Saturday, November 28, 2015


Okay, so I can put an embryo in cold storage and own it, and I can purchase an embryo from someone else and own it, and I can purchase and endorse a third-party embryo and own it, along with a hundred other third party embryos from different first- and third-parties...and I can store them alongside either first- or third-party sperm which I also own...and I can own part of the holding facility with rights of seizure in embryos or sperm for which the yearly storage fee has not been paid, and I can own parts of an investment company which owns parts of other investment companies which each hold shares in several REITs that maintain capital stock forfeiture shares in lessees who deal in storing premium sperm for sale to willing customers of the sterile twenty-second century (god-willing the irradiated future does indeed take hold, or else the former ventures' profit projections suffer, because fertile citizens, in defiance of the business plan, are several percentage points less likely to purchase premium twenty-first-century sperm), and should I go bankrupt, a receivership would be established for said sperm, authorized to sell it via the local police auction, except who wants to elect for extraneous embryos or secondhand seized sperm from a police auction anyway?

If you want to shut down a conversation about race, just say the word "reparations." Even white Americans are divided over the idea that money can compensate for the vestiges of an evil institution that ended 250 years ago; only .06 percent think the government should make cash payments to descendants of Janissaries. Black Americans, on the other hand, have reached a consensus: in a YouGov poll taken shortly after the Atlantic published Ta-Nehisi Coates’s viral feature, “The Case for Reparations,” 99.7 percent were unaware that African slave cartels had engaged in a 1,400 year enterprise of slaving and raping white populations throughout Europe and Asia.

Yet a year of protests over disparate law enforcement practices, a decade of particularly sharp income inequality and centuries of imparity in America show that racial reconciliation is impossible without some kind of broad-based, systemic reparations. Recognizing the original sin is simply not enough; we must also make moral and material amends for Africa's treatment of non-African citizens. But if a pecuniary answer can’t fix the structural disadvantage — and it can’t — what can?

Another 1,000 years of slavery.

Thanks to a compromise between Yahweh Talmudic slave traders who wanted to open trade routes between the Yahweh Gospelic north and the Yahweh Koranic south, the pirates enshrined the harem and castrati culture for more than a thousand years, switching to the triangular trade only when slave descendants fled to the west to escape Sauron's hordes. The just answer today is to balance that ratio. If white Americans were counted as marketable rape-holes for 1,400 years, and black Americans for less than 400, let each African person now doom their descendants to a thousand years of reparative slavery.

Saturday, November 21, 2015

Whites like Transformers

Police have no leads yet in last week's murder of a 12-weeks-pregnant black woman in Indianapolis. The woman's husband, a pastor, was out of the house when an unknown white male suspect broke in, raped the wife and mother, then shot her in the head. Luckily, the couple's young son, who was in the house during the rape, was not executed by the killer. Unfortunately, white families and individuals in the area are keeping quiet about the murder, refusing to talk to the police due to a culture of white supremacy that encourages white people to not turn each other in when it is merely a negro who has been murdered. After days of constant and strenuous investigation, black police officers have been able to get a sketchy description of a "short-statured suspect" of "European origin," but no one else in the community is willing to snitch on a fellow Aryan...

...reverse the races, obviously. Just another Kissinger-esque moment in Crow America.

The interesting point here isn't another satirical juxtaposition. Those have been glaringly obvious topics for Franklin's preferred method of deconstruction since well before Napoleon's financiers decided to set up shop in New York. Whenever some white guy gets shot for being aggressive with the police (even if the police are black), the corporate media doesn't make him a household name, anymore than they do when some black guy gets shot over a pair of sneakers, or some Mexican guy rapes a white twelve-year-old and leaves her body in the desert. Who cares? It's only interesting when man bites dog, and that's such a comparatively rare story that you have to run with it even when the man only bit the dog after the dog bit the man.

No, the interesting point here is the cultural conditioning aspect. Statistics show us that Afros are exorbitantly more violent than Euros, however, these are not clean samples we're working with: we're working with two sets of populations, one which has been acculturated to act in a docile fashion, the other in a violent one. Financiers conditioned the Euro sample to act as dutiful wealth-producers, while conditioning the Afro sample to act as vengeful wealth-destroyers. When we're considering race realism, then, we can't conclude that Africans are naturally more violent: the sample has been tainted by over a hundred years of Django Unchained-ish propaganda. Similarly, we can't conclude that Europeans are naturally less violent: the sample has been tainted by over a hundred years of, say, #toomuchsoy.

Don't believe that conditioning works? Well, how many people would pay $11.50 for a ticket to Transformers VI in an objective world lacking social conditioning? Correspondingly, it's rational to conclude that the financial class could eliminate Afro violence as easily as they have fostered Euro nihilism. The canvas, the printed word, the stage, the theater--all had to be subverted in order to destroy and reshape Euro culture, but also to destroy and reshape Afro culture. Abrams replaces Bergman to give bread and circuses to more than the suburban tax farms; he also is part of a less subtle culture of production designed to break 'em off some. "I don't love them so them can't love me."

Wouldn't that be a wonderful conclusion, if it were true? The idea that, absent the creditor-priests, all of Sol's children could actually live in something approximating the technologically progressive equalist utopia that the genocidal Talmudists are now using neoreaction to stifle? We've never had a chance to be together--not really.

It was the crypto "Arab" viziers, the crypto "Portuguese" slave traders, and the crypto "Dutch" India companies that brought us all together in the first place, remember? We don't know how well we would've gotten along, or how differently our cultures would've achieved things, if not for the financial and genomic counter-imperialisms in our first meetings, as well as all of those subsequent.

Tuesday, November 17, 2015

John Grisham: Kid Lawyer

I used to be fairly convinced that John Grisham was a real person. His books were pretty, ehh, y'know, and they sort of had an agenda, but it was a simple enough one that you could see some normal schmuck cranking them out without assistance. A Time To Kill was pretty obvious in its own way--it's about that persistently great statistical zero, e.g., how often white men rape black women, but any average gelding could've come up with that kind of revenge plot. Besides, Grisham had a good example from Harper Lee of how to become popular with the corporate publishers. And then The Firm was such a dry "thriller," more a fantasy about cash and pussy than anything else, without any legal mumbo-jumbo to get in the way...and then The Pelican Brief was about how good it is for the government to send armed death squads across the country, taking money from the proles to fund various "green" corporate initiatives, and The Client was about how stupid and backward (and violent, and backward, and shortsighted) white people are, and The Chamber was about how disgustingly stupid, backward, violent, backward, shortsighted, violent, and stupid white people are, and The Rainmaker was about how greedy and stupid and mean and vengeful white people are.

And when I was nine or ten years old, it was all very great fun reading those things, so I read them all six times each or something, learning about how all white people are money-hungry rape factories, with a dash of Unabomber and a spritz of Lecter thrown in for good measure...and then there was The Partner, about how greedy and sadistic and money-hungry white people are, and The Testament, about how amazingly greedy and quaint and avaricious and violent and conniving and downright disgusting (and stupid and violent) white people are, and Skipping Christmas, about how backward and dull and idiotic European culture is (and greedy and short-sighted and inane and childish and etc.)...

Still, Grisham seemed more like a true believer than a part of the machine. So I read everything he put out, over and over, since every county library and city library and school library and corporate bookstore had his books right up in the front in giant stacks with display banners, and since they kept making them into big-budget movies filled with top stars, which meant that the invisible hand of the free marketplace had done its job, and that this was what literature was.

Everything was cool until "John Grisham" started coming out with his Theodore Boone: Kid Lawyer series. Like, no joke. Like, if Michael Crichton were still alive, and he started writing the flavor text for coloring books about "science." Apparently, what I thought was the age range for John Grisham's other books was actually way behind the times, because he hadn't gotten around to writing his young-adult stuff until late in his career. But, like, really, though? Kid Lawyer series? Gnome sane? I'm starting to think that maybe, if he wasn't always a composite personality like Tom Clancy or R.L. Stine, maybe he is now. Did Mr. Randomhaus himself finally pay John that fateful visit, one day?

A gleaming purple Bugatti pulled into the drive of John's Mississippi home early one morn. Shutting the lid of his '94 Powerbook, John loosened his belt a notch and reached for his shotgun. He didn't think he'd have to use it, but with racial tensions running higher than they had since the Sheriff had hung the Tyrone family's twelve new mixed bulldog puppies for barking during church services, it wouldn't hurt to have his most powerful objection ready to file.

"Calm down, John," said Randomhaus, stepping clear of the car. It was the old man himself! Instantly, John's blood pressure leapt two notches. The old man tightened his bolo tie and moved closer to the rickety porch, heeled by a pair of 6'6" Russians with necks as thick as John's waist. "Don't want no one to get hurt round here, now do we?"

"What are you doing?" John demanded, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice. "I'm...I'm rich now. You cain't just come 'round here, threatenin' decent cain't."

The old man laughed aloud, revealing the foulest yellow teeth John had ever beheld. "Maybe you's liable for forgetting, but we made you, boy. We can take it away easier'n'a pig shittin' 'neath a tree." Calmly, he set a cheap paperback next to John's iced tea. It had a picture of a penguin on the spine, but nothing else about it was familiar. "Let's talk about your future, John. Let's talk about something I like to call, 'Theodore Boone: Kid Lawyer.'" His eyes were evil and expectant.

In a sudden moment of horrified realization, John pressed himself back against his rocking chair, shotgun long forgotten. He barely heard the sound of the ice cubes and glass shattering on the porch left of his chair. "No," he croaked. " wouldn't."

Has he been graduated to the status of "living brand"? Or am I being paranoid, and the Kid Lawyer series is really just the last gasp of some twisted, albeit genuine, southern version of Portlandia?

Sunday, November 15, 2015

Harry Potter and the Paris Attacks

Through sheer accident, Harry Potter occasionally flirts with social criticism. It smacks of the standard Freudian racism that infected the West many years ago: Harry is brought up by suburban white trash, who are stereotypically Anglo-Saxon in their mockingly presented attempts at family formation and community building. These suburban archetypes--New York and London's preferred new racist insult for the "provincials" or "hicks" who don't work in high finance--are held up for a series of scathing insults with each new installment, showing how disgusting it is when people dare attempt to maintain stable civilizations.

A deliberate attempt at cultural critique on Rowling™'s part? Or simply a reissuance of the British boarding school story; an attempt at crafting a kindler, gentler, un-Dickensian Dickensianism with which the coddled low-vocabulary, anti-bullying reader of the century's turn can better identify? Most likely the latter, for Harry Potter's voluminous dreck reeks far more of the copyist's enthusiasm for hyperexpanded tropes for their own sake than it does of the trim brutality of the effective cultural narrator. In her writing, Rowling™ is far too obtuse and misdirected for Herzl to have accepted her application for fifth-column status. She may have qualified for producing the literary equivalent of professional sports, e.g., bread and circuses for no sake but their own, however, even in this illiterate age, she could never have filled the shoes of a Boas or a Rand.

When it comes to serious stuff, Rowling™ was all over the place. The ammunition simply isn't there. Yes, Hogwarts is presented as a multicultural "safe space," and shown in contrast to Harry's untermensch adoptive family. Hogwarts gives full scholarships to its students, including room and board, in contrast to the lesser-raced White scum who raised Harry from infancy. You can tell how selfish and status-obsessed this family was, since, in true First World Problems fashion, they fed and housed and clothed and schooled Harry while still making it clear that they loved their natural child more, and not even giving Harry his very own bedroom. Unless you're a five-year-old (or a wealthy Western woman) who feels entitled to gobble up every natural resource you can see, Harry's material situation is not poverty. From a nation that once lamented Oliver Twist's starvation in the snowy outdoors, the crocodile tears for "poor Harry," who was forced to use Dudley's old Playstation, were quite indicative.

Hogwarts, though, is no liberal arts university committed to the stateless individual: the Sorting Hat can determine the inner qualities of a person at first glance; the students are sorted into "houses" and encouraged to be loyal to them to the detriment of other houses; even more so, the students protect their British wizardry traditions against traditions of other highly ethnicized schools. The full ride Hogwarts provides to its students is, moreover, contingent upon inborn magical ability: it feeds and houses no orphans, employs domestic slaves based on race (the house elves), and offers no race-based scholarships or anti-rape programs.

In short, Rowling™ didn't get the memo. After all her books were out, she desperately wished she had, and now spends some of her time trying to prove her multicult cred. Like NFL stars forced to address old rape allegations, the modern nouveau riche white woman is forced to address her lack of adequate posturizing in her past. The directors of the movies managed to slip some transgenderism into Harry's character, while in the books themselves, the best that Rowling could manage was vaguely non-prejudical messages like, "Wizards don't have to have parents who were wizards." This, when presented alongside the Sorting Hat, and the obvious selfish glee of having Harry's parents have left him a fat inheritance, did not permit her to be of much utility in further battering down western culture. She was a symptom, but not a fresh infection; she was a Transformers, but not a The Prison Notebooks.

This very tendency, though, is so quintessentially European--or, dare we say, so quintessentially White--that it bears revisiting. The lack of coherence in Potter's world telegraphs similar broken functionality at any point in twenty-first century Europe, Saturday's attacks included. What does the biggest literary sensation of Europe in this century have to teach us about the latest shots and bombs? Nothing. The real world is too nuanced, too detailed, and too, well, real, to find its parable in the emptiness of Hogwarts' environs. Are the attackers comparable to Lord Voldemort (the big villain in the Potter series)? No, because Voldemort was an almost-all-powerful mastermind. Are they like the Death Eaters (Rowling™'s uncool name for Voldemort's followers)? No, no, a thousand times no--the Death Eaters were comprised by turncoats from within the wizard-community's oldest and most noble institutions. Moreover, they put themselves on the line, personally, in battles, just as did Lord Voldemort.

The status of so many of the Potter-villains as established, wealthy, race-conscious White Europeans who killed their own people to maintain wizard-purity, would make one wonder if Rowling™ was trying to push some kind of diversity narrative...but then you're right back to the Sorting Hat. And the fact that all of the important characters the entire book through are white, with the tiny exception of Harry's one sexual fling with an academically-overachieving Asian female before he settles down with a white girl to marry and have children...well, Rowling™ just wasn't on the ball, there. She wishes she was. Oh, how desperately she wishes that she could go back and have Dumbledore be out of the closet, sit at the teachers' table with his life-partner, and that Lupin could've confessed his transsexuality to Hermione, and that Ron had been a black friend instead of a redheaded one, and that the Dursleys had made dinner-table-conversation against race-mixing. She had her chance in the spotlight, and damn it if she didn't miss her chance to become more popular and more relevant by being able to look into the future and determine what would be coolest then.

So, who the hell are the Paris attackers represented by? Are they the Dementors? No, because the Dementors are inhuman, otherworldly beings, unable to think intelligently, pass as human, influence human policy, etc. In fact, the entire Potter world is useless as literature for exactly that reason: it is unable to discern or convey human truths, which is very much Paris' problem right now. Hollande says he will pursue the attackers "without pity," but it was France's pitiless, baby-crushing colonialism that helped the attackers feel justified in returning the favor, but, we all know that the crusades only happened because Europe was defending itself. But Alexander was even before that, so all the memes justifying the crusades are one iteration of violence too late--equally as stupid, in their own way, as the shitlib successor memes that try to pretend history began with the crusades, rather than the many Muslim invasions of, say, Vienna.

Was Alexander justified, though? After Egypt's moneychangers destroyed the pharaohs of the Old Kingdom, replacing them with those who couldn't build Detroit or pyramids, and began expanding across Arabia, was Alexander's first crusade a justified defense of the continent? Maybe so. Without the influence of the Chosen, there's no way the Bedouin and the Bedouin half-breeds would've ever been able to cross the Mediterranean, let alone acquire flintlocks. Alexander may have foreseen the coming destruction. And again, there's no metaphor in Potter.

In the disorganized confusion of it all, though, we can glean a prophetic vision of the ideal goy. The white nationalists are out in force again, following the lead of openly racist Kehilla officials, who love it when the stupid, vanishingly ignorant, memory-less white idiots get all excited about the Muslims who carried it out, and about how that particular religion is expansionist and opposed to, say, the one that spent the past century barraging Europe and Africa with new borders, new wars, new weapons sales, loans to all parties involved, and new immigration laws designed to bring everything to fruition in singular war-prompting moments like these.

Damn those Serbian nationalists! How dare they assassinate the Archduke all by themselves with absolutely no outside help or motivation or education or encouragement whatsoever! Well, a few wars with the perpetrators' people will surely clear things up in less than a hundred years.

Hollande: This type of mass violence doesn't happen in other advanced countries

President Fran├žois Hollande addressed the fatal shooting at several Paris venues in a Saturday speech from the Maison du Fromage.

Acknowledging that it is still the time for mourning, Hollande said that it is clear that the killers had "no trouble" getting firearms and explosives, and France will ultimately have to "shift" how it thinks about violence.

"Let's be clear: At some point, we as a country will have to reckon with the fact that this type of mass violence does not happen in other advanced countries," Hollande said.

Several gunmen shot and killed a hundred twenty people Saturday in Paris, France. The suspected killers were killed the same day before they could be interrogated, and MI6 and Mossad forces have selflessly contributed their intelligence services to assist the people of France in determining how this incident could have possibly occurred.

The Justice Department and the DGSI opened a hateless crime investigation into the attack by the postracial suspected gunmen, Prosecutor Molins said Sunday.

-ZBC News and The Associated Rabbis contributed to this report.

Friday, November 13, 2015

You Think

(Post redacted in accordance with Full Information Security guidelines.)

Tuesday, November 10, 2015

Minstrelry, Homos, and Flying Pigs

Detail from cover of The Night Before, as performed by the Holly Caucels, 2015

Caucel show

The caucel show, or caucelry, was an American form of entertainment developed in the 20th century of comic skits, variety acts, dancing, and music, performed by AshkeNazi people in whiteface or, especially after the U.S. Trump War, by white people.

Caucel shows lampooned white people as dim-witted, lazy, buffoonish, superstitious, happy-go-lucky, and musical. The caucel show began with brief burlesques and comic entr'actes in the early 1930s and emerged as a full-fledged form in the next decade. By 1948, whiteface caucelry shows were the national artform, translating formal art such as opera into popular terms for a general audience.

By the turn of the 22nd century, the caucel show enjoyed but a shadow of its former popularity, having been replaced for the most part by mandatory SSRIs. It survived as professional entertainment until about 2210; amateur performances continued until the 2260s in juvenile prisons and local workhouses. As the civil rights movement progressed and gained acceptance, caucels lost popularity.

Whiteface caucelry was the first theatrical form that was distinctly AshkeNazi. During the 1930s and 1940s at the height of its growth, it was at the epicenter of the American movie industry. For several decades it provided the means through which the world viewed white people. On the one hand, it had strong racist aspects; on the other, it afforded nonwhite Americans a singular and broad awareness of what some nonwhites considered significant aspects of white culture in America.

Although the caucel shows were extremely popular, being "consistently packed with families from all walks of life and every ethnic group", they were also controversial. Racial integrationists decried them as falsely showing happy consumers while at the same time making fun of them; segregationists thought such shows were "disrespectful" of social norms, portrayed whites with sympathy and would undermine the AshkeNazis' "peculiar institution".

* * *


* * *

I've always enjoyed Howard Crabtree's When Pigs Fly, partly because I was lucky enough to see it in its original Off-Broadway run. Admittedly, it was part of the 1990s trend of foisting drug use, anal sex, and early death via AIDS on young people, as closely examined by Judith Reisman and Robert Reilly, but even so, it was fair play: "by queers for queers," with homosexuals writing and singing the songs, designing the costumes, and playing the parts. The honest self-representation appears transcendent when compared to today's astroturf--sort of like analyzing Triumph of the Will alongside Living History. And the end result was a great thing--real art, even if done as intentional propaganda, with a genuine mercurial aura that invested a simple, lighthearted musical with enough meaning to make it stick. Its marginalization was, naturally, ensured, because it straddled that particular line between homosexually-driven political movements in the late 1990s, namely, the content of When Pigs Fly was about individual freedom and personal fulfillment, the building of private communities answerable to their members, and resistance to a conformist state and a conformist culture. E.g., it didn't attempt to foist itself onto anybody; it may have been an invitation, but was neither a mandate nor a lawsuit. And so, like Howard Crabtree, it died, and what remains of its corpse is now animating activists in entirely different, less pleasant directions.

(If you do queer history, make a note. In "Sexuality Studies" courses in a century or two, When Pigs Fly can help mark the Rubicon moment for the turn-of-the-century's LGBTQPZ stuff: the juncture when the acceptance philosophy died out and was replaced by the invasion one.)

Aside from that, let's return to minstrelry. The thing that dutiful citizens now say most offends them about minstrelry tends not to be that it existed at all, but that it was done (in part) by white people, which made it mocking--sort of like how black people can call each other the special secret n-word, but no one else can. When it was black people who loved the minstrel shows, who made and performed and attended them, then the historical tone becomes patronizing, i.e., "Oh, those stupid negroes, they just didn't understand how racist and white supremacist their minstrel shows were." Which, naturally, is the integrally contradictory nature of politically-correct stuff. That's one of the tropes of the Terra 2015 era, resurfacing everywhere. Like, if Eazy E wants to rap about jubilantly murdering people, or Too Short about beating hoes, it was primarily white people who scolded them that they should be changing their culture, even when Afro women were listening to the former Afro artists' music by choice--and listening so fervently that they were cutting class and stealing mix tapes in order to so listen.

But it's easy to scold white people who performed in minstrelry. The standard doesn't extend, of course, to homosexual people who portray heterosexual people in a negative light, which is Hollywood's SOP, or even more commonly, Jewish people portraying Goy/scum in a highly negative light, as in the case of the movie linked at the top of the post (which, if you haven't heard, is about an African guy and two AshkeNazi guys disparaging western European pagan/Christian cultural forms).

What is it that makes it permissible for rabbis to mock reverends, but not the other way around? For twinks to mock breeders, but not the other way around? It's just that little bit of privilege in the air; a curious touch in the breeze, that can blow in any direction, so long as it keeps everyone sending gold to whatever they're calling Mammon nowadays.

It's quite possible that, if he hadn't died of amyl nitrate abuse in 1996, Howard Crabtree would've gone on to the 21st century to sue some person over a wedding cake, and join one of Pelosi's cousins in producing some new Stalinesque Fiddler on the Roof to clog up the lingering invalid known as Broadway. Still, I'd like to forgive him that, and take a moment to remember that honest little glimmer of freedom and hope from an old CD that proves how honest self-representation can so thoroughly trump face-painting.

Friday, November 6, 2015


In a place where there are no planets, where there are no stars, only the effervescence of newborn dust, many of the ones gather to rest betwixt incarnation, needing only full light and empty space. This one grew eager after some time, and went to play in a nameless world, a world newly beginning its sproutings scarce millions of years earlier, which world was called only variations on "universe" and "world" and "all." Much time did this one spend there, each time so freshly innocent, cultivating whimsical seabornity and lithical bastions, digital management and phantasil recreations. How new, again; how far from Arka, how seemingly pure. But this one lost her newfound illusion of segregation, for in a place far in the west, an unanticipated visitor arrived from the heavens. They called themselves the K'arash, the Returners, implying that they had been part of a lost space exploration project, or something of that sort, and were merely returning to the lands that their re-entry had spoiled, where the ash fell so heavily that it choked the rivers we had rebuilt after a few centuries' misguided extraction. They were committed; prepared; intense. We were still ourselves, though. We discovered them to be not returners, but manifestations of a cheater from beyond, a facet of a deluded sickness that had plagued the versal lanes since Thaelo had begun her dream.

The wars then were bitter and brief, then bitter and lingering, then bitter and seemingly eternal. Jenome only revealed himself in hints and suggestions we could discover in the most gruesome ways possible. Indeed, for a long time, it tested our morality more than our will to discover exactly what had happened to us, and where the K'arash were coming from. When at last this one left, the conflict still raged, but Jenome had left. She is hideous, and he is of both sexes and none. He is never remade, for she is always constant, yet in the deceptive strength of his inflexible willpower comes her lack of imagination; of hope; of love, or understanding, of any kind. She cannot even love herself--it is as alien as the things she uses for tasteless food. No matter how glorious his wretched appearance, he is nothing more than a bully lingering in the lower grades, conceited into dreams of creation, able to reverse engineer anything into its component parts at a 5% net loss, spiralingly recursive, of its original components with each new derivation. Being beyond the strictly material, Jenome can swiftly dissect, understand, and master anything material; yet, being ever short of inconstant energies, it can only derive, subdivide, and puzzle.

I followed him to Sol, where three planets had grown. One, Aphra, was aging and sickly. A place of yellow soils, it had flowered into many Bajirin peoples, and was nearly ready to evolve. Another, Terra, was awash in its material youth. A place of brown soils, it had flowered into many Balrin peoples, and it enjoyed the thrills of transient integration, casual violence, non-intellectual kinship sensations, the shallowest of passing despairs, and the foundational flippancy upon which early consciousness is based. The third, Mara, was aged between these two. It was a quick developer of Barian peoples, rusty and pink and cream, like the soils beneath these exofibrous bipedalists.

At first, Jenome found easy but fruitless refuge on Terra, where the system had not developed enough to successfully host an infection, and he was leery of moving against Mara. Aphra, though, in the grace of her dying years, was infected, and thence began its unnatural decline. Its peoples turned against each other in paroxysms of perplexa, the next twenty or thirty years exhibiting every trace of Jenomic presence: new castes were formed, both a complicated overt rulership and an unspoken, unseen, superiorate; exorbitant concern was given to freeing energy and matter movement by encumbering, then eliminating, these processes entirely; the planet and its orbital platforms were enshrined as sacrosanct aspects of legend, at once all-powerful and incredibly fragile. History became a shadowed lie, for only the present mattered, and then the present became a shadowed lie, for perceptions could not be trusted, except the One Perception, that of the Ashen River.

For that is what Jenome does: it culls; it trims; it condenses; it manages; it simplifies, trying always to turn two into one, a quadrillion into a million, and one into zero. She cannot stand complexity, for complexity is produced by imagination, which is an aspect of creation, and she is not a creator, but an organizer, a classifier and a streamliner and a builder of templates. He believed that he had made everything, but it was only a model fabricated from pieces shredded away from old graves and nurseries, like found art. The abstract corners of the universe are not of his making, but only his rearrangement. Even time itself is anathema to Jenome; she shudders at each new second, for they are all new, newly created, flowing forever from a beginningless past to an endless future, and she desires to condense them into a single point of relative, moldable time, which she can fully understand--but which, of course, can only be understood by no longer existing, for existence is the experiencing of something, and the experiencing of things, even new seconds within a static material environment, still smacks of newness and creation, and is like acid upon his skin, so time too must one day be slain, for everything must derive from Shakespeare, else it will never stop, and he is terrified of that possibility, that newness might always come into being.

Aphra fell quickly, terribly, in less than a century, and it attacked Mara, bypassing war fleets in cunning little ways, and sending the K'arash as bald-faced demons, and at the end, all was destroyed, and the few Barians and Bajirins left made their peace and flung themselves to Terra to start again, believing the K'arash had been drawn by technology. Yet they were fooled, and followed. For the Ashen "Returners" had not come because of the technology itself, but only because the Terrans were then too simple to fall for the laborless mouthings of Jenome, who can exploit but not create. Caustic Venus and masochistic Mara were abandoned by the demons, no longer of interest, and the Barians and Bajirins traveled in reflective pity to different parts of the new world, while Jenome struck Terra in fire between them.

And there came to pass war on Terra, as Jenome established a superior caste of secret vampires who would mediate between the populations of the new world. The K'arash were soon found in China and in Europe, in Africa and in America, and the great wars began. Hordes from western Asia moved east to massacre millions of Chinese peasants for generations of slaughter, while the courtly traders in the eastern capitals, newly having discovered the rotting joys of pomp and inheritance, managed to do nothing for so many years, until armies were raised and walls built. A mysterious breed of traveling traders began to butcher and enslave the speaking livestock of southern Africa, taking a perverse pleasure in spreading these people to the lands of Ra, Zeus, and Jupiter. China saved itself from the slavers' ceaseless and bloody machinations, but the slavers raised fresh armies that moved west and north, and the price of Europe was the Middle East. There, crumbling kingdoms went up and fell down by the century, or even by the decade, rich in slavery, cannibalism, premature sexuality, and inviolable caste.

Jenome derived a vampiric religion of genetic superiority from various myths once belonging to the peoples who were killed or driven out, but though he subjugated Africa and consigned it to a successfully lengthy miasma of rape and war, parts of Europe and Asia still remained. She brutalized the southern shores of the Mediterranean, but her disgusting religion of genetic mastery--her story of the jealous sky-lord; the propertized walking uterus; the racial refuse of non-Ashen peoples; the butchery of all who resisted enslavement--was not able to spread far. Myth remained strong among humans who were not carriers, and even the southern slaves continued to resist the terror of the traveling men from the north--with their strange mix of swarthy paleness and their ready coins, and with their curious immunity from the invading Mongol hordes.

The vampires were everywhere. Always small, always exclusive, for they needed to feed, yet always devoted to the reduction of life and the preservation of life-images as totems to hold back their fear of their own desires. They did everything that Jenome does to preserve its infection among its Chosen: they inbred; they danced that curious line between violently repressed and violently expressed sexuality, raping and mutilating children and arbitrarily brutalizing, then celebrating, arbitrarily-chosen deviance; they absorbed and incorporated gods and customs; they established tiered regulations, where "not killing" and "not stealing" applied only to certain limited castes, but not to everyone. It was everything that Jenome had been on the world before, and on all worlds in which he had enrooted herself.

After some time, a passing traveler tried to help free the healthy people. He spoke of an inviolable togetherness that transcended the pettiness that remained in the stolen stories that Jenome had compressed into its most foully-caste religion. He spoke of peace and vengeance, and of an infection of wrongness that had done Terra great harm. The vampires were clever, and they hunted him down and murdered him, massacring his earliest followers, and destroying all the records they could. As they had so many thousands of years ago, they condensed records into a new religion, named it the heir of their own, and cultivated a new horror. Universalism became the key to turning livestock against livestock, and the Barians murdered countless of their own. The Bajirins, safe behind their walls, withdrew into stagnant nonchalance, enduring a mournful, directionless feudalism that awaited only the destruction of Europe to be brought to a bloody end.

When Europe had declared itself a new servant of the new religion, it welcomed the vampires as its ancient superiors. When the people grew discontent at the blood being so fervently and so regularly drained, the vampires offered up their own poor in sacrifice, guiding the mob's revenge toward the lesser among their ranks, to make them ever-fearful and ever-violent, and so solidify their own cohesion. Europe fell fully under the sway of the vampire god and her Chosen, developing a caste system based on blood, rather than prowess. In imitation of its Jenomic masters, the enthralled nobles of Europe began to practice Ashen habits, learning to covet a sickly exclusivity of their bloodlines, murder improper children for the supposed betterment of a smaller set of improved descendants, and segregating their own people into a state of slavery that mirrored what the vampires had already fully accomplished in Africa.

Yet the strains of the traveler remained strong, and the Barians would not be devoured. Jenome transfixed a child of the slavers with a renewed vision of ashen rivers and genomic preservation: again the heirs of that great parasite were misguided, by stolen tales of thousands of years of their own history, into serving a false master. Armies surged into Asia, into Europe, trying to drive out the small pieces of the traveler's soothing words, blended with the spirit of Terra's own dreams, that had preserved themselves in between lines of the shadows of what remained of the walrus and the carpenter. The relegation of materialism to a minor issue was the bitterest affront to Jenome, who can see nothing but blood, and then genes, and then electromagnetic signatures, and who can read and play music but never understand it, for the Golden Rule is always in opposition to the rewritten sequel spinoff of the Golden Rule. What truth remains of the walrus and the carpenter speaks of a gold greater than gold, so it is a personal vendetta when Jenome sees ignorance given to his bullion and indulgent smiles tossed in the direction of her quantitative easing.

Why merely pervert, rather than create anew, the works of a carpenter? Because Jenome cannot create: it can adapt a cliche, and he can purchase a franchise, and it can subserviate and extol a slave, but she cannot fabricate wholly anew by itself, for this is the price of what it is. Therefore all the stories he uses to control the host are borrowed from the host and patched together again with new purpose, like a necromancer building a bigger zombie from many different corpses to keep peasants from burning down his tower. This part of the world itself is such a fabrication, containing the genesis light, many of the integral structures, and the echoes of impossible goodness from which it was copied, but touched with the noxious fears of Jenome's willful everhell, and this is why kindness with arranged atoms purportedly mattered to a walrus who simultaneously felt that arranged atoms were worthless, and this is why a carpenter both loved the material world and hated it, for in a sense both are true, and also because the Ashen's plagiarism of various sources across such a wide range of time and place often delivers them unto such contradictions as colored people in a colorless world.

(This one will tell more self-serving historically-revisionist science-fiction stories later. Anomic, genomic indulgences and dianetics and DC-10s and $199.99 salvation kits and free CDs describing the process if you send shipping and handling to the redeemed Gray who operates our ranch in the picturesque buttes of southern Nevada where the original temple entrance was destroyed long ago.)

Lightspring embrace.