested teachers, professors, empty talking heads on the tv and celebrity whores (female and male). These people do not know you, have neither time nor interest to get to know you, and frankly find you annoying if you don’t shut up and listen.

It gets worse: many of these mentors are females, who are notoriously bad at teaching males. They always wind up ignoring good males, getting fucked by bad males.

It gets even worse: true mentoring is outlawed. Any sort of apprentice/mentor relation has been branded a vestige of toxic masculinity. Thus, even if a teacher wanted to teach you, he’d have to break the rules.

As you may imagine, such a society leads to an epidemic of false prophets.

Their falseness comes in two ways. The most common false prophet is the bureaucrat, who is more concerned with sucking up to his superiors than he is with teaching you. He is bland, unfair and stupid, but because of his usefulness to his superiors, the bureaucrat is most commonly put in public position of teaching authority. The bureaucrat sells nothing but tasteless blue pills.

The other type of false prophet is the false rebel, who is less common, but more dangerous. The false rebel pretends to break the rules in your favor, but in fact sucks up to his superiors as badly as the bureaucrat. Because the false rebel must publicly break rules in order to establish a rebellious image, the authorities will on the surface be angry with him, denounce him as a loose cannon. But behind the scenes, they will encourage him, because they know the false rebel is not a real rebel, not a real teacher. He is only pretending. They know that the false rebel’s ultimate loyalty lies with them, not with his pupil. Thus, in the end the false rebel will inevitably betray those he claims to teach. We call this false opposition, or selling the purple pill.

A true prophet is one who speaks truth, no matter what. A true prophet is one who is not afraid to speak up against falsehood. He is not afraid to make sacrifices for his pupils; in fact, the best prophets have always been those who were prepared to sacrifice everything in pursuit of their message. Such prophets are rare, but they exist, and throughout history their messages have always resonated strongest with us.

Warrior, Priest, Merchant, Lover

Archetypes are different parts of your personality, although some archetypes will be more dominant than others. Archetypes are nice, because they are easy on the mind. They are stories, and stories stick well.

Of course there is always the problem of separating useful archetypes from silly archetypes. For instance, every horoscope follows only 1 archetype: ‘woman’.

Here at AlfaNL we accept only the best archetypes. A long time ago I read the book King, Warrior, Magician, Lover by Robert Moore. It’s a book on four male archetypes, per the title. The King is the part of you that rules, the Warrior the part that fights, the Magician the part that uses forbidden knowledge and the Lover is the part your lady likes to see.

Inspired by Jim I have made some improvements, per this blog title.

First, there is, in my experience, not so much difference between kings and warriors. Both fight, both rule, both use force or the threat of force to get their way. King is boss warrior, that’s all. Throw it together under one archetype.

Warriors band together in armies and can wield great power; the power of kings and emperors.

Priest is exactly like the magician, just that the word is less magical. To call people magicians is to flatter them, which I, as one with a prominent magician/priest archetype, should know. Priest covers the load better — a priest does everything a magician does, but weaponized morality is a big part of his repertoire, hence the name priest.

Priests band together in congregations and can also wield great power; the power of memes and religion, which, while not as directly effective as the gun barrel of the warrior, does have the advantage of sticking around long after the warrior has died.

The merchant (or capitalist) is an archetype I missed in the book. Merchants are just out to make a buck. Their dark side is greed, their good side is adding nice things to this world. Contrary to priests and warriors, merchants can not cooperate so well, because every merchant is in competition with every other merchant.

The lover is pretty much the same as in the book; it is the side reserved for the women in your life, the side that lusts and cares and loves. It is much like the warrior in that the lover conquers pussy like the warrior conquers territory, but the lover has a soft inner core that women adore and warriors despise.