Goyim were born only to serve us. Without that, they have no place in the world — only to serve the People of Israel. Why are gentiles needed? They will work, they will plough, they will reap. We will sit like an Effendi and eat. That is why gentiles were created!
My name is Michael Colhaze III. Or, if that sounds too grand, make it the 3rd. I am a grandson of the mythical essayist Michael Colhaze, a vertical man who once collaborated with the even more mythical and vertical man-of-letters Kevin MacDonald, editor of The Occidental Observer, the latter one of the last bastions of Unfettered Speech and Objective Erudition, not to mention Honest Dissent, in the then still Free World. Which came to an abrupt end when Christendom and the White Race collapsed for want of a backbone, and its adherents and members were subjugated rather deservingly to a life of snivelling servitude.
Here a few facts. Since the razing of every Christian sanctuary, Notre Dame de Paris and the Milan Dome included, and the destruction of every Art Museum and its contents because those were so shockingly out of step with the divine body of Talmudic teachings, all that’s left of our once great culture is the Vatican in Rome. One reason appears to be the Papal Bank of the Holy Spirit, owned since six hundred years by the Rothschild Brothers. The other because the present Pope, Benedict XVIII and a grandson of Benedict XVI, gets handcuffed to St. Peter’s throne for six hours every day as a living example and warning for gaping Yeshiva students, to the effect of what can happen when a spiritual leader oozes and snivels and appeases about, looses himself and his top brass in pointless doctrinal peanuts, and hasn’t any guts left to put up a fight and defend our glorious Christian European culture, the only reliable foundation for Christ’s Message of Love and Compassion.
I used to be a professor for advanced photography at the Humboldt University of Berlin, Germany, but since its definite closure in AD 2045, namely to the day exactly of Germany’s capitulation one hundred years ago, and together with the Universities of Berkeley, Princeton, Yale, Oxford, Cambridge and the Sorbonne, have I been engaged in various functions, one indeed rather exalted. Unfortunately, and due to an accident which nearly cost me my life, am I at present working, ploughing and reaping like everybody else.
To be more precise, I’m reaping cotton in the Upper Nile Delta, part of Egypt Province of Greater Israel. Conditions are dire, with swarms of mosquitoes and plenty of crocodiles lurking in the river’s many side arms. Hence Camp Croc, the name of our farm. The beasts are property of LevyValentino of Milan, get harvested if more than three years old, and are made eventually into the world’s finest shoes and bags. They are also the reason why there isn’t a military presence at our camp, because whoever tried to escape until now didn’t get very far. My co-slaves are mainly from Europe, with Spaniards the largest contingent. This because it was never forgotten or forgiven that Spain had revoked the infamous Hate Laws as unconstitutional, on the grounds that people couldn’t simply be sent to jail because they dared to doubt some highly improbable historical episodes. Then there is one ex-BNP member from formerly Great Britain, a constable who miraculously escaped show trial and liquidation after Archduke Miliband III of Herzlya had established himself as the country’s new Oliver Cromwell and turned Parliament Building into a Jerusalem Yeshiva Dependency to amuse his ultra-orthodox chieftains. A fact only marginally less regrettable than the fate of Capitol Hill, once a proud hallmark of the former US and its democratic achievements, but now a derelict gambling casino-cum-cathouse operated by a Las Vegas outfit called Rahmemmanuel Corp. Which brings me to my two American co-slaves, one Ronald and one Richard. Ronald is a diminutive gay caught in flagranti after a jealous lover’s tip to the Torah Guardians. He escaped the death sentence and consequent removal of his essential organs, mandatory for homosexual intercourse among slaves, only because his fellow bugger was a distant cousin of Ben Bernanke III, head of the Federal Reserve, the present ruling body of the former US and its only political institution. As for Richard, he is a master stonemason from Chicago who was stupid enough to keep his grandfather’s Colt ’45 as a kind of nostalgic heirloom in a kitchen drawer. Until his aberrant wife, during an erotic fling with the wife of an impotent kosher chicken manufacturer, spilled the secret while getting high on first-rate crack from a sophisticated factory in an ex-kibbutz on the Golan heights. For a slave to own a handgun is of course punishable with death and the removal of your essential organs. But since WASPs are diminishing at a frightful rate, it is understood that this could endanger the sacred Effendiness of the Torah Sages and their followers, and might even lead to the horrible situation where the latter could be forced to plough, sow and reap themselves. Which was the reason why Richard, who is young and powerfully built, didn’t receive the customary slug in the neck but a ticket to the Nile delta. The whole outrage has been important enough to merit a notice in The New York Times, the continent’s last independent newspaper. Which has shrunken, for lack of readers and because of the rigorous ultra-orthodox rabbinical censure, to a size not bigger than a former paperback, with three pages except for the Sabbath edition which runs a cultural feuilleton and thus elevates the total number of pages to three and a half.
The only positive aspect of my present predicament is our camp commander, one Col. (ret.) Moshe Moisevich, ex-Mossad and once section chief for Third World operations called Brothel, Nightclub and Casino Surveillance, all with the aim to earmark corrupt politicians for a spot of blackmail. But since the Third World inhabitants, just like those of the Islamic world, weren’t deemed the top-of-the-pop in terms of working, ploughing and reaping, ACSP (Aerial Carpeting Sterilization Program) has been applied some time ago and caused a slow but rigorous de-population, which in turn made Moshe’s job redundant. He is a secular Jew, another rapidly diminishing tribe, and perceived by the Ultras nearly as worthless as the Goyim slaves themselves. Hence his posting to this hellhole. Which is the reason why he sometimes, and when in his cups, curses his father and grandfather, the latter a Russian immigrant, to hell and back. Because, says he, it was them who didn’t realize in time that Israel’s socio-political situation was spelling disaster, namely insofar that a secular Israeli couple had rarely more than one child, if at all, while Rabbi Ovadia’s Haredim had thirteen or more. Well, we know the rest. Someone forgot ACSP, and now it’s too late. Moshe loves his can of beer, plenty of those in fact, which is the reason why we have nicknamed him Lagerkommandant. Lager means camp in German and beer in English, and is therefore a pun. He is on the whole a rather decent fellow, without rancour or giving himself airs, and loves his dog Toby like the children he never had.
Now let me tell you why I’ve ended up in Camp Croc in the first place.
It all began in Berlin. After the closure of my university I found a job as dishwasher, but soon someone remembered my acumen in advanced mega-pixel photography and its applications, particularly of how to beautify an ugly face convincingly. A new career was offered, and I accepted gladly since the general situation worsened at an appalling pace, meaning that our once constitutional rights were revoked one by one until none was left. You may ask why on earth I’ve done nothing to counteract this terrible development, like joining the Knights Templars, or one of the secret brotherhoods sponsored by Russia’s Vladimir III. But you know how it is: one always hopes for the better, even if it gets always worse. That apart, I’m not a born hero, and the decision between speaking up and being caught or keeping silent and getting on was an easy one. Today I know of course better, namely that I should have done something, even at the risk of my life. But that’s yesterday’s snow, as we say in Germany, and long since gone.
One day I was called to the High Rabbinical Court of Torah Sages, where it expired that the Exalted Effendi for All Germany, political arm of Europe’s Chief Rabbi, needed beautified photographs of himself since he was stunted, squint-eyed and saddled with an inherited black hat that kept slipping over his ears, nose and sidelocks. To tell you the truth, my efforts were so phenomenally successful that I was flown to Jerusalem. Which is now capital of the United Torah Empire and extends across most of the planet except a few Far Eastern countries and Russia, the last bastion of Christian Faith and singular hope that one day this nightmare might come to an end. There is also China, but since the latter’s inhabitants used to skin their dogs alive before eating them, they were overcome, most likely as a divine retaliation, by a particularly lethal Swine Flu mutation which has wiped them out to the last ogre. And which nobody has ever regretted in any way, as far as I know.
In the Holy City I was whisked immediately to the New Temple, an impressive edifice from dried mud and an exact replica of the First Temple, built where once the Golden Dome stood. To tell you the truth, I had a wild hope to come into the presence of the present Torah Sage & Emperor, Rabbi Ovadia Yosef III, great-grandson of the Empire’s spiritual founder, but this didn’t come to pass. I was received by the Grand Vizier instead, who explained to me that my professional aptitude was required for a giant undertaking, namely the reprint of two hundred million Talmud abbreviations for young Yeshiva students, this time with a beautiful cover image of the Torah Sage & Emperor’s great-grandfather pointing an index finger at a passage of his own silver-inlaid Talmud, and subtitled for better understanding: Rabbi Ovadia Yosef while delving into the Torah Sage’s Source of Wisdom.
I had a great choice of photographs, all gleaned from the only two remaining Internet providers, Yewhoo and Shmoogle. As you might have expected, I didn’t disappoint my clients. They approved my work without a second glance, gave me a bag of paper shekels for my efforts, and told me to set the complicated digital printing mechanisms into motion. Which I did. Back in Berlin, I allowed myself a wild weekend in one of the many Yeshiva owned brothels, then calmed down and got back to normal. For half a year nothing particularly important happened. Until one morning before sunrise, when the Torah Guardians kicked down my door, took me by the ears and slapped me into the cooler. On asking why I had been abducted in this uncaring manner, they kicked my teeth in.
To make a long story short, I survived by a hair’s breadth. When the endless grilling, mostly electrical, didn’t produce any results, they flew in a waterboarding specialist, one Alan Dershovitz III, dean for applied interrogation at the Harvard Rabbinical Juridical High School. Who made me dislike a Jacuzzi ever since, but didn’t produce any results either, simply because I hadn’t the faintest idea of what on earth was on their minds. Finally they told me, and showed me, my crime.
Namely a copy of the two hundred million Talmud abbreviations for two hundred million Yeshiva students. Which showed, still with the original subtitle, our most venerable Rabbi Ovadia Yosef not pointing an index finger at his silver-inlaid Talmud, but pushing it up his nose to a truly impressive depth. Poking fun at the preposterous old heel is of course punishable with death and the removal of your essential organs. I swore stone and bone that it hadn’t been me, but most likely some hackers of the clandestine Knight Templars who managed to worm their way into the New Temple’s central computer system and change the original photo to the one on top of this essay. Which they did most cunningly on the day when the abbreviations were going into print. And which in the end my tormentors were forced to believe grudgingly.
Communication between high echelons and low echelons, bureaucratic bigwigs and their underlings, central and outlying outfits, is often slow, scant or completely war-ped, particularly in quasi-tyrannical settings. And especially if some serious decision making is asked for within the latter, since you never know for sure if they pat you on the shoulder or stand you against a wall instead. Thus it came to pass that the two hundred million Talmud abbreviations were distributed, perhaps with a frown or two, but for the rest without a hint of hesitation. And with the result that the two hundred million Yeshiva students didn’t delve into the Torah Sage’s Source of Wisdom, but believed it to be buried up their noses instead. Which became so popular a passion that it took about a year and a half of heavy de-indoctrination to make them drop the habit.
Though proven innocent, they had developed a dislike for me, and I ended up in Camp Croc. Where matters recently took a rather exiting turn. Namely when Moshe our Lagerkommandant called us into his office one day, told us that he’d had enough of this shithole, and if we’d fancy to get out as well. Good God in Heaven, we cried unison, of course we do! Now this is the plan. Soon the first huge motor barge will arrive from Port Said to pick up a contingent of cotton bales. We’ll appropriate the damn thing, feed the ultra-orthodox skipper and his ultra-orthodox crew to the crocs, hit the Port at midnight, make it to the small military airport and sequester one of the ancient Hercules C 130 transport planes, still reliable birds which Moshe knows how to handle. We’ll fill it up to the ears with fuel and fly below the radar screen via ex-Iran into Russia. Where Vladimir III, grandson of Vladimir the Great, continues his grandfather’s intelligent rule, namely to slap his mega crooks into jail instead of pushing billions of taxpayer’s money up their backs. Moshe has still some relatives over there, one a grandaunt in lovely Odessa with a coffee shop just across from the famous Opera house. A place I can only imagine, but which haunts me while sleeping, dreaming or laying wide awake.
Well, that’s all for the moment. Matters can’t be delayed, and we are busy with many different preparations. I’ll let you know how things turned out. If not, you might want to recall a beautiful but rather sad German folksong, written long ago on the eve of World War One …
…and if we sail without return
sing us in Autumn an Amen.
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So what? Did you like this piece of blooming nonsense? Or should I just have said: Who the FUCK you think you are, Ovadia Josef? Have ye no FEAR !?