THAT’S
OFFENSIVE
Probably
due to the overwhelming customer base of Yuppie Survival Scum being overly
religious, the Basic Survival Writers Guide To Wealth stipulates preaching a
very narrow worldview that will NOT offend this sub-genre ( to be clear, I have
zero problem with religion on a personal level.
As long as it ain’t State Sponsored, and as long as your religion doesn’t
make it okay for you to kill unbelievers-such as myself-and as long as you
respect my decision to remain comfortable agnostic and refrain from trying to
convert me, I respect whatever deity you worship ). Basically, it is okay to mow down all who
oppose you, but first you have to feed all their women and children and then
can only retaliate for attacks. You aren’t
allowed to be offensive or proactive.
Now, to me this is just flippin silly.
While Tommy Tactical Manuals proliferate amongst the adherents of said
worldview, the larger strategic understanding is missing and absolutely no
comprehension of logistics is present ( stockpiling is not logistics, nor is
transportation. Logistics, especially
post-apocalypse logistics, is all that AFTER resources and infrastructure are
identified and procured ). Because New
Testament thinking is dominant, there is a lot of hugging and loving and
charity and political correctness of other ilk.
There is little in the way of Old Testament fire and brimstone and
hate. So, how can there be any
understanding of naked brute force that will once again predominate? Realpolitik.
*
Look, I
engage in lively discourse against the many and varied asswhores throughout
history which raped and pillaged and then ended up in history books as near
divine angels of perfection. Dripping
penile funguses like Washington and Lincoln and FDR. But I still understand why they did it. It was politically necessary for our empire
to grow. You can’t have a Constitutional
Republic AND an empire, not when the Constitution supposedly limits the federal
government to little more than a referee for the sovereign states. From the very first, our country was all
about stealing land and enriching those that climbed to the top ( anda big
difference between here and Europe was that here you weren’t limited by birth
to be part of the ruling elite- you could climb the ladder ). All that freedom gibberish was for mass
consumption, but at least back then even if there wasn’t true individual
freedom at least there was a better and improved version of economic
freedom. A better sharing of the pie for
the downtrodden ( today’s welfare for the poor is really fedgov subsidies to
corporations such as EBT card transactions enriching Citibank, Food Stamps
going to BigAgri, Section 8 enriching construction and construction loans,
college grants enriching private schools who are raising tuition to subsidize
their Mass Opiates Football, etc. ). Today,
amidst a deluge of individual freedom propaganda ( which is merely the freedom
from responsibility as we lounge about in our cages ), there is no longer any
pretext of economic pie sharing and the only choice you have now is how much
debt you wish to assume. Don’t get me
wrong, I always have been and always will be an Anarchist, but despite whatever
idealistic leaning I hold steadfastly I also remain a realist. It is what it
is, not what we’d like it to be. And
that reality orientated survivalist viewpoint is far from universally shared.
*
There is
a shared distaste for the average idiot with a gun and his willingness to
immediately upon any catastrophe significant enough to break down law and order
( and sometimes, not even until then ) start preying on anyone with food and
other supplies he needs. We all know a
short butt ton of these people. They are
everywhere. Almost anyone you talk to
about the world ending has this view. It
would be nice to discard them as insignificant beyond target practice but there
are so many of them that they cannot be overwhelmed ( as another wise Jim who
left a good looking corpse once said, they’ve got the guns but we’ve got the
numbers ). This dictates adopting the
smarter than the average bear strategy of hiding out until most of the killing
is done and then reemerging. Let the
flaming retards kill each other off, trading multiple magazines worth of
carbine rounds for the moldy scrapings off refrigerator shelves. Not only is this the smarter way to do
things, it is far cheaper. Why buy a
farm now when you can have one for free later?
*
My point
is, most survivalist writers can’t distinguish between being unprepared and
being a bandit during the die-off, and what happens AFTER the die-off. If you are unprepared for the collapse, you
are part of the problem. You are an
oxygen wasting armed moron. Hopefully a
redneck will snipe you with a bolt action from beyond the effective range of a
223 and take you down like the evolutionary dead end you are. If you make it through the die-off, you were
prepared. Also lucky, but that is beyond
anyone’s control. From then on however,
if you don’t act like a bandit, you are at a distinct disadvantage
militarily. And by banditry, I’m
referring to being an unsporting aggressive unprovoked stealer. You take because you need and you steal
because one day you will need. You wipe
out distant tribes not because they threaten you but because they sit at an
important strategic crossroads, have a surplus of crops, have slaves you need
for a construction project, have women you want for keeping the gene pool
uncontaminated or they sit atop a mountain containing ores you need for your
arms industry. In short, your tribe must
act like a nation state jockeying for imperial status, and non-tribal members
be damned. To those whose image of a
post-apocalypse idyllic life is permaculture villages and peaceful coexistence
with neighbors, you are living in a damn fool’s paradise. The real world doesn’t roll like that, yo.
*
History
is replete with small tribes at constant warfare with one another. And it wasn’t just resource theft. That is the ultimate species survival aspect
of it of course, but as the saying goes “to a hammer everything looks like a
nail”. Since aggressiveness and theft
are on display, cultivated and practiced, they come in handy for things other
than just waiting around for a famine before you get brutish and nasty. A lot of primitive warfare was actually
between trading partners. The bride
price was withheld, all of the promised forthcoming crops were not delivered,
an expected reciprocal gift was withheld.
That sort of thing. Since there
was no enforceable body to mediate disputes, after copious amounts of alcohol (
one imagines ) and a few questions to ones buddies about their manliness, a war
party went off to redress grievances.
You need to think back to our oft repeated mantra, It’s About The Food,
Stupid. Every behavior in a
culture/society can be traced back to its effectiveness in feeding a group
better. Boys are not raised from birth
to be warriors, nor do adult men lounge around merely to lazily pick themselves
up once a week to go hunting and on occasion help defend the tribe against
aggressors. That is a waste of resources
and probably is based on the teachings of a modern lesbian feminist who has
penis envy issues. If war did not pay,
if it did not bring in more food to the tribe, it would not be a near full time
occupation ( nation states on average wage a war every ten to twenty years
whereas in primitive societies it is about every two to four years ).
*
You need
to be ready to ignore present day indoctrination against violence ( modern
nation state man is just as violent as primitive tribes, but since the state
monopolizes violence there are problems associated with doing away with a day-to-day
aggressive practices ), when the time comes-which is AFTER the nation state
implodes, not before so don’t jump the gun- and embrace old school daily
violence against others outside your tribe in order to gain an advantage for
your group at the expense of outsiders.
Let’s zero in a bit on concrete examples to illustrate. Obviously, die-off to die-off over is not a
straight line. You don’t go from
fighting for survival to orderly newly installed government keeping peace
overnight. When I stated to hide out
until the die-off is over, I didn’t mean you could watch for a traffic light
switching from red to green. It is a
messy overlapping process. I tend to
think our food supply available after modern transportation is brought to a
standstill is only a matter of weeks, not months, but there are too many
variables to bet one’s life on. Once you’ve
determined it is indeed game over for good for our present form of governance,
you can only play it by ear as far as when the worst is over. You can’t rely on outside communications (
remember the radio signal trap in the one zombie movie?The “Resident Evil” one
). You can only react as best as
possible to local conditions.
*
You look
over to your neighbors. They were not
bad, as that sort went. Minimum of noise
from their dog, minimum loud radio or construction noise. After things fall apart, you write them off
as unworthy. The husband is out of
shape, on medications. The wife is fat
and past breeding age. The son and
daughter are prime examples of modern Wigger Angst, wastes of sperm good for
nothing oxygen befoulers. They have been
feeding themselves, and you know they have some kind of weapons. But, as the dog disappears and everyone
becomes slim and trim, you know their time is near. Desperation can’t be too far away. What do you do? Answer: in the middle of the night you fire
their place with them in it. Any running
torches get bayoneted to save on ammunition.
Granted, they did nothing to you.
They were peaceful. But they were
going to become a threat sooner or later.
There was no guarantee. They
could have just sat back and starved to death.
But being proactive means you assume the worse and act accordingly. It means you act before things deteriorate
because now you have the advantage and later you are just playing against the
odds. Welcome to the Apocalypse. You were sold a bill of goods, where
neighbors facing starvation acted like good upright law abiding citizens, where
if you treated others fairly they would return the favor. As if!
*
A
near-ish neighbor might be a prepper.
Nothing definite but there are subtle hints like furtive UPS package
delivery unloading, glimpses of Costco loads being backed into the garage, gun
cases stealthily marched back into the house as if from the range, construction
to heighten the back yard fence, what appears to be truck-loads of dirt being
driven away. You’ve tried to strike up
subtle conversations at the Post Office but the guy kind of seems like a real
prick. After the die-off, do you approach
again under a white flag and try for an alliance, a strength in numbers kind of
thing? Hell no. This is just the kind of guy who is likely to
turn on you when things get tough. Not
because he is a rude bastard but because he was realistic enough to prep so he
might be realistic enough to guess where things are going and knows he needs to
be on the offensive first in order to survive.
The best defense is an offense.
This doesn’t mean everyone degenerates into a Hobbesian blood bath. It means until tribes are formed, you can’t
trust anybody. Once tribes are formed,
you give blanket trust to your group and distrust all other always ( with
appropriate dissuading mechanisms in place for your own group, of course ).
*
Your
small town has a mini-homesteader on the outskirts of the far end. You don’t know the guy, but he’s a bit of a
hermit. He has sheep and chickens and
has been raising them for years. The
smart choice would be to approach him and exchange protection for his livestock
raising abilities. Your services include
keeping potential looters far away from his spread, but shortsighted ingrate
that he is, he rudely declines your offer.
After your messenger receives a load of birdshot in the ass, take him
out with a sniper. Someone else is going
to have to learn to care for the animals.
At the next farm, things go a bit better. In exchange for half your men ( the other
half need to stay on patrol ) helping clear land and when the time comes
harvesting crops, and for protection ( and, in the future, for procuring more
land for the farmers sons ), you are granted a twentieth of the output. Wasn’t that easier? Once you’ve practiced and perfected your
offensive craft, and word getting around doesn’t hurt, you easily fall into the
warlord slot pretty easy. Your
sensibilities may offend you that you killed innocents, but when the odds are
that they are going to become a threat to you anyway, that is just life on the
sharp end of the spear. Get over
yourself. The period between an ordered
civilized one and another civilized one is full of violence and fighting as the
slot for the new governing body is contended for. The people that keep an area protected and
laws enforced can’t do it with a kind word and anyone that threatens their
monopoly on force which is needed to secure an area must be eliminated.
*
From the
safe comfort of an office chair in front of their computer, a great many folks
protected by the empire that gave their fellow citizens enough bread and
circuses to pacify them and keep them docile, proudly and fearlessly proclaim
with all their might their absolute fealty to the notion of peacefulness and
love to their fellow man. I hope for my
sake they all continue to be self deluded.
END
More Below
Loco Gringos Fiction:
Chapter Nine Continued
“Look at those annoying fucks hanging around
at the entrance to her apartment. Here
we are in a burnt out post-apocalypse de-industrialized urban environment
uninhabitable with carbon fuel inputs and instead of scrambling for supplies
they are smoking and joking. Each cigarette
they are now blissfully unawares in discarding half smoked will soon be a
barter item of paramount importance.
Each 40 ounce beer the last of its kind.”
“I thought beer skunked in a few months.
And if these cretins are indicative of their kind, it was bought at a
Habeebs where the bottler sold at a steep discount on account of that fast
approaching Turn To Crap date. In this
case I’d think it better to use it than lose it.”
“Randy, you continue to amaze me with your insistence on shitting on all
tirades and rants I insist on instigating.”
“Hey, just focus on their revolting tendencies at steadfastly disregarding the
race and culture of their birth, mocking the far off ghetto they try to emulate
with little to no understanding either on an anthropological or sociological
level. Fucking Wiggers.”
“Racist, much, my friend?”
“Not race aversion. Stupidity
aversion. Playing poor and imprisoned
with no comprehension that the realities they wish for would be beyond their
abilities to function in.”
“So? Fuck with them? Shoot them?”
“Just be ready to drop the first stupid fuck that spouts off. No, I’ll do it. Fuck trying to save all my ammo. I’ll pop the idiot and he’s bound to have
some barter items on his person. That
should pay for my troubles. Otherwise,
ignore their stupid asses and let’s go get Big Butt.” Randy was put into a suddenly sour mood at
this last exchange. Mirthfully mocking
others from afar was all well and good.
Being confronted personally with a real life example of what he previously
laughed at was depressing and just made him angry. Stupid brain lock skinny White kids, slim
with the help of liquid meals and crack cocaine, damn crooked baseball caps and
jeans hanging down off emancipated hips as if anyone wanted to see their pale
pimply asses, looking out at the world in unfeigned slack jawed confusion. Trying to be rappers and nonconformists. And ending up being uniform fucktards. Memories of similar antics from yesterday
made for further complaints. Not that he
was necessarily complaining too much.
The real article, Blacks in the inner city, had real warrior skill sets
these small time punks could never fathom.
Randy would be at a severe disadvantage with real ghetto soldiers. These wet behind the ears slacker jag offs
were just training exercises to get him up to speed. He needed to realize that and ignore the
present spectacle and get happy again.
Sometimes he wondered if he was a bit loopy, manic depressive or some
such shit.
*
The Wiggers of course gave
the two of them the perceived notion of what was supposed to be Ghetto Stink
Eye, and Randy imagined that thirty hours ago that would have given him the
willies. Even knowing he most likely
wasn’t in any danger, just the thought of a potential increase in danger would
have awakened the Ancient Lizard part of his brain and sent the wrong chemicals
flooding his brain and screwed up his responses and thinking process. But since then he had been shot at more than once
and by now the novelty had worn off, the Dread Of The Unknown had been replaced
by experience and a feeling of comfort.
He had always been too analytical and not nearly responsive enough,
always acted like a deer in the headlights when confronted by danger. But now he knew that all the time that had
merely been a White Persons Danger. Not
really life threatening, just a dim memory of it, a shadow diluted by each
generation as his culture decayed from luxury and apathy. When real danger struck, he had responded
well enough. Okay, far superior to the
play warriors acting tough. Any real
danger would have killed him, but here he was blessed in this under populated
serene desert backwater where real danger had no economic interest. He had been able to dip his toe in rather
than be pushed into the deep end, unable to swim. And now he was comfortable, knowing he could
respond sensibly and correctly. So
instead of being worried, he just flashed the group his deepest felt smile,
blew them a kiss as he absentmindedly caressed the handle of his belt sheathed
bayonet, and turned away without a qualm and followed John to the apartment
door.
*
John knocked. “Susan, it’s John!”
Nothing. Randy shifted. Nothing.
Suddenly, elevator music came to his mind, from some movie where there
was an interlude from action and danger as the characters boarded a lift and
the pause had a cheery background sound.
What the hell film was that? Oh,
that was going to irritate him until it came to mind. “Susan?”
“Dude, I’m sure she isn’t
home. I mean, if it was me, I’d have
already stripped off my blouse and threw my bare heaving bosom into your arms
and thanked the gods my white knight had rescued me.”
“Randy, you have the soul of a shriveled genie stuck for all eternity in a
lamp, bitter and withdrawn, plotting revenge and nurturing your hate by the
millennia.”
“My soul is white and pure and only turns black at the thought of fat bitches,
bitches be so fat they are Pear People.
I live in fear of Pear People. My
liver spotted shrunken member nestled amongst my graying pubs retracts into its
body cavity at the thought of Pear People.
True story, biologic evolution has favored the female hourglass figure
as a sign of better heath and genetic makeup.
That does emphatically NOT include Pear People. You see a large quivering backside through
lust covered lenses and I see an evolutionary dead end, the very present danger
to our species you so blindly ignore.
You sir, are a traitor to your species, wishing irrevocable harm upon its
collective goodness. You seek to destroy
millions of years of positive selection.
I spit on you and your defective genes wishing to survive by mating with
like material!”
“John, you stupid
fuck! I’m over here in this
apartment. How drunk were you the last
time you came over here? Come over here,
but leave that pinche puto over there.
Jesus help us all if he thinks his babies are going to survive and be
the future of mankind.”
John looked over his
shoulder and grinned sheepishly at Randy as he started walking away to the
other wall of apartment doors. Randy
couldn’t care less. If he actually
followed John into the building he might be cornered and face imminent
annihilation if Susan body slammed him after he couldn’t escape, then landed on
him with all her might and crush his spine like a Mob caddy in a car compactor
with the body of an informant in the trunk.
He was just worried she would eat all their food rather than live off
her fat ass for a time. Bitch looked
like she could put away twenty tortillas at a time, even whole wheat ones. He looked into the room window across the
quad, morbidly fascinated, unable to turn away.
Just how large was her ass compared to her boobs? He didn’t remember them as being symmetrical,
but like all guys he was deep DNA programmed to forever keep checking out the
same female form, a continuous pick and choose, ready to sow his seed to the
superior form on a moments notice such as when he wiped out an enemy village
and could only keep one female breeder alive, or when an asteroid had just
collided with Earth and he only had moments to go before the shock wave arrived
and he needed to inseminate the best candidate quickly and then cover her
protectively with his soon to be lifeless body.
DNA sure didn’t mind playing the long odds to survive, crafty bastard.
*
Randy was tempted to go
fuck with the group of Wiggers, taunt them for amusement, but he knew the odds
began to amass against him the closer he got to the group. Best keep fifty yards between them. Then, pathetic nine mils got dragged out they
could fire wildly around him and he’s have time to aim back without too much
worry about getting hit. He was getting
a bit bored here however. Hold the
door! What was that? Looked like Susan did indeed have a friend
and she was definitely NOT a wide load like her friend! Sure, her face looked like it had been pushed
from the top of the Ugly Tree and hit every branch on the way down, but for a
gal near middle age she had enough respect for her body to stop at just one
cheeseburger and wasn’t half bad looking.
Nice rack, yo. Okay, things were
definitely looking up. No guarantees,
obviously, but Randy was sure his charm would do the trick soon enough. He’d have to keep an eye on Bush, though,
make sure he didn’t hump her leg too God-awful much. Now he had some motivation to put a bit of
pep into his step on the way back.
Whatever magical potion of bullshit John had served up on the gals, it
seemed to have worked as they appeared not too much later with backpacks and
large jugs of water. Skinny Friend even
had a small bore shotgun in hand, proving her worth for more than a mere two
week supply of mobile pantry on her hips.
Okay, more like two months. Susan
was already sweating and jiggling a few paces from the front door. Fucking seriously? Randy stared daggers into John’s back but the
poor deluded fool just kept on with a smile plastered on his face, happy for
once in his life at the prospect of wallowing in that sea of blubber
tonight. God! Randy thought he could even feel a wad of
bile form. “I’m Pam. John told me your name, Randy. Hi.”
Randy felt a stupid ass
smile forming on his own face, incapable of doing otherwise. The Little Brain was obviously in charge
again. The end of civilization and all
he could think about was humping. Worse
than that, perhaps even putting his own life in danger to protect this gal even
before he could hump her. Christ on a
cheese cracker! Oh well, it was as good
a hobby as any.
And then, on cue, the
Wiggers drew down on them and started swaggering forward. They must have wanted Susan’s pink Hello
Kitty backpack.
END
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