Die Waldgeister

Chapter 3

A young student greets you. His name tag says “Braylin”. Braylin has a modern name. There had been “Bradens” before, and “Brandons” of course, but in the early 2000's, women, who should never name a son, started adding a series of feminizing suffixes that would turn names like Brandon to Braden and finally to Braylin.

Girl’s names were often are masculinized by adopting non familial surnames like Parker, Madison and McKenzie.

The names of children reflect the belief that they are firsts, but more importantly, “onlys.” The seed of all system strivers is the belief that they are exceptional and above all obligations to family, nation or any other human institution that tempers self-advancement with duty to blood. Parents are largely unaware that they only have this idea because industrial managers demand total human fungibility. They desire that people should be interchangeable cogs and distinctions are an impediment to integration.  

For Heritage Americans like Braylin, the system idealizes names and people that lack connection to previous social orders. Any competing loyalty, even bearing the name of a forebear or favorite relative must be ultimately be eliminated. A great grandfather may have been on the ‘wrong side of history”. The modern striver would never saddle their child with such baggage in attempting to navigate the various bureaucratic complexes and corporate human mazes of the modern system, increasingly hostile and punitive.

The ideal name is a non binary, androgynous anagram made from the names of black Transsexual police shooting victims. This is what they want.

 Like all things, when they cannot force people to do this, they Astroturf a trend in the mockingbird media and popularize it with the celebrity class that women emulate.

In this way, people can become like their apartments, their strip malls, and their subdivisions. Names are drafted in marketing board meetings so the places people live lack attachment to real meaning, time or circumstance. They denote nothing. Yes, this is their vision. Each child to be a “first”…and likely, a last.

Braylin makes a series of self-deprecating jokes with the dry voice of Big Bang theory dialogue.

As he tinkers with his power point, you remember the old films, ones calmly narrated by a man with a deep voice and masculine face. His cheeks and jaw chiseled from whole foods and uninterrupted pre-war European genetic lineage. Now he would be a meme, but this was average for his day.

This Gigachad narrator you remember as relaxed and confident in his subject. He narrates stolidly…perhaps between sips of bourbon and drags on a filter less Pall Mall cigarette. He shares the phenotype of handsome, self-assured men of wit and gravitas. These men will surely continue to rule the day, you once thought. Who would submit to anyone else?

But now you look around the room and you can’t find this man or anyone that looks like his species. This great and revered creature is gone and in his place, a sordid coterie of sycophantic career women with fat knee caps and eye tremors, a docile older man with his head down toward the table. He has the Marine stare… He was a skilled man in a key position teaching particle physics but now he has been in some form of weekend HR Breakfast Club training for several months. He has seen dozens of Ibrahim Kendi power points and now his eyes draw blank, his breathing shallows and his body begins to turn down its vital life functions as a means of preserving himself for the afternoon. He has a misty vision of a man fishing with his son…maybe he wants this or this was a real experience of his once but in his vision the man is anonymous…he is a man from a generic photo frame placeholder or pre 2000’s mutual fund commercial. His self, even in his deepest dreams is replaced by a surrogate composite character as it would be too painful to imagine himself living such a life when all afternoon daylight in the foreseeable future is confined to the presentation room.   

Now you see a boyish man speak rapidly, nervously, barely able to catch his breath. He has teenager voice but is balding. He is thin but there are visible distended fat deposits that bulge at his sides, slightly hanging over his severe anterior pelvic tilt. He would be barely recognizable in the terrain of even the 1950’s.

This reminds you of a similar feeling. You rabbit holed on YouTube and watched old performances on Dick Clark’s show. You saw the kids, the performers. You heard the melodic ease. Men in lettermen sweatshirts with clean shaven Marcus Aurelius faces play tender ballads…girls risk pregnancy with cherubic broods from even prolonged eye contact with these men.

 Gordon Waller looked like he could conquer France and declare prima notte. Frankie Avalon, merely a twink in his day, implored Roman deities to grant him pleasures on live television as he floated between marbled pillars trellised with sacred ivies.

The video begins.

A woman of vague ethnicity likely created by an algorithm begins to recite a series of neologisms. It is a form of racial incantation for the HR Gods. This must be performed. She has the face of a Sims character but undoubtedly is biologically alive. She uses hyperbolic, exterminationist talking points that seem incongruent with her manor…that of a sedated lobotomy patient.

The aim of the film is to demonstrate how white men must conduct themselves in the presence of their social superiors. You think about men in other eras. The Gaul, the Teuton, the Pioneer. Your own grandfather. Not for a single fleeting second of their lives, even in the most depraved and irrational depths of their nightmares, would they navel gaze their own prejudices or anguish over the demands of hostile others.

As the presentation continues, they show a video featuring a man who, as an activist lawyer, is an expert on the subjective human emotion of hate. The camera is angled in such a way that the top of his head looks like it is adorned with a yarmulke, but it could be a toupee. Either could be plausible and there is no way to tell so you watch closer to see what type of man this is.

You remember that all humans have origins. That you can look at a person and you can see very deep in their expressions, their physical structure, even their behaviors, that which hint at their forebears. The same way you can look at a child and can see their grandparents alive once again in their eyes.

You have trouble discerning this man’s energy, there is something deeply deceptive, some hidden wickedness about him.

You can see his eyes swirl as he begins to speak quickly. He is verbally adept…cunning…he weaves a web of words that trap you with his lies, his exaggerations, his omissions.

This is not a man descended from Bears like the Ainu. You don’t sense connection to any great predators or conquerors. There is a nobility to the foundation of Rome, a nation built of great kinship and strength so it makes sense they came from the Wolf, as did Apollo.

But this person is no wolf.

 He did not arrive to earth on the wing of a Thunderbird, is not the child born from the marriage of the sky and earth. People will say someone they don’t like is a “snake” but they don’t understand snakes and are really only referencing that they move silently and slither as opposed to crawling or that they ambush.

But this means nothing.

A tiger sets an ambush, sharks glide effortlessly. Snakes are an improper metaphor for the “snake like” behavior you see. You only wish he was from a snake. He comes from something less known…but something far more terrifying.

He tells you something, a lie which is carefully constructed to hedge you into his words. You cannot escape by using the same words in return as you would usually do….

This type of person demands you to hold still, to fixate on their commands. They are physically unable to vanquish you in way a snake may attack a small creature as most predators do….

He is himself physically weak and yet you sense a tactic that is used to subdue a larger and much stronger specimen. He attacks in such a way that a fungus attacks a great oak. But he is not mindless like fungus. You remember the Orchid Mantis, he disguises as an orchid to trap pollinator insects. It is a strategy of aggressive mimicry.

This is closer.

But then it dawns to you.

You remember a type of wasp that lays eggs on a spider’s belly…The spider then works furiously, directing all its energies toward a bizarre, unusable type of web designed not for the spider, but instead for the cocoon that hosts the larvae that will kill the spider when they hatch. 

There is a type of worm that needs a vessel to take them to water. They can only hatch there, and must be picked up and delivered there. So their eggs float on the top of water and this attracts mosquitos that eat them….these mosquitos are in turn eaten by a grasshopper. Later in the season when time is right, this worm causes the grasshopper to feel an insatiable and vicious thirst…one that can’t be quenched. The grasshopper is driven into such a fervor that they throw themselves into water, drowning themselves but of course returning the worm to water…to its promised land.

Now you understand this man…his spiritual birth, and because you know him you understand his vision of your destinies. You feel a cold tingle across your back as you hear his voice…yes he has layered his eggs in the many things you consume, and you look around the room and see the people nodding, their eyes dilated…

You realize they are all looking at you. You are a broad shouldered man with upright posture. The chiropractor you saw when you pinched a nerve in your T1 doing 205 overhead press said you have military neck and recommended frequent massages. You left your Dickies Eisenhower jacket in the car and now fill out a crisp white undershirt. You have black Dungarees that display your ability to deadlift over four hundred pounds. They show that you hip thrust and point your toes 45 degrees outwards on the leg press to emphasize the sweep and fill your thighs out. The shirt can’t conceal two years of superset Zoltman curls. New black Onitsukas. You are non- deformed, making a respectable attempt at travelling toward your genetic ceiling.

This is picked up by the conference. They know you don’t belong there.

A woman with short bright magenta hair raises her eye brow toward you and angrily asks you what you are doing there. She doesn’t call you sir. She has no desire for formalities because she has pure contempt for you. Her eyes are dark and beady. They are not windows into a living soul but hyperlinks to HuffPost and Jonathan Greenblatt’s twitter page. She is one of millions.

Next to her stands a black woman with dense round glasses. She has gigantically spiraled hair. This hair is not intended as an aesthetically pleasing style but as an aggression towards others. It takes up seats on planes and claims space even beyond her waddling gait. She begins to suck her teeth. She raises her eyebrow toward you and points her finger at you. She has long acrylic nails honed by Charlie Kirk’s Idea-American squatters, a cadre of pant suited Vietnamese girl-illa bosses.

You awoke from a dream that was very similar to this…a night terror…the one where you are paralyzed and can’t affect anything in your surroundings. No matter how you try you can’t do a simple task, even with a great terror bearing down on you. You feel the hellishness of total futility.

But this is no dream, this is now your waking life…

Your run from them through the restricted corridor. You are chased by two security men.

In each age of history, there are certain types of men who exemplify that era. The way that the visual image of a knight and peasant become shorthand for huge swathes of time and place. These security apparatchik before you are such men for your age.

One is riddled with total body inflammation. The auto immune response and PUFA bloat the only things keeping his flesh from sagging. He runs alongside his cohort, a thin man with deeply receded chin and head shaped like a dreidel. He slouches with poor fitting synthetic golf polo shirt emblazoned with security company logo. He wears lumpy tube socks with non-descript black Velcro strapped sneakers that wouldn’t be out of place at the fry station at Red Robin.

These men make less money per hour than a teenage life guard at a municipal pool or a caddy at a mid-tier course. This is who guards most of America’s infrastructure. There are millions of these type of men. They once would have enjoyed a dignified life working for a small junkyard or paint store but now guard strip malls from the impulses of young blacks and tweakers. They do not go home to families but to small apartment boxes where they sit in their underwear because their skin is repulsed by the toxic non breathable fabric they must wear daily. Skin, the largest human organ demands this of them and they don’t know why, they think they just like to sit in underwear because they have had a long day.

You make it through the lab doors.

You see rows of cages of dogs and cats. Young and old, cats and dogs. Rabbits and mice. You thought you might open all the cages to release them but there isn’t time. The security guards and the sneering lesbian carb fetishist have almost reached the door and will soon form a wall around the exit. They shout at you and give various commands but your mind has turned blank and you can hear only your heart beating in your head.

You had a dream last night. Your old boyhood dog, Mink, long dead, came back to you. He showed you a great mountain with gray clouds behind it and you ran there together. It was the same dream you had as a boy once when you both slept in the backyard. But last night he came to you and he told you that you would come for him and you would return there together, where he has always returned. He told you that you would fulfill a promise you made long ago…and now you must come here to this dark place and that you would find him because you know his eyes…

You see a beagle to your right in a long row of cages. He looks deeply into your eyes and it here that find Mink…his longing look seem to tell you everything in a split second.

You reach down and cut the thin cage bars with a small bolt cutter you stuffed into the leg of your pants. You pop the door open and lift the small beagle out, holding him in your left arm.

An androgynous entity in a baggy plaid shirt opens the door. You think it is a man, you are unsure but it has much more facial hair than the wispy tufts sprouting on f-t-m trannies slamming 100 mg of test a week. It hurries toward you and tells you to freeze with the monotone crackling rumble of early teen boy voice.

You are now surrounded. The skinny guard advances toward you first.

You often watched a video of a bear attacking poachers…or a majestic tiger rampaging in a superfluous and ugly village. You felt a zealotry rise, and felt a kinship with the beast. To watch that mania is the same feeling as listening to Parsifal Overture, or ejaculation…You feel this now. You feel like a trapped Leopard.

You leap onto a table past the skinny guard.

From the table you jump kick the plaid clad androgyne in its solar plexus. You have never kicked a smallish man fed a slave diet of seed oils and female hormones before, but are surprised at its weakness, astonished by the ease with which it crumples and flies away from you.

You kick a chair into the knees of the fat lesbo. The impact, though rather light is enough to send her inflamed and corpulent legs collapsing. You step over her wailing, insulin resistant moon face as you head toward the lobby door.

You are close to the exit and outrunning the genetic dumpster fires that pursue you.

But ahead of you is an administrative man.

Yes, the cellulitis stricken hoof stomper fell easily but you expect more from this flamboyant man in the stretch jeans and clear Diesel frames screaming and running toward you. He has a close cropped beard, and from afar you think he may have sinewy old man strength, the gym strength of the 24 hour Fitness homosexual mirror lifter but as he runs toward you it is apparent that he is weak, his slim fit pullover looks baggy and hangs of his knob like shoulder joints.

He will have to ford past your forearm throw on a diet of cheap risotto and girl’s night margaritas, which he can’t. He is done for.

He balks and makes way for you.

You are in a full sprint, tightly clutching your anxious friend. He pulls his head to your chest.

You round the corner and find your car. You get in with your new friend in the passenger seat and you begin to drive.

Your pulse is high and adrenaline course through your veins. Your thoughts come at lightning speed and you feel you must calm down a bit so you turn on the radio for a distraction. You search the stations for classical music, or maybe hard rock but find only the sounds of pop music.