SLEEPERS
White, working class and male. Set up to fail- ALTMEDIA
ENCLAVE
The white, British Tribe is on the move again. An Anglo-Saxon caravan of traveller- gypsies, now in search of their own country. The Retired, the Ab-original English, escaping ever further West. In search of Pre-Woke England. Where it’s always circa 1975.
In search of- themselves. In seaside ghettoes and favoured market-towns. Enclaves of High Disposable income and like-minds. Somewhere they don’t have to constantly think, live and breath the multicultural air.
Or are stared at, for the offence of taking offence. For being white and British and disposable. For being on the wrong side of History.
Back Of The Class
He closed the book. For the last time. You had your chance. Now others forces- work, race, genetics- more loyal, more consistent than mere Gods or Faiths were his Gods and Faith.
“Revelation” was what happened when you stopped believing. Was it possible to believe, it was possible not to believe in anything? At nineteen these questions needed answers. By forty, which he would never reach, he would have forgotten the question, but not the answer.
Things like that ran through his mind when he didn’t have enough house conveyancing to do. That was just how he ate, and paid Mom half- for the rent and lightbulbs and all.
Raindrops on the bedroom window.
Guessing which way they would go.
Writing “S” on the condensation with his finger.
Then rubbing it out in case Mom came in without knocking, which she always did and always said, sorry she “forgot”.
A man at the end- of himself. Neither “Happy” or “Sad”. Like the green lane that petered out in the wood. Erased. Meaningless and less each day.
Each morning he made himself say, “Good Morning”, all shiny and Normal. A little too shiny and normal perhaps, to Sonia at the front desk reception.
Sonia, the stuff of which Incel dreams were made on. If he had liked the name “Sonia”. Or her sort of parents who would have named a baby so.
If only she didn’t dye her hair a shade too blonde on the Colour Card. Wished she choose it for him. But she often forget his name, called him “Hi, Greg”, once. And Greg worked upstairs with all the pretty boys in the “DE-sign Pod". How could she confuse him with a Homo, of all people?
No, no. If only she had seen him last night, Sunday, chalking out the mandala, the Crucifix inverted. Invoking her name three times, out loud. She, rating her boyfriend’s most recent sext dick pic. Then a “Family Value Fish Pie”, he ate all himself.
Fell asleep, reading how Infrasound, ultra-low frequency messages supporting the Government were subliminally added to music. The hypno-beat Hip-Hop “degenerate” whites, he hated even more than the blacks who made it, danced. Aping their betters and “breaking” their moves. Sonia wasn’t his “Bitch” to be drugged, dragged by her hair and ignored.
He’d rather be an Incel or an Emo. A Nice Normie even. Anything was better than ridiculous- a white Gangsta Bruv, unter-mensch. Trying his hardest not to be white. To be racially impure. Racially spoilt. His former Eminem gang buddies were all middle class Mommy Boyz; living in the Executive houses their divorced fathers couldn’t afford. Houses but not homes, with stripey lawns and rattan-effect garden sets, on the other side of the Mandela estate.
All the more reason, as if he needed more, to twist those wires. Solder the battery and margarine tub of nails. Set the timer for 8AM. The rush-hour that would, for some Wage Slaves, be their last rush. A hot, white air rushing through the subway carriage, then an Oblivion. He had seen the video before they scrubbed it. Didn’t want the public to see what “White Privilege” was really like if you were ignored long enough. The decapitated head flying through the air, he thought a basket ball at first, hitting that woman just passing by…
Life was simple, but Death even more so. All Race Anarchos were releasing them from slavery. Tax Servitude. They wouldn’t be holding up Government with any more pay-checks. Lies, damned lies- and politicians. And all the while they, The Globalists and UN-Zionists were laughing, laughing- at nobody- like him.
“Where have you been- for the last thirty years”, he wrote in his “Parallel Manifesto”. How being white and ignored, he had been living in a “parallel country” all these nineteen, long years. Too old before he was too young. And after 8AM tomorrow morning, a parallel death.
More of your Future- If you really want to know… Alternative Media 2024
