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MALTHUSIAN MELODY 1

Chapter 1

Let me share something real helpful right off the bat.  If you want to be able to kill your enemies, start off practicing with a real dumbass that doesn’t see it coming.  That’s what I did with my brother in law.  Shot the fucker right in that disgusting little Santa Claus belly of his, right in front of my sister and her kids.  I didn’t even feel bad about it, either.  That’s a long story, and of course I’ll get to it.  The point is, you need to get over the fright of the first time, and that ain’t going to happen in a more dangerous life and death situation where you are evenly matched.  You go for the easy kill first, the assassination rather than the duel, so to speak, and your mind now has a frame of reference that cuts down on the stress and jitters that can kill you normally.  Almost no situation is ever as bad as the anticipation of it, as we all know.  So do yourself a favor and ease into something as difficult as killing a fellow human being.  After that, it is easy and perhaps even fun.

 

   I’m Matt Smith.  Matt, as in “what do you call a paraplegic in front of the door”.  Yep, I heard that one a bunch of times.  Smith, well, we all can’t have cool last names.  This is my story, which I’m writing down the first winter after the collapse of civilization.  I’ve got a battery good for years yet, so the computer is one thing I’m keeping going.  And lots of printing paper and ink cartridges.  After the word processor is toast, that will pretty much be it for my writing.  Fuck all of you if you think I’m doing this by longhand and ball point pen.  I’m doing future generations a favor by chronicling the blow by blow of The End, as that seems to be one thing that always seems to be missing after a crash.  Then, eight hundred years later, a bunch of fuckwit dumbass douche bags are just bumping around in the dark, holding their scrote sacks  guessing about everything.  So, I’m trying to record for prosperity, here.  Let everyone know the why of it all.  Not that all the same mistakes won’t be made again.  They will.  But nobody can say someone didn’t try to issue a warning about repeating mistakes.  99% of the population will blindly be willingly lead into the crapstorm, so I’m writing for the 1% that will heed and prepare and strengthen the gene pool.  But that doesn’t mean I’m ruining my eyes writing by candlelight ( I know, an old wives tale, but it sure feels like you are screwing up your vision doing it ) and a feather and inkwell.  Once the modern implements wear out, my tale is done.  I’m doing this as a hobby, not a profession.  No reason to kill myself.

 

   The modern conveniences are also what allows almost everyone to be literate ( although, reading James Patterson, that monkey molesting twat of a hack, does not count ), so I’m sure I won’t be the only one writing for the ages.  So, to be different, and hope my heirs ( hopefully, the prodigy of my union with wives drug by their hair unwillingly from raided villages ) will perhaps see some publishing royalties if civilization is partially restored ( yea, RIGHT! ), I’m making this both about civilization taking a big flush, and all about me, my personal life and experiences, and a history leading up to both.  Hey, fuck you.  Read it or not.  Chances are good this manuscript will go up in flames after my domicile is attacked and burned.  So I’m writing for me.  You can enjoy it if you wish.

 

   If not, again, piss off.  I could pretend to be high class and high faluten and be a big cheese and talk in two bit words, but as you will soon see, I’m an uncouth foul mouthed cretin with beer budget tastes and under no illusions my writing will ever be more than the mutterings of a savage.  I did mention I killed my first helpless victim just for practice, right?  Don’t worry, I’ll get to it.  I got a LOT of ink and paper, and a lot of time.  I could go out in the snow and try to fuck with someone, but now is the time to lay low and let the big Die Off happen.  Oh, yeah, I say “fuck” a lot.  I can’t imagine there will be any Politically Correct fucktards left to read this, so I can’t see it matters much.  Fuck those PC pukes.  Fecal smeared cheese dingus motherfuckers, trying to sell the Fudge Packing Lifestyle like it was desirable.  Sorry, I like gals, and the Entry Portal is in the front.  Sick whores. 

 

   Now, before you get all pissed, storming off to pray to whatever God you kneel to, there won’t be any graphic sex scenes in here.  I have my standards.  That stuff is fun, but it should be private.  So, if your kids already swear like gimp sailors with a half eaten away genital region from some exotic Asiatic skin disease, no worry about them being offended here.  Just uncouth, not obscene.  And I think uncouth serves a purpose right about now.  Every civilization in decline exhibit’s the same degeneracy and moral limpness.  Women’s Lib, gay rights, that sort of thing ( some even claim every one has their version of Hippies, but I wonder if that wasn’t the writers prejudice, his square ass crew cut self unable to get some free love ).  I’m just trying to right that imbalance by going out of my way to one eighty degree the old “modern progressive” lifestyles.  So I’ll be making fun of old people, women, minorities and the like.  But I’ll tell you my reasoning, too.  A teachable moment, you are welcome very much.

 

   Oh, and there will be all kinds of twisting and turning and back and forth.  Not a linear tale, but jumping all around.  Like the movie “Pulp Fiction”.  Stupid jagbags got all confused when the story mixed past and present and one character with another.  You know, like they write books.  This was considered avant-garde in Holly Weird.  Talk about lowest common denominator in entertainment.  And don’t think I don’t know what you are all going to do, either.  You read the cool parts, the explosions and gun battles with clouds of lead spraying about, then get bored with all the rebuilding and restructuring of society, because, hey, let’s face it, the origins of the mating rituals of a foreign tribe is pretty much boring to most people compared to a war, so if this was a linear progression you would only follow the beginning and never get into the meat of the story.  Hence, a non-linear story line to keep the rubes studying.  Suckers.

 

   Now, just so you don’t think I’m some kind of evil twisted bastard, getting my jollies setting kittens on fire ( I love cats, and should I ever attain the level of warlord who inhabits an evil lair, I shall have lap cats I can pet as I plan diabolical world domination schemes.  I would never harm one of the beasts ) or scorching ants with a magnifying glass-notice the underlying theme of destruction by fire, I want to make it clear that my brother in law is a pretty noticeable waste of sperm.  As in, the best part of that sumbitch ran down his mama’s leg.  Sharing our planets oxygen with this douche is an affront to Mother Nature.  It wasn’t like he beat on my sister.  Not that she didn’t deserve it, five kids and each one from a different father and please don’t take this wrong because I’m not a hater about skin color ( I have friends of all different color schemes.  It is the persons tribe, not his skin, that I like or dislike ), but two were from Blacks of the worthless ghetto variety.  I think she just did that to piss off mom and dad, but the joke was on her because they both died in a car wreck before the little half breeds were spawned so now she drags along a couple of kids that are like a neon sign on her forehead screaming “I fuck Negros”.  Pardon my French.

 

   A few notes for any future historian.  If you read anything from the 19^th century, all you come across are justifications as to why Blacks are worthless and deserve persecution.  If you read anything from the late 20^th or early 21^st century, you only read about how special and deserving but persecuted Blacks are.  If you get a Black from Jamaica or Brazil, they are just like Whites from the same culture.  One burns in the sun worse, being the only difference.  But if you take an American Black, who was raised in the ghetto ( slums ) culture, you get a person at the end of a long line of people who refused to assimilate into White culture.  Not that you could blame them.  But the point is, being two different tribes, both alien to each other, both hate each other.  Whites don’t hate Blacks because of skin color, and Blacks don’t hate Whites because of a history of oppression.  They just each hate tribes different than theirs.  Most just don’t realize that is the reason.  So, please excuse any future references here disparaging Blacks, either by me or others.  It isn’t racism, it is xenophobia.  Which is a perfectly valid survival mechanism.

 

   So, hating a skank bitch because she breed outside her tribe is a valid avoidance mechanism.  You start absolving that kind of behavior-mixing the blood between tribes, which can of course sometimes be based on race, although not always- and soon you are asking for a genocide to right the problem come a collapse.  Hence, you can kind of guess the worthless mouth breather my sister would tend to attract.  One who is a lazy bastard.  A lying bastard.  A shifty, drop-a-dime type.  Kind of like those little fuckers who want to grow up to be cops, join the Explorer Program ( junior pigs ).  They go into a retail business, the guys who look like they have no hair on their dicks and faces full of pimples from eating deep fried Twinkies, and try to buy a pack of cigarettes.  Someone’s grandma, not making it on Social Security because she has had her rectum yanked out or something and has huge medical bills, has to work to make ends meet, like paying rent and buying colonoscopy bags.  So Junior Cocksucker does his sting operation, busts her if she doesn’t ask for identification ( well, slinks outside to narc her out to real cops ), she ends up with a five hundred dollar fine, but making minimum wage.  They won’t fire her, because they don’t care how many times she gets busted-she pays the fine.  If she holds up the line, goes too slow, asking everyone for ID, they find another reason to fire her ( which, let‘s face it, they decided to do after the first accidental whiff of that bag ).  All so some little cunt who wants to make his chops with the kings sheriff brown shirts gets his “in” to the organization later after getting some college and going to the Police Academy.  He probably later works for Vice in a big city department so he can fuck people over, lord over them, get free drugs and screw prostitutes for free.  That is the kind of little scumbag I’m talking about.

 

   Actually, I’d rather deal with a cop like that, than my brother in law.  Doug, that’s the creepy little shit, he is crack smoking skinny, looking as pasty as a Nordic Negro ( White boys who dress and talk ghetto ), plays video games all day and when it is his turn to talk, you can literally smell the wheels grind as he struggles to comprehend and respond.  Which, of course, means he graduated from High School.  Doug is one stupid fucktard.  What does my sister see in him?  Well, there is the size thirteen shoes.  I mean, you know she is one of those gals that puts out on a whim, desperately casting about for a sugar daddy.  Her cooch is probably so stretched out from use, that plus four kids being popped out ( Doug produced the fifth one ), shit be flopping around in the wind, whistling, any poor bastard who wants to chance his junk exploding upon entry from a venereal disease has to strap a two by four on his ass to keep from falling in.  She wants to feel anything during sex, she needs a guy who is unnaturally hung.  Plus, she wants to keep spawning more kids, the cash machine bringing in more Food Stamps and Section Eight free housing and other federal goodies, she needs a guy to plant his seed in her.  You can’t match up a small weenkie and a giant twat and expect too much, procreation wise.  You ever try slopping around in an extra large wet hole?  No friction.  And, even if all that is not a reason, Doug the hung stallion, he does bring in Food Stamps on his own.  You know how easy it is to sell those bastards?  Even with the new electronic debit cards ( which were pushed instead of the paper currency, incidentally, by the banks wanting a transaction fee every time it was used ), you buy cases of soda, sell at a discount to a guy who sells at a discount to a Habeeb store.

END PART ONE OF TWO
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