Like a leghold trap for the simple mind, the riddle-game of the murder mystery maintains its attraction for the post-industrial drone. In direct correlation with popular interest in less complex musical forms, the fungible enshrinement of solution as meaning of the murder mystery has attained great commercial prominence, such that the sick creature and mangled persona Agatha Christie contests with the Jewish/Nicean religious text and the "we do too still have culture; check out how verbosely clever is this sexual allusion that could plausibly be taken another way" Shakespeare for the top three spots in world textual reference.
The anodyning effect of popularly enacted murder mysteries is certainly helpful, on par with other top-tier entertainment products, but on 2018 Terra, the most striking feature of the murder mystery is the identities of the perpetrators and suspects. To whit, the murder mystery has, since the post-industrial age began, gained massive popularity as an entertainment template not simply because of its design for, and encouragement of the mental degeneration of, the less cognizant consumer of entertainment product, but because those directing the choices of popularization of mass media content approve of the incessant drudgery of theme, which to the publisher, the producer, and all other arms of an entertainment conglomerate, is always totally meaningful, in contrast to the rare alternative impression that something related to art or creativity "should be" involved. It is an alien impression of "art," perhaps, which still retains a hint of meaning to some Nu Euros, whereas modern corporate entertainment, like the subversion of the academy from a place of inquiry, follows a different model than that originally conceived, with its purpose being more about accomplishing a tangible end than raising any questions. If an American city, for example, has a population of seven percent African-Americans and eighty-some percent European-Americans, and for the past fifty years, crime statistics and anecdote and police data and everything else has shown that African Americans still commit the vast majority of the murders, the media companies, in traditional "big lie" methodology, continue buying, massively promoting, and overwhelmingly disseminating the boring tropes of us all being interested in white people murdering yet again.
This trend holds not only in the heavily published and promoted novelized form of the white crime saga, but across numerous other venues, including not only stage plays but television programs, wherein Jessica Fletcher's quiet little town of Europeoids is portrayed as more violent than Honduras: Cabot Cove murder capital. Indeed, the impact of more than a century of Jewish firms investing so heavily in propaganda of white murder rates has come, to 2018, to produce spinoffs of spinoffs, where product after product sells tales of cunning Europeoids who drive the murder rate from San Francisco to New York, and where the sickest, most demented white murderers have to be kept from society by teams of brilliant African forensic chemists. The inversion of reality is quite literal, as is the ethnic assault and the characteristic stupidity of the Europeoid consumers who joyfully imbibe the dreck; the drawing room denunciation of yet another white killer after an inheritance implies, most cleverly, that white family wealth must have originated in murder, and that any asset equality between the human groups must derive, from African disinclination, and European proclivities, to murder for money.
The racism inherent in the fictional murder business is not only of the "racist against whites" obviousness. Since Europeoids are endlessly patronizing most of the Jewish product that never ceases mocking them via their participation, it is not an express, recognized, acknowledged racism that motivates these unending purchases. In some hypothetical alternate reality in which whites had invaded an African society and begun heavily promoting books and television shows where blacks did it, today's Europeoid would be able to discern the nature of the ethnic assault in a way he is too daft to perceive when it is Jews doing it to a Europeoid society (indeed, to even raise the question is to commit an unpardonable offense). Rather, a more insidious racism built into the murder mystery is, like the rest of modern Europeoid behavior, more subtle: Europeoids delight in mysteries where other Europeoids have cleverly (but not cleverly enough to foil the ultra-brilliant detective, as when the Jewish actor playing Hercule Poirot sends white neck after white neck to meet death at the gallows, proving the intellectual equivalent of the unbeatable-at-fisticuffs Jew William Shatner punching out aliens) concealed their crimes. Part of the reason that the murder-dregs narratives hold such appeal to the racist Europeoid is that s/he can imagine a plausible scenario where a "white" person, but not a Congoid, took such thoughtful steps to throw the detective off his trail for the first forty-four minutes, whereas it just doesn't seem believable to them that a Congoid suspect could be so clever. It is ironic as well as telling that Europeoid gobblers of this emptiness will accept Europeoid villains only because they believe that Europeoids could actually be so clever, damning their own kind by firm praise.
It is neither particularly novel nor insightful to point out that this or that sector of the entertainment media is used by Jews to cast some or other negative aspersion on white people. Rather, it is boringly endemic; the "culture of critique," or simply of killing the host on a time scale most Terrans consider lengthy, has been horribly enabled by generations of gentile actors always willing to be the bad ones and the good ones just a little more brokenly than last time. Ever since Europe was Judaized, then America, those cultures' representations of their own people have been successively worse, passing from the old surviving hero, to the noble taker of abuse, to the less-effective hero with a very mild neurosis, to the neurotic hero, to the villain being dethroned to popular acclaim by heroic outsiders. Indeed, Europeoid-directed entertainment progressed from heroic Europeoids defeating evil Europeoids, to effeminate manchildren with fashion sense, like movie-Bond defeating evil Europeoid geniuses who dared resist the UN's directives, to the modern day where heroic Congoids or queers defeat evil Europeoid patriarchs. The murder mystery has followed a greatly de-magnified version of this trend, where male-exclusive buddy teams (consider Holmes and Watson) pursue the murdering, thieving idle rich (the landed gentry produce massive homicide rates, dontcha know), culminating in black forensics specialists using DNA evidence to prove the white goy was really behind the poisoning.
Of interest here is not the "political" nor ethnic angle of the murder mystery, but its willing, eagerly accepted adoption by the Nu Euro. It is not an inherent trend for most Nu Euros; without the massive push of publishers, newspaper reviewers, and sequelizing TV houses, the murder mystery would be little more than a forgotten childish tale about a magical boarding academy. The murder mystery has, like so many other things in the twenty-first century, created its own market through the overwhelming force of marketing, such that the river of public interest has been channeled in silly directions. Nonetheless, once created, the interest is profound, even to the point of corrupting non-Western authors into developing plot structures and strictures to conform to the western standard. The protagonist with one or two intriguing quirks (more if played by a good actor) who is somehow forced, by respect of a banal, unexplained, uninvestigated morality or the local legal system, to care about some circumstantial happenstance, unburdened by thoughts or feelings or motivation of any other kind.
(Murder on the Orient Express offers, albeit an equally banal, suggestion of otherwise, in which the presumed morals of motive are not in any way analyzed nor acknowledged, but at least clumsily suggested, yet this was a high point for Christie, who at least suggested that, if given many more years, she might have imagined something other than riddles.)
The creation of this product, and a market for it, has produced narratives that are, at best, built around themes of unspoken support for the legal system. Neither character nor setting may conflict, such that the vast majority, if not all but one or two exceptions, murder mysteries never condescend to examine the feelings or motivations of the characters, either the detective's in heroically solving the riddle or the unknown antagonist's in committing the crime. Like a sign advertising "free air!" at some marketing expo for idiots, we presume that "inheritance" or "lover is mine" are so known by our audience that we need never explain; that there are no nuances to the what or the how or the why of these things. It makes for an interesting television perspective to watch murder mysteries alongside legal thrillers, where the comptrollers of our entertainment lecture us, from one mouth, that everybody lies and there are no easy answers, yet from another, that every answer can be contained in less than a sentence.
It is, as with so many things, the Nu Euro's own failings that have driven this abysmal trend. Of course the k'arash are going to produce crap for the humans to gobble up, if it will be gobbled, and so too does the Nu Euro's passion for professional sports and murder mysteries require the production of nothing higher in value. Given how low the standards for entertaining Nu Euros, causing them to buy books and movies, it is of little particular consequence whether a murder mystery, or Tyrone's emotional journey to the NFL, be shown; indeed, Tyrone's struggles to play for the NFL is probably far more compelling a narrative. The match was made in Yahweh's heaven, again, as with Judaism for Goys and Europe, wherein yes, it took military invasion and occupation, but what was left, what still lives in 2018, is perfectly suited toward the rotting produce on the cart. Whether some decent market would otherwise attract consumers--quite likely, given the crud they otherwise happily gobble, showing the power of the modern corporation--seems beyond the question of mere morality, since the slave not only wants master's gruel, but does not believe there is a dungeon at all. Indeed, like an occasional bite from a machinated candy bar, there is sorry room for the occasional non-dunce to imbibe the occasional cheap, lengthy riddle, and be no more or less affected by our situation than would already have been the case.
Whether a steady diet of candy bars or murder mysteries, one of the Europeoid's great weaknesses in this situation seems his ability to eat only the proffered pap, and not only survive, but to come to enjoy it. Confronted by endless murder riddles and personal narratives about the emotions of a kayak voyage, it is no wonder that so many Nu Euros turn to swords and sorcery or aliens as an attempt to get out. What is particularly sad is not the subjugation of the masses, but the adoption of the form by the otherwise-creative. In the manner of a would-be hero in battle killing yet more unarmed Arabs for Israel, many a creative mind has decided to fit itself into the mold of murder mysteries, and generations after Holmes and Watson's too-close relationship discussing clues admittedly indecipherable to the viewer, Europeoid creators still attempt to duplicate, in their own fashion, the model of an infallibly brilliant detective figuring out who made the call and whenwhy, dooming their kin to a fate worse than a prejudice against the violence inherent in their species.