Category Archives: Stories

Part IV: Under Attack

’20 minutes until checkpoint landing, please finish your whey and fasten your seatbelts.’

 Barron woke up to the metallic sound of Hans, the pilot, on the intercom. He yawned and peeked through the plane window. It was dark outside, but down below Barron saw land illuminated by hundreds of specks of light. They must already be in England. So far so good.

5 minutes later Perv came out of the cockpit and asked Barron to come with him. Something came up. As Barron entered the cockpit he saw Hans conversing with a voice crackling through the radio. ‘…Repeat, runway is damaged. Please confirm change flight course to six three zero Elstree Airfield.
– ‘Flight course six three zero Elstree airfield confirmed’ Hans answered. He looked nervous and when the radio switched off he immediately turned to Perv. ‘This is bad news. They say it’s a runway fire. Could be true, but it smells bad.’
‘I agree’ said Perv. ‘Smells like a trap.’
– ‘Maybe I can find some alternate landing spot. No way Elstree is safe.’
Hans grabbed a black address book. He leafed through it and pointed at a scribbled address. ‘Here. It’s more of a farm than an airport, but they’ll have fuel and I can…’
Before Hans could finish his sentence an alarm in the cockpit went off. Recognizing the sound, Hans looked at the radar. A dot was rapidly approaching their position. Hans turned white. ‘shit shit shit it’s a missile. The motherfuckers are actually shooting at us!’
‘What?’ Barron exclaimed. ‘But that’s an act of war!’
‘Maybe, but that doesn’t change a thing for us. At least this is not the first time I’ve had to evade a missile.’ Hans took the steering wheel and pushed it forward. The plane made a nosedive and started picking up speed. Through the front windows Barron could see the missile approaching in the distance. On the radar a second dot appeared, not far behind the first. Hans murmured: ‘two missiles huh? Oh man…’ Sweat dripped off his forehead as he steered the plane in a straight line towards the first missile.
‘Just a little bit further… Just a little bit further…’ The missile came closer and closer and Barron for the first time felt that dreadful fear of dying. Suddenly, Hans jerked the wheel to the left. The plane made a sharp turn, so sharp that Barron had to hold on to his chair as to not fall on the left wall of the plane. The missile passed straight underneath the cockpit, under the wings and passed the plane.
‘YEAH’, Perv shouted, but Hans was too occupied with missile number 2, which was now visible through the window. He stabilized the plane as fast as possible and made another nosedive, pushing his entire body on the steering wheel.
‘C’mon baby, go faster…’  Hans pushed the wheel so hard it seems to almost break. The missile was now less than 100 meters in front of them. Hans made the same turn and the plane jerked to the left. The second missile flew right passed the cockpit but a second later they heard a loud bang and everything shook. A voice shouted from the back: ‘the left wing is hit!’ Barron looked out and saw the tip of the wing was blown off. The jet engine was burning. Hans frantically tried to stabilize the plane but it was clear they were losing altitude. ‘Status report’ Perv demanded.
-‘Unsalvagable. We will crash. I might pull off an emergency landing.’
‘Too risky. We will jump, rendez-vous and head for our connection in London.’
-‘Yes sir.’ Hans switched on the intercom. ‘Gents, you may have noticed we have taken a slight hit. The Bombardier can not be saved, we can. Parachutes will be provided. Stand by.’ 
Perv handed Barron a parachute. ‘Put this on. Have you ever used one of these?’
Barron shaked his head. ‘Yeah that’s what I thought. I’ll keep it simple: pull this rope when the ground is getting too close for comfort. Don’t touch anything else. Understand?’ Barron nodded.

In the back Perv’s men stood by calmly as the shaking of the plane threw around cutlery and shards of ceramic plates. They put on the parachutes as Perv opened the emergency door and yelled: ‘We rendez-vous below! If you lose track of the team, call me! Good luck men!’
And with that the 6 men jumped out of the plane. Barron went 5th, followed by Perv. The plane quickly became a small spot and Barron was engulfed with darkness and wind. He was barely processing all that was happening, but the sudden turn of events gave him an adrenaline rush he had never experienced before. He had never seen the other parachutists so clear, never heard the rush of the wind so clear, never knew so clearly what to do. When he could distinguish leaves on the trees below he pulled the rope and the parachute opened. As he glided downwards, he saw a big explosion in the distance, where plane was heading to.


The Orb of Covfefe part III: Liftoff

Barron tried to maintain a sense of location, but when Perv stopped the car all he knew was that they were somewhere on the Virginian countryside. They had arrived at a tiny airport with a small entry hall, control tower and 2 private jets.
‘the left one will be our ride, your majesty,’ Perv said with a wink. ‘A Bombardier Global 20k, state of the art.’
– ‘Whose jet is this?’ Barron asked.
Perv shook his head. ‘Like I said, can’t tell you. Let’s just say he’s an, *ahem*, enlightened billionaire who wants to play it very carefully. Anyway, let’s go meet my team.’
– ‘Your team…?’ But Perv was already walking ahead.

They entered the hall. 4 men, one in pilot’s attire, where waiting for them. The first thing that struck Barron as he shook their hands was that they all looked as if they were chiseled out of marble. He jokingly said: ‘you all look like you walked off the cover of Men’s Health.’
Perv laughed. ‘Well, Hans here has indeed featured on that particular cover. But that is a side job. Their main task, besides ushering in a new aesthetic for Western man, is to fight the ZOG. You will find them to be well-trained and highly capable.’
Barron was as confused as he was impressed.

The plane lifted off within the hour. Once comfortably seated in the spacious chair, Barron took the time aboard to unload his curiosity.
‘Why are people trying to kill my dad?’ he asked Perv.
– ‘Why is water wet? Your dad has a lot of powerful enemies. I think they are very scared that your father will crown himself God-Emperor of America.
‘God-emperor?’ Barron blinked.
– ‘Yes. Kind of like when Napoleon crowned himself emperor of France. I don’t think your father originally intended to do so, but after the Texas- and California-hacking scandals of 2020, a lot of people lost faith in democracy, and I think your dad was one of them.’
‘So they are scared my father will stop them.’
– ‘Well either your dad stops them or they will stop your dad. And so far, your dad has done a pretty good job. He built the flying golden palace, he built the wall… So it’s not too surprised that they’ve decided to play dirty.’
‘They shouldn’t be able to poison him.’
– ‘You’re right. There is a security leak at very high level. It is bad news.’
Bannon didn’t like to think about the implications. He changed the subject.

‘What is the Orb of Covfefe?’ he asked.
– ‘Afraid I don’t know much about it’, Perv said. ‘From what I hear it has some kind of healing power. Supposedly the Muslim prophet Mohammed used it to conquer Arabia. Later, Genghis Khan tried to take it but died before he succeeded. And now it is in the hands of king Salman, head of the royal Saud family.’
‘Bannon told me the Sauds are very protective of the Orb. How will I convince them to lend it to me?’
– ‘I dunno kid. I guess Bannon thinks you can somehow pull it off. Try asking nicely?’
Barron laughed but frowned immediately after. He’d have to think it over. First they actually had to get there.
‘Are we flying to Saudi Arabia in a straight line?’ he asked.
– ‘Sort of. We need to make a brief stop in England to refuel.’
‘I thought England was on the brink of civil war?’
– ‘I didn’t say I like it. But we have no choice. Don’t worry, the refueling point is as safe as we can get.’

Bannon said nothing, but stared out of the window. So this was the plan. A dangerous stop, followed by an audience with a king who had very little reason to trust him. Asking a girl out for a date seemed easier. How could he obtain the Orb? Maybe fear of a world war would persuade the king? Perhaps he could convince the king that, as Bannon claimed, the Jews were behind it? Muslims didn’t like Jews, right? Perhaps he could even steal the Orb? As Bannon went over all the possibilities in his mind, his eyes closed and he finally caught some sleep.

The Orb of Covfefe, part II: The Pick-Up

That night Barron slept restless. His dreams were filled with images of fire, of his mother screaming and of men hijacking the Golden Flying Palace and crashing it into the One World Trade Center. He woke up in the middle of the night and, unable to fall asleep again, double- and triple-checked his luggage. Time crept by like a snail and Barron felt he had been looking at the clock for an eternity when, at 4:55, the doorbell rang. Barron rushed to open the door. To his great surprise a beautiful blond girl greeted him. Barron felt his cheeks turn red. ‘Ehhh… Hi?’ he said.
– ‘Hii!’ the girl said. ‘Soo nice to meet you! You’re taller than I expected!’

Barron looked at her sheepishly. ‘Are you my driver?’ The girl giggled. ‘No silly, I’m just here to ring the doorbell! Perv will be your driver.’
– ‘Perv?’
She pointed to a red convertible parked in front of the house. In the driver seat sat a muscled man with gelled blond hair, sunglasses and a colorful sleeveless shirt. Next to him sat another girl, a brunette. ‘Perv’ held up his hand and made a peace sign. Barron awkwardly waved back and turned to the girl in front of him. ‘Ok, I’ll grab my bags and we can go.’ The girl smiled the kind of smile you see on the covers of magazines. ‘Great!’

Five minutes later Barron shook hands with Perv, who up close was even more chiseled and broad-jawed than he looked from afar, and the brunette, who might as well have been a Victoria’s Secret Angel. Barron wondered where the hell Bannon found these people.

‘Good to meet you!’ Perv bellowed. ‘I presume Jenny has already told you who I am. Call me Perv.’ He turned to brunette next to him. ‘Time to say goodbye love.’ She pouted her lips but kissed him on the cheek and got out of the car, keeping the door open for Barron, who took her place on the warm leather chair. Perv stepped on the gas and off they were. In the car mirror Barron could see Jenny and the brunette waving them off. He looked at Perv. ‘Isn’t it rude to leave the women behind like that?’ Perv laughed. ‘Don’t fret young Barron. Their submission is as solid as your dad’s wall. They will be OK.’
– ‘Where are we going?’
‘To an undisclosed location where a billionaire who’d rather not be named has a private jet waiting for us.’
– ‘Us?’ Barron raised an eyebrow.
‘Yes. I’ll be travelling with you, as your personal bodyguard so to speak. I hope that’s not a problem.’
– ‘Not at all.’

As the car turned on the highway and the first rays of morning sun warmed his face, Barron started to relax. He wondered what other strange things would be ahead.

Somewhere in Italy a black limousine drove over a countryside road. In the back of the limousine sat an old man in a dark-blue custom made suit. The man had just secured an EU-funded bail-out of a bank he owned (although no one would find his name in any of the official documents), so he was feeling festive, insofar men his age still felt festive. He lit a cigar. As he inhaled, a metallic voice cracked through a speaker. ‘Sir, you have an incoming call from central. Highest clearancy.’ The old man exhaled a puff of smoke. ‘Put it on screen’.
A LCD screen switched on which projected the grey silhouette of a man. ‘Good day George. Congratulations on your success with Banco Di Diversità. Quite the multi-billion-dollar deal.’ The old man nodded. ‘Thank you, although I am sure that is not the reason you are calling.’
– ‘Indeed. I am calling because a situation has come up. A possible kink in our American plans.’
‘I thought we finally had a breakthrough?’
– ‘Yes, we did. And we still do. But it seems our success is not guaranteed after all. They are sending Trump’s son, Barron, to retrieve the Orb of Covfefe.’
– ‘Barron? He’s just a kid! Besides, the Saudi’s would never lend out the Orb to an outsider.’
‘Are you willing to bet all our plans upon the Saudi’s not lending out the Orb?’
The old man thought before answering. ‘No.’
– ‘Neither do we. The boy must be stopped. Either way. Take care of it.’
George nodded. ‘I understand.’
– ‘Good.’
The monitor flickered and turned off. The old man was alone again. He took a long puff of his cigar and stared through the window, admiring the luscious green vineyards they were passing. So, he thought to himself, the last stand of the Trumpists is the young Trump kid. How appropriate. Yet, how silly. Compared to the deal he had worked out today, stopping the boy would be like taking candy from a baby. He smiled. It was time to make some phone calls.


The Orb of Covfefe, part I: Dark Clouds over the Flying Golden Palace

(lay-out is horrible with lack of indents and everything. Will fix this next week.)


The sound of hurried footsteps echoed across the grand hall of the Flying Golden Palace. Barely audible whispers spread through the corridors: ‘have you heard? He is ill.’ ‘What, like a flu?’
‘Maybe, but maybe not…’
‘Well he is quite old.’
‘Last week he was healthy as a 20 year-old!’
‘I heard his face has turned green.’

Young Barron tried to ignore the whispers as he trudged through the hallways. Yet he knew that he wasn’t called to his father’s chamber without reason. His father had looked a little pale last time Barron came over for dinner, but he hadn’t seemed too bad. Some cold, he guessed. But the request to visit his father had a tone of urgency to it that didn’t sit right with Barron. He opened the majestically gold-plated doors to the Trump residency.

Immediately he saw something was wrong. A team of what he assumed were doctors surrounded his father’s bed. His mother was sitting at the head, cleaning his father’s forehead with a washcloth. Everyone except for his father was wearing body-covering gear you’d normally see in operating rooms, covering all mouths and hair. A nurse at the door handed him similar garments. ‘The doctors don’t want to take any risks’ she said. ‘He is weak enough as is.’ Without a word Barron put on the mask and rushed to the bed. He gasped when he saw his father. Emperor-Elect Donald Trump’s eyes were closed, he was breathing heavily, and pearls of sweat were dripping down his head. This wasn’t just some cold, his father’s life was in danger!
At the sound of his son’s voice Donald’s eyes opened. ‘Hello son. Not feeling so great as you can see. Don’t worry, these doctors will fix me up soon. We have the best doctors!’ He tried to give a doctor next to him a firm pat on the back, but he could only muster the strength for a gentle touch.
‘Dad,’ Barron said, ‘you wanted to see me?’
‘I always want to see you’ Trump answered, but barely had he spoken the words when he groaned in pain and groped his stomach. A doctor turned to Barron: ‘your father is in a great deal of pain; it is best to let him rest. Come, I’ll show you the medical reports.’
Barron followed the man to an adjacent room where even more doctors and nurses were huddled around big monitors on the wall with displays of his dad’s vital signs and what seemed to be an extensive medical history. He caught bits of conversation between the doctors:
‘…. Gastro-intestinal infection…’
‘… Progressive illness…’
‘… Possible Russian involvement…’

Barron figured this would be where he would be instructed on the medical reports, but the doctor kept on walking, exiting the room on the other side. Barron followed. They went through a deserted corridor and just as Barron started to wonder why the doctor’s physique seemed familiar to him, the doctor opened a door to the right and went into what appeared to be a broom closet. He beckoned Barron to follow. Barron hesitated. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I’ll tell you’, answered the doctor, ‘but first come in and close the door. Please.’ Something in the man’s eyes told Barron he could trust him. He closed the door behind him. The doctor ripped of his mask and Barron gasped as he recognized the face beneath. ‘Mr. Bannon! What are you doing here! My dad fired you!’ Stephen Bannon grinned.
‘Sometimes people need protection whether they want it or not. It seems your dad is in dire need of some protection.’
– ‘Will he die?’
‘On the current course: yes. I’m afraid your dad has been poisoned.’
Barron’s eyes grew. ‘Poisoned? By whom??’
‘The New World Order. The people actually in charge of this country. Jews, globalists, democrats, you name it.’ Bannon’s eyes flashed around nervously. ‘Already they are applying pressure to blame it on the Russians. The weaker Trump becomes, the less he will be able to resist the war they want to plunge America into.’
– ‘The doctors have to save my dad!’
‘These so-called medical experts can not determine the nature of the poison and even if they could, I’m not sure our American medicine can save him. We need a very special type of medication. We need… The Orb of Covfefe.’
– ‘The… Orb of cowfayfay?’ Barron looked puzzled.
‘The Orb of Covfefe. It is a mysterious Arabic artefact, rumored to have brought Jesus Christ back from the dead. It can cure any ailment, but only of those with a pure heart.’
– ‘You must be kidding!’
Bannon grabbed Barron by the shoulders and looked him straight in the eyes. ‘No Barron, I am not kidding. The Orb is real and we need it to save your dad. I can not trust anyone. Barron, you must go and retrieve the Orb! You must! For America! For your father!’

Barron was silent for a moment.

‘This… Orb of Covfefe… Are you sure it can cure my dad?’
‘Yes Barron, I am 100% sure.’
– ‘Where is it?’
‘In the possession of the Saud family, in Saudi Arabia.’ Bannon pursed his lips. ‘I would’ve arranged for them to bring the Orb directly to us, but our relation is… Complicated. They don’t trust me. No Barron, it must be you. You must personally go to the Saud palace and convince them to give you the Orb.’
Barron breathed deeply. ‘Okay, I’ll go.’
Bannon smiled. ‘Great. You’ll fly in a private jet with as little stops as possible. I’ll have a guy I trust pick you up at 5 in the morning. Tell no one about this, not even your mother.’
Barron nodded.

When Barron stepped out of the closet, he thought he saw a shadow of a figure disappearing at the end of the corridor. He turned around to tell Bannon. But Bannon had disappeared. The broom closet was empty.

Left vs right II: shitpoasting

So this was supposed to be a blogpost trilogy. And I’m pretty sure I had something for this. I just forgot what. Something something leftist scum something. Whatever. All my good memes are in the first post of the series.  Best Of The Week material if you ask me, if only there were such an award to be handed out by the internet! Unlike this post, which will be improvised shitpoasting.

I have found that leftists cheat at games. Literally. Try play a board game with friends. Watch the leftist among them cheat. It’s DNA baby.

The guy behind r/K-selection theory, Anonymous Conservative, impresses me with his writing quantity. 2-3 posts a day! I read his book a while ago. Enjoyed it. I am also convinced that leftism and rightism are genetic and can be traced neurologically. I am however less convinced that r/K theory explains it all. Too many holes in the theory as it is. My main issue is leftists are supposedly like rabbits so they have lots of children – but they don’t, they substitute kids with cats. In fact per stereotype K-selected Christian families are having lots of children. Nigerians are having lots of kids, but if r-selection is adaption to abundance of resources how come Nigerians in scarce-resource Africa are not K-selected like the lions with which they share their continent? I dunno, the comparison wrings on a couple of levels. For the moment it works better as a fable.

Why lions eat rabbits

Once upon a time a strong lion lived with his family on the countryside. The lion took good care of the land, so his cubs were healthy and well-fed. One day a family of rabbits moved in next door. The friendly lion went to greet father rabbit and said to him: ‘you seem friendly, but how do I know you will not steal the food of my land?’ The rabbit reassured him: ‘oh powerful lion, you are so much stronger than I am, how could I dare steal your food?’ The lion was satisfied.

Yet as time passed food started disappearing. The lion went to the rabbit and said: ‘are you stealing my food?’ ‘of course not!’ replied the rabbit. ‘There is however a fox roaming the countryside. Perhaps he stole your food!’ The lion, feeling bad for blaming the rabbit, apologised and left.

But more and more food disappeared from the land. The lion’s cubs grew ill. The lion, seeing the rabbit’s family had grown explosively, angrily went back to the rabbit and said to him: ‘my children are weak with hunger. I have never seen this fox you talk about, yet I have seen the full bellies of your children.’ The rabbit was shocked to hear of the lion’s misfortune and doubled down on his claim that this dirty fox is the culprit. He showed the lion a red herring with bitemarks — ‘these bitemarks belong to the fox!’ said the rabbit. The lion, not knowing how to deal with this piece of ‘evidence’, told the rabbit to leave his land alone.

But the food shortage continued and one day one of the lion’s cubs died. This was the final straw that broke the lion’s back; he rushed to the rabbit’s hole, only to find that all the rabbits had fled.

And that is why lions eat rabbits.

2 leftists walk into a bar

2 leftists walk into a bar. They order beers and talk about the birds and the bees. Soon the topic of conversation turns serious, philosophical. “You can never know absolute truth.” says the first. “Truth is subjective” replies the second, “we might be living in the matrix.” The first raises an eyebrow. “You can not know that. We know nothing. For all we know I don’t exist.” The second raises his voice: “How do you know you don’t exist? For all we know I don’t exist!” The first shakes his head. “no no that is all wrong. Reality is a narrative constructed by our biased perception. How do we even know this bar is real?”
The second one loudly puts down his beer on the bar. “Well how do we know the universe is even real!”

The men are silent for a moment. Clearly they are at a stalemate. The first breaks the silence: “I am a journalist for a prestigious newspaper. 2 million people read my articles.”
– “I host an influential tv-show” says the second, “also watched by 2 million people.” The men fall silent again.

“I have written about the dangers of global warming destroying our planet many times” says the first. “I have invited global warming experts on my panel” says the second.
“Well I had an African woman write a guest column once.”
– “Yes I had her on my show.”
“I have anonymously donated half a million dollars to Amnesty International. People don’t talk enough about how important freedom of speech is.”
– “I have, also anonymously, donated a similar amount to War Child. The things happening to these children is just too horrible.”
“I was the first to write about Trump’s connections with Russia.”
– “I often talk about the possibility of Trump launching World War 3.”

The first man takes out his phone, shows a picture of his wife. The second man in response shows a picture of his wife. They are equally mediocre. The stalemate continues.

The men sit for a while and stare into their half-empty glasses. The first man sighs, scrolls over to his bank account and shows it to the second man. The second man becomes triumphant and shows his bank account, which is larger. “Hah!” he exclaims, “told you so. We can not possibly know reality.” “Yeah”, says the first, “I guess you are right.”


Being a good storyteller is all about timing.

When Erin posted her story about racism she was scared she would alienate people. That people might not understand where she, a Southern privileged white woman, came from. But in the end her conscious weighed too heavy on her mind and she had no choice but to share her story.

And share she did.

She shared with us the many ways in which racism is still very much alive. How America’s first black first lady was insulted for her colour of skin. How people online made racist jokes like it was the most normal thing in the world and how this his sickened her on a personal level. She told us how blacks are still to this day rejected as ‘the other’, as people who we do want sitting at our table. Worse still, blacks are in fact admonished when they disrupt ceremony to speak out against injustice, as if attacking the status quo could even be done in a peaceful manner. Erin rightly pointed out that nobody seems to remember Martin Luther King was arrested 13 times for peacefully protesting.

After weaving a rich tapestry of observations she concludes from them that although it might seem strange, it is not the white supremacist who does the greatest damage to the black people’s freedom. No, like Martin Luther King said, it is the white moderate who through his daily naiveté and ingrained privilege continues to uphold the status quo that keeps the Negro down. Erin so ends her story with a spine chilling conclusion: racism lurks in all of us.

No wonder she was scared to tell her story.

It can only be attributed to the miraculous awakening of white consciousness that Erin’s story was received with so much love: more than 10.000 shares on facebook, over 350 likes from bloggers such as yours truly and almost 400 comments, most of them a variation of ‘Thank you! I wish I wrote this!’

This story, at least, has a happy ending.