The Brigade

by H. A. Covington

  “From the fury of the Northmen, good Lord deliver us?” said Hatfield.

  “Exactly,” said Hill, nodding in agreement. “They’re taking precautions, against us and against their own environment, which ironically they have helped to create with their own crapulence. One of the biggest industries right now in Tinseltown is high-powered and discreet bodyguarding, personal, home, and corporate security. If you’re an ex-cop or ex-FBI you can write your own ticket down there. The stars’ homes have been fortified for years anyway, because of stalkers and gang-bangers and the general parade of lunatics that comes out under every southern California full moon, but now every studio and every lot and every office building in the industry is almost like Stalag Thirteen, surrounded by electrified fences and razor wire, with checkpoints and armies of hired goons patrolling the grounds, guard dogs, security clearances for various levels of employees, electronic surveillance everywhere, you name it.”

  “But it’s not just simple fear that’s made Hollywood go a little easy on us so far,” Red Morehouse said. “I don’t want to get metaphysical, but Hollywood has always been the American ruling establishment with its heart on its sleeve, and southern California has always taken point in the culture wars, openly and brazenly, so you can read them like a book. And I can sense a deep and definite malaise. The Jewish and liberal establishment down there is not just afraid, they’re puzzled, disturbed, confused. They don’t know what to make of us quite yet. They’ve never seen white men act like this before—hell, no one in living memory has seen white men act like this before. Comrades, even if we were all wiped out tomorrow, the NVA has managed to achieve one incredible accomplishment, something that for the entire twentieth century, no one ever thought was possible. We have reintroduced the gun into American politics, the ultimate fount of all law and political power.”

  Morehouse smiled and shook his head in admiration. “For the first time since the Civil War, the United States of America no longer has a credible monopoly of armed force, and that fact has thrown the whole ruling élite in this country for a loop, unbalanced them. Jews, Senators, judges, sheriffs, prison guards, lawyers, bureaucrats, corporate CEOs, asshole bosses, arrogant teachers and professors who destroy kids’ lives for a politically incorrect remark, faggots and dykes who corrupt and seduce teenagers, liberal and neo-con talking heads on TV, federal house niggers who are used to Mau-Mauing the honkies and seeing us tremble, all of these people who were once cock of the walk are now having to adjust, to come to grips with the fact that they can no longer just do any damned thing they please. If a tyrant in a black robe or sitting behind some government desk or directing a movie camera fucks over white people, there is now at least some chance that he will be shot for it, that he will be punished, that he will be held responsible. You can’t imagine how completely freaked out these arrogant ruling élitist sons of bitches are over this, and in Hollywood, where the Burger Kings, the Big Kikes, are neurotic as hell anyway under the best of conditions, we see signs that they are going quietly bonkers with paranoia. Those Hollywood Men of the Nose in their boardrooms and their jacuzzis and their limos, with their little twenty-room hideaways in Carmel and their reserved tables at the plushest restaurants, and their special trailers on set with the casting couches for blonde shiksas, know damned well that their turn is coming.”

  “Which is why they may have decided to strike the first blow,” said Wayne Hill. “For reasons we have not been able to determine yet, the movie industry’s hands-off and go-slow policy regarding the NVA over the past two years seems to have been abandoned. This appears to have occurred several months ago at a hush-hush weekend house party at the Beverly Hills mansion of Sid Glick, the head of Paradigm Studios, attended by over 50 people. The guest list included other studio czars, industry CEOs, independent producers, directors, screenwriters, and some major actors and actresses. All without exception were Jewish, and according to our sources down there, even the caterers, the masseurs, the cocaine dealers and the poolside prostitutes were all Jewish, provided by a specialty madam in Bel Air. Whatever was discussed that weekend by Sid Glick’s swimming pool, and in his hot tub, and on his private handball court was not for goyische ears. The results of that meeting weren’t long in coming.”

  Hill opened his briefcase and took out two large, bulky typescripts hand-bound in heavy cloth report covers. He handed them around the room. “About a month ago, Third Section came into possession of two highly classified documents from the Dream Machine down there. Both of these are movie scripts. Each studio copy of these preliminary scripts is numbered, a number you will see that I have effaced in these photocopies. The first, the blue-bound one, is from World Artists, chairman of the board Manny Gelblum, Senior Vice President in Charge of Production Hyman Landauer, you get the idea. This script has the working title Great White North, written by two top-echelon Hollywood writers, Josh Horowitz and Andrea Franken, and it’s being pushed through WA by the producer David Katz, with Arthur Bernstein slated to direct. This abortion is up to the slimiest Judaic standards, needless to say. It’s the story of a wicked and evil NVA terrorist who discovers to his horror that he’s really Jewish, and so he ends up returning to his Jewish roots and turning over his whole brigade to the feds, led by a sassy and charismatic black FBI agent with a lame white sidekick for comic relief, and of course his Strong Womyn supervisor. In the closing scene the rabbi places a yarmulke on this character’s head in a prison synagogue while he’s in chains in an orange jump suit, and he weeps for joy at having found peace at last as they take him away to the needle room to be executed.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” snarled Larry Donner in disgust, throwing the script on the table.

  “We’ll take your word for it, Lieutenant,” said Lawlor.

  “You don’t need to eat all of a bad egg to know it’s rotten,” said Hannon contemptuously. “The smell is enough.”

  “Yeah, well, if that one smells, this one in the brown cover reeks like the sewers of Calcutta,” said Hill. “It’s from Mammoth Productions, which is a subsidiary of Sid Glick’s Paradigm and run by his brother Shlomo, but this one has Sid’s fingerprints all over it. The working title is Homeland, and I won’t even try to describe the plot to you. It is a compendium of every anti-racist, anti-Nazi, anti-white cinematic cliché since To Kill A Mockingbird. We are not just wicked and evil. We’re ugly and fat, or else alcohol-skinny, usually covered with prison tattoos, we have black teeth and body odor and we fart and pick our noses, we’re psychotic killers and craven cowards, we bomb babies, we’re all closet queers of course, and needless to say we abuse white women—in fact, the flick opens with a group of so-called Volunteers gang-raping a beautiful blond white girl whom we suspect of being an informer and then cutting her up with a chain saw. Do you want me to go on?”

  “We get the picture, Lieutenant,” said Hatfield grimly.

  “If we’re all supposed to be queers, then how do we come to be gang-raping women?” asked McNeill sarcastically.

  Morehouse raised his finger bookishly. “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds. Ralph Waldo Emerson.”

  “You need to understand that these are not just made-for-TV movies or B flicks that will hit the theaters for three weeks and then go to DVD,” Hill told them. “These are going to be the biggest blockbusters Tinsel Town has put out in years. They have both been granted starting budgets of one hundred million dollars each. Virtually every speaking role in both movies will be played by a major or minor star. Some of these are only cameo roles or walk-ons, and they’ve got every once-famous has-been from the past twenty years lined up for the parts, even some old coots from the 80s and 90s they’ve dug up out of retirement or some nursing home. Mary Steenburgen is playing an old lady in a wheel chair, Ted Danson’s doing a wino and Melissa Rivers is playing a Yiddishe grandmama, with a nice long shawl to conceal her colostomy bag. The opening titles will read like a Who’s Who of Hollywood for the past quarter century; the casts alone will dra
w audiences since almost everybody’s favorite star is bound to be in there somewhere. And get this—they’re digging into the old archives and they’re going to be including some gratuitous dream sequences and fantasy scenes and whatnot with old movie footage never before seen, outtakes from Casablanca and Citizen Kane and old Westerns, so they can legitimately give new credits to old stars like Bogart and Bacall, Charlton Heston, Orson Welles, John Wayne, Glenn Ford and Jimmy Stewart.”

  “Jesus, that’s overkill!” exclaimed Lawlor.

  “Yeah, but can you imagine what the playbill is going to look like?” Hill asked. “It’s a blatant trick, but it will work. People will go see these damned things just to see Charlie Chaplin, Marilyn Monroe, Robert DeNiro and Brad Pitt do a scene together, and to watch all those hams falling all over the set trying to upstage one another. Needless to say, these pictures will be given the very best cameramen, sound men, grips, and crew in the industry, the most skillful cinematographers and set designers, top-notch special effects and fight coordinators, the zonks. They’re already scouting Northwest-looking locations for outdoor shooting, in Colorado, around the Great Lakes and in New England. They have sense enough to stay away from the Homeland itself, of course, and they’re doing their damnedest to keep it all hush-hush. They know how we’re going to react. As if it was ever possible to keep any secret in that goldfish bowl down there! But this is what’s coming down the pike, comrades, and if we don’t put the hammer down on these shenanigans, then from now on it will be more and more of the same, lies, vilification, insults, contempt, world without end!”

  “We’re putting the hammer down, comrades,” said Morehouse. “We’ve taken a hundred years of this shit from these people. No more! It ends now!”

  “Who gets to be the hammer?” asked Tommy Coyle eagerly.

  “Sorry, Tom,” said Morehouse, genuinely commiserating. “You and Harry are too badly needed up here with your brigades, and that goes for you battalion commanders as well. I’m afraid the reason you are here is because we’re going to need your help and your concurrence to cherry-pick your units. The actual hammering will be planned and organized by the Third Section, but the nails will be from Portland and the North Shore.”

  “Who ya gonna call? Jew-Busters!” laughed Charlie Washburn.

  “But we don’t want to just arbitrarily start snatching bodies right, left, and center for Task Force Director’s Cut,” Wayne Hill assured them. “We have a list of names and we want to go over every one of them with you beforehand.”

  “Who and what, exactly, will you need for this special team?” asked Hannon. “What kind of skill sets are you looking for?”

  “For that I’ll hand over the floor to a colleague of mine. I’m sure you’ve noticed that we have a comrade here tonight who hasn’t said much so far,” said Hill. “Gentleman, allow me to introduce Lieutenant Charlie Randall, one of our racial brothers from Down Under, who will serve as company commander for Task Force Director’s Cut.” Randall got up and stepped forward, and stood by the hearth, leaning on the mantelpiece.

  “G’day, gents,” said the young Australian. “Threesec chose me to ramrod this little shindig because you can tell I’m not from around these parts the first time I open me mouth, and of course because of me rugged good looks as well, which will make it credible that I’m an aspiring actor and give me an excuse for hanging around movie people and places at all odd hours. Not to mention that me life’s vocation is manufacturing dead sheenies, a craft I’ve gotten bloody good at, if I do say so meself.”

  “I will be the XO, the planning and intelligence officer,” Hill told them, “For the third member of the task force’s Trouble Trio, I would like to ask Zack here for the services of Lieutenant Christina Ekstrom as quartermaster. I heard she had to go under a while back.”

  “Yeah, she’s been helping her dad out, and she’s as knowledgeable on guns as he is,” said Zack. “But before that she was our eyes and ears in local law enforcement for almost two years. I think she could do with a change of scene. The FBI have a real case of the ass for her because of the first tickle she helped us with, and they want her almost as bad as they want me. She’s a good choice.”

  “We want to bring in at least six or eight other female comrades so we can make up boy-girl teams for the large amount of surveillance we’ll need to do,” said Hill. “Established couples would be best if you can spare them. I also want Lieutenant Vincent Pascarella and two Volunteers of Pascarella’s choosing from First Brigade EOD. I really want the Red Baron himself, but I was told flat out by the Army Council that he’s too badly needed here and the risk of losing him would be too great, so I can’t have him. We’re going to be making some noise down there, and we might even pop a chug-chug or two.”

  Coyle nodded. “Okay, you got Pascarella and two EODs.”

  “Then from Second Brigade, I’d like to take Johnny Featherstone along for torch work. I hear he’s good at it.”

  “Yeah, he uses some goop one of our techie nerds made up that burns hot enough to melt steel, and he knows just where to place it and how much,” agreed Hannon. “When Johnny flicks his Bic, you can put what’s left of the joint in a teacup. Okay, you got him.”

  “Now, dollars to donuts here’s where you comrades are going to go downright mulish on us,” said Randall, with a friendly grin. “We want at least four of your best snipers, including Cat-Eyes Lockhart himself.”

  “I kind of saw that one coming,” admitted Coyle. “To be honest, I’ve been worried about Cat. Things are getting really hot for him in Portland again. His face is on TV every night and on every damned wall and telephone pole. They want him so bad they’re slavering, and his DT bounty is the only million-dollar reward in the NVA for a non-officer. He seems to have some kind of magical ability to move almost openly in the city without being spotted, but that kind of luck can’t hold forever. As much as I hate to lose Cat and his body count, I actually think it would be a good idea for him to go on the road again for a while outside Portland, until the heat here cools down a bit. You got him.”

  “We need at least four good full auto men for watch-dogging and for spray jobs where necessary,” continued Randall. “Machine-gunners who can actually hit what they aim at and not just play John Wayne on the sands of Iwo Jima. Two from each brigade.”

  “Jimmy Wingo,” said Coyle reluctantly. “Ace Biedermann to back him up.”

  “Mike Gauss,” said Hannon. “And, uh, let’s see—Willis Nixon.”

  “Machine Gun Mike? Good on him, mate,” said Randall happily. “As a sweetener, you can tell them they’ll be given two M-60s, a PKM, and an HK-11, with plenty of belts and ammo, and they can pick and train their own crews once we get down there.”

  “You plan on playin’ Rambo down there, Lieutenant?” asked Conway, intrigued.

  “We plan on rattling those Hebrews’ cages but good,” said Randall firmly. “Now, I mentioned we need at least six or eight gun bunnies, couples are fine, but bear in mind we’re dealing with Jews here, and so we’re going to need at least a few of those girls to serve as Loreleis and set honey traps. This will usually require the Sheilas to pose as aspiring actresses. As male chauvinist and crude as this may sound, they’re going to have to be built and look good enough to be Loreleis and starlets in Hollywood, where there’s a ten on every corner. Our girls have to stand out enough to attract some randy kike across a crowded cocktail party, you know wot I mean. You need to square that with them before they sign on. Let me know who’s willing.”

  “Mmmm, we got that really sweet looking preppy girl in A Company, Becky, but her father’s a major knob and she’s too well known in society circles under her real name,” said Bud Lawlor. “She might run into someone who knows her at the wrong moment. Kicky McGee would fill the bill, if you can target a kike who likes ’em blue-collar and tattooed. She’s uh, experienced. No disrespect to the comrade, she’s a cool hand and she’s gutsy. She’s carried some packages, she’s driven for Cat Lockhart, and we
all saw her in action on Flanders Street.”

  “Any of her tattoos racial?” asked Randall. “Any Confederate flags or Swastikas, or anything that might give the game away?”

  “No, not racist, just Celtic biker kind of stuff, some flowers and barbed wire and witchy motifs. She’s got a couple of leather and denim outfits she looks hot as a two dollar pistol in.”

  “She hooked up?” asked Randall.

  “She and Jimmy Wingo have a thing going,” Lawlor told them. “That’s another reason I thought of her.”

  “She’s in, then,” decided Randall. “Maybe she can lead Sammy Steinberg into a close encounter with Jimmy’s M-60.”

  “What will be your plan of attack, Lieutenant Randall?” asked Hatfield.

  “The main strategic objective here is to neutralize the Hollywood movie and television apparatus as an effective weapon of enemy propaganda,” said Randall. “It is now such a weapon because of the Jewish control of these industries. We have to get the Jews’ hands off the levers of power and creative control down there as much as possible, not only by terminating individual hebes, but by establishing a credible deterrent sufficient to prevent those reptiles from producing dingo doo like those things there.” Randall pointed to the scripts on the coffee table. “They have to know that even to contemplate producing an anti-NVA movie or television episode means bloody near certain death. We won’t be so much going after movie stars or actors themselves as we will be taking down the Jews who actually decide what movies and shows are made, and what their contents will be—studio heads, producers, directors, and screenwriters, and the money men. We have several objectives. First, to physically prevent these Jews from doing the dirty. A dead Jew can’t make an anti-white movie. Secondly, to create a psychological disincentive to make propaganda movies and telly for the Americans, since live Jews and liberals don’t wish to become dead ones. Finally, and this is a long-term goal, we want to demonstrate to the extensive Gentile community in the movie and television world down there that Jewish control of their industry, their money, their speech, and their creative talents is not some kind of perpetual, God-ordained inevitability. We want to show them and the whole world that Jewish power can be broken, right in the heart of their own oldest and most cherished empire in this country.”