A Distant Thunder By Harold A. Covington

America in the near future is a cold, cruel place, especially in the hardscrabble rural Pacific Northwest. There’s war in the Middle East, a revived draft, mass unemployment, an economy permanently on the skids, greed and corruption, incompetence and stupidity at the top. Poor blue-collar kids from the trailer park are last in line for everything.

“Genuine politics is about one thing,” Red told us time and again. “It is about the acquisition and exercise of power. Everything else is political hobbyism, a luxury which the wealthy landed gentry of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries who created liberal democracy in this country and in England could afford, but which a race like ours which stands on the verge of extinction cannot. We are about to enter the world of realpolitik, as the Germans call it.

All state power, without exception, is initially acquired through armed force or through the imminent threat of armed force. All modern states, without exception, were originally brought into existence by men who fought for power with weapons in their hands.”

Fukuyama argued that liberal democracy was the final form of human government for all time to come. He claimed that the allegedly irresistible combination of liberal democracy and multinational capitalism had triumphed over all other competing systems such as monarchy, fascism, communism, National Socialism, welfare state socialism, and of course that nasty Islamic theocracy of the ignorant Arab peasants that persecuted poor little helpless Israel so. History was now at an end, Professor Fukuyama told the world. All that remained was to formalize that fact by taking care of a few little details and getting everybody on board and whipped into shape. Then once we got rid of all those picky little details like race, and religion, and culture, and morality, and the traditional nuclear family—in other words, once we destroyed all that makes humanity truly diverse in the non-politically correct sense of the term—then all the nations of the earth would boogie down in one great conga line onto the great worldwide Euro- American consumer plantation. There mankind would graze in the grass, dancing and singing and blowing dope and fucking anything with a pulse, bathed in the warm soothing glow from the television. The very flow of history itself would cease and the Garden of Eden would be reborn, but instead of a serpent in our new paradise we’d have only Ronald McDonald. The world would henceforth and forever be benevolently ruled from the corporate boardroom by pale, unseen beings in expensive suits, while at their shoulder for spiritual guidance whispered the holy rabbi Hyman Heeblebaum from Temple Schmuck-El, wearing his little blue and white knitted beanie, his heart filled with the brotherhood of man and confident in his ancient Talmudic knowledge of what is best for us all. Wrong, asshole. Dead wrong. The United States of America into which I was born was all a lie. A cheap, shoddy, vicious, evil lie that deserved nothing but bloody death at the point of the sword. In the United States of America, if you had a white skin and a dick on you, if you had no money, then you were nothing. Get back, redneck! No one cared about you. No one would lift a finger to help you, and all you were good for was to fix the rich people’s appliances and toys. You were raw material for biped swine in suits to make money for themselves off your sweat and your pain. You lived your whole life like a dog, you were beaten like a dog, and you died like a dog. Well, by God, we showed those rich sons of bitches and their smart Jew lawyers and their pet monkeys that dogs have teeth! Oh, yeah. Amazing what a few well-placed bullets and a dab or two of Semtex under some rabbi’s kosher tuches can do to get the wheels of history jump-started and turning back on track. My name is Shane Ryan. I was one of those little details Fukuyama and his kind could never quite take care of. I was a Northwest Volunteer. This is how we started the wheels of history turning again.

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