“Suppression of Town’s natives has been one of the major hallmarks of acculturation with the latest attempt carried out by the Saturns to whitewash wogs and turn them in our lookalikes. Today Town is paying the price for this levelling procedure and for its universalistic adventures. Look at Chaos in Town Held, look at the bombs dropped by the Saturns all night long. Yet folks in other towns still harp on the illusions of some universal salute, still allowing the masses of wogs, alias refugees, to settle in their backyards. If one puts things into historical perspective,” continued Fabrice, “everything presages that the overseas Wild West would soon become a candidate for the same Titanic age.”
Held walked upstairs muttering about the whole world on fire, observing the closing clouds which were dangerously approaching Town. The clouds had an aura of invisibility, sending off reflections of religious grandeur and leading many to believe in the coming of a new Messiah. Yet, clouds could read the mind of every passerby, emitting siren sounds of the end times. Many Townspeople perished watching and listening to the clouds, especially young people, because clouds turned out to be deadly bulbs spewing the Saturn fire. After the precarious TV sets had been introduced into the Town’s air defense system the clouds seemed to have gained another aura of invisibility. The smaller ones, known as micro-bulbs, were of different color and led many Town kids to believe that they were just some tiny aerial toys good to play with. Many lost their fingers and heads. Fabrice also had two of his fingers on his right hand missing, which did not prevent him from using the other three to keep tapping on his keyboard or holding the spoon in a strange fashion reminiscent of a culinary novice of that painter portraying Saturn in the process of devouring his progeny.
While walking upstairs on the never-ending perpendicular stairs Held taught to himself aloud: “First off, we need to set up reference points and historical timelines for our discussion. The title of this Town drama begs the question for a clear definition of the timeframe of the Fall. Which Fall? When did this Fall occur? Which year or decade? Or is this dreaded Fall still a long a way off before it will occur with all its visible and audible thunder? I assume we could also replace the noun “Fall” with other related words and notions having stronger meanings such as the end-time, or Chaos, or the end of a world, if not the end of the world. These words and expressions came to Held’s mind along with a myriad of other fear-inspiring images related to the present and future times. “I hope,” continued Held, “that none of us here claims to be a futurologist. In fact most futurologists have proven to be wrong. Remember the break-up of the Soviet Union, a phenomenon which not a single Sovietologist in the Wild West could predict. Today, however, or better yet, as of this very moment, we all know, regardless of our race that all citizens, at any spot of the Earth, with no exception, will die. Everybody knows that something went wrong and that the future will get worse.”
“My conclusion,” answered Fabrice, “is that anticipations and prophecies about the Fall is nothing new. In Europe, since times immemorial there were stories, tales, and myths that have presaged the Fall, the decline, or the end times as you call it. In fact the vast majority of our Whites from Antiquity to postmodernity have dealt with the notion of the Fall and its aftermath. Literally, hundreds of book titles, dozens of sagas, poems and philosophical treatises have had for a subject the notion of decadence, forthcoming disasters, racial decay, wars and famines, including the end of the world. Many of those forebodings, in our recorded history at least, proved to be deadly real and deadly true.”
Held riposted: “The opposite side of the notion of the end-time is historical optimism and the belief in Progress, a word and a notion that by now has turned into a secular religion in the Wild West, but luckily with less and less followers even amidst its erstwhile architects and their dreaded Saturn progeny. The belief in Progress, to be sure, has had the upper hand and a strong voice over the last 200 hundred years and especially since 1945. Usually the advocates of Progress appear wrapped up in Bolshoi garb, or carry a liberal, or even a Christian veneer, and can therefore be labeled, somewhat pejoratively, as world improvers. Those, by contrast, and here I include myself, who are skeptical of Progress, can be named Titans of the tragic or cultural pessimists; men who are aware of the cyclical nature of time and civilizations, knowing that after each sunny day comes a rainy day.”
“When dealing with the Fall, answered Fabrice, we need to delve into the images and symbols and myths that are related to the breakdown of Time. Those images of the Fall and downfall were much stronger among our forefathers than among ourselves. We do not need to go that far. We can look at the early Greek myths and Homeric epics that teem with violence, Titanic struggles, chaos, different ages and different rebirths. Our European forefathers, regardless of their background, were more aware of the Fall and in a far more intense manner than ourselves.”
Held listened attentively and then said: “The good side of the tragic consists in a random event, in a hazard, or a chance, which never foretells the future. Why should we clamber up the wall of time as Ernst once did, go beyond it, and check the upcoming Fall or the end times and try to arrest the time? That would be a scary endeavor as we would come across frightening findings. Both liberals and communists tried to do that and we can see now the end results of their discovery.” By that time Held had finished his coffee and it was time to part company and check the outer limits of Town. Then of course he needed to shut down Town for a while and try to get some sleep in some cave or in some bridge crevice. Fabrice’s words always provided solace. They always helped him get a better insight into the meaning of Town’s changing identity. Well, Held had a huge advantage over most Townsfolks. He could project himself in hindsight, beyond time and well beneath it. He could well spot, spot on, how his own identity acquires different meanings in different times. Walking on Broadway in New York by mid-May 1945, when Held was at his prime time, or for that matter next door, on the Pennsylvanian avenue, he witnessed a great deal of fun going on. Not just politicians gloating over the defeat of the Titans but also regular citizens celebrating the dawn of the end of history. In the Town’s imagery back then, the ultimate symbol of evil had been defeated and the ultimate sign of very real end times was finally lurking on the horizon. Suddenly, due to the Saturns’ military victory, time had come indeed to a full stop. Yet, on the other side of the Earth, or speaking less allegorically, on the other side of the Atlantic, at the same moment, another wall of time sprang up. Millions of Townspeople in mid-May 1945 experienced their Fall, their end times and their loss of identity. This was the time of Ragnarök. At that time the German word Zusammenbruch, meaning the overall breakdown of time, became very popular. Those end times did not just affect their local Town dignitaries but millions of nameless folks whose time flow began to defy all scales and all measurements of the new Saturns. Those nameless ones were to be dead and gone for good.
Ever since then Held has never known what his identity was all about. He despised the Townspeople who had never ceased questioning him why he had decided to return and lend his assistance to Town. When asked about his present identity, or his own portable ID, his own self, with all due common racial and hereditary baggage notwithstanding, he kept admitting to himself that the worst scum he had ever met were his own would-be Titans. In fact, down in the underworld with wogs and mischlings he often felt better. Those species had been used as cannon fodder by the Saturns only to be later, when captured, stashed into the underground by the locals. For a period of their own short subsistence they never showed envy toward Earthlings above. Probably because Held never took advantage of them and treated them always with respect — which they never expected from him in the first place. He never made jokes of their mongrelized looks and showed graciousness in providing them with spare victuals. And there were now thousands of them scattered along the banks of the Styx, waiting to be killed or devoured by invisible monsters or dragons from the nearby pond which was presided over by the Bolshoi Cerberu
s. Mischlings always satisfied every whim of Held and were first to guide him through the labyrinths of toxic waters and fire. Held knew, however, that when the mischling Time comes, they would not hesitate to chop off his head and eat his raw dead meat.
Chapter X: Back to Chaos
Held tried to avoid his pessimistic outbursts that had again overwhelmed him, reconsidering over and over again whether to commit suicide. He was wallowing in his own sense of the tragic. Unlike cultural pessimists, though, his sense of the tragic contained contingency, accident, and coincidence, for which the Germans had a better word Zufall, or the French even better, le hasard. And each contingency, each accident, each unexpected Zufall meant for Held that despite the burden of Time, time was always open. There were holes in it, or so Held thought, although this time around the Saturnine siege of Town had lasted way too long. Was it a decade, a week, or was it already one hundred years with Held becoming immortal with mortal memories assailing him day after day.
Fabrice’s words would thence come to the rescue with soothing words. “In our quest for identity it means that history is always open and therefore the flow of time offers to all of us, to all of us domesticated Whites untold avenues with sharp turnoffs toward freedom. We just need to seize opportunities. We need to seize a chance.” And then he would continue with endless quotes from Stoics, from Cicero to Marcus Aurelius with their endless formulae on spiritual disinterestedness.
There was no question but that Held felt attracted, on a subconscious level, to his Townspeople, to his species, including to his White Heroine. Especially in the case of Town’s suddenness, or emergency, or the Zufall, caused by the Saturns’ raids, he had nothing to look for down under in the underworld. Even when he travelled down under he would search for an eye contact of a White immortal miscreant that looked more or less like him. Probably there, or in Town’s five hundred yards from the first line of the minefield, he would no longer care if a person passing by was of his tribe or not. But back in the underworld, oh yes, he did. Most of the lookalikes down under were traitors who had once ratted him out.
But times had changed also in the old Town during the Transatlantic Lull. There were more and more places in the underworld where, late at night, he was glad to spot a person of his own kindred. Their fleeting mutual eye contact spoke volumes in terms of their suddenly retrieved Titanic identity. Hypothetically speaking, if Townspeople were ever able to establish their own adobe state of which they so often hallucinated, or what they called their own Homeland, nobody could guarantee him that at some point their Homeland would not be plagued again and again by internal divisions and civil wars. Held had seen that over and over again, over long and lengthy centuries. During the battle of Zenta, when he had killed a dozen Turks himself, or even earlier when he had fought alongside Siegfried’s knights, not far from Vienna, or a hundred miles up north in those vast Pannonian plains run and scavenged by the Huns. Yes, his head was once cut off by that pin-headed Mongol rider, but he managed to keep on living, like a special avatar observing future changes that were always bound to turn into the same person. Was that him or someone else? He could not answer that question. He never knew the answer. Yes, of course he could recognize his lookalikes down below in the underworld, and it turned out that those who had hated him most were the people of his tribe.
Held kept a solid account of countless civil wars that had plagued his Titanic world, inhabited by the species calling themselves Whites who over the previous three thousand years had inflicted horrible violence on each other, which far surpassed the present Saturn violence across the hill. Where to start? The American Civil War? When species of his own gene pool were eager to kill each other? Or the recent war in Spain or the war in the Balkans whose violence went beyond his present imagination? The Thirty Years War in Europe was ugly; it exacted millions of dead among Titans. That war was fought amidst his kindred people. Held could also cite some examples such as the battle of Thermopylae, a place which in Town’s memory was associated with the 300 brave and racially conscious Spartans trying to save Europe from the Levantine illusions. Well, this was all a facile explanation which even on the factual and historical level could easily be disputed. First, Persians were also of Indo-European origin and many, similarly to the Saturns beyond the hill could easily pass for his lookalikes. It is questionable to what extent Spartan fighters were racially motivated or simply thought of their battle in a closed off, nepotistic manner. Let alone as to how they conceived of the early White unity or European identity. To be sure, the idea common to European identity did not even exist until recent times in Town. The Turkish onslaught on Europe in the 16th and the 17th century wasn’t racially motivated either; it had Abrahamic and religious roots. Many Serbian and Hungarian clans and local warlords often sided up, alas, for different political reasons, with the Turkish local Saturns. On the international and diplomatic level the Catholic France of Louis XIV was the best ally of Turkey, whose prime goal was to weaken the German Holy Roman Empire and its allies in Europe.
Held knew it by now. There was no question that race, or as he would put it euphemistically, the Town’s heredity, played the prime role in defining Town’s own identity. Townspeople could change their looks, their legends, and their truths. They could also erase their cultural memory and their country of residence, as Held had done so many, many times. But there was no way whatsoever they could ever remove the layers of genes passed on to them by their ancestors. However, using the race card alone as the sole issue in the description of Town’s identity, along with its underground species, was not enough. There was more to it. Even under the best possible circumstances, it was questionable how Town, as his white ethnostate, cherished by everybody, could function and whether it was wise for him to frame Town’s identity on the race factor alone. This issue was addressed once by another of his Titans who went by the name of Harold. Held knew for his part that he could devote a speaking session to the character issue of many self-proclaimed Titans in Town and critically examine their much vaunted Whiteness or what they often called pathetically “racial awakening.” Many lowlifes he had met in Town, on the individual level, were some of his worst detractors of Titanic background. Some of the worst traitors he ever met were not wogs of different races and origins — but people of his own kind.
Chapter XI: Held in No Man’s Land
For a long time his local native Titans had been unable to push their freedom cause across the videopolitical Wild West, primarily because of their eternally unshaven faces and scarves that tagged them abroad as fanatics, alias Ali Babas bent on killing modern democracies. Conversely, Held’s alter ego Heroine had learned the game of reconnaissance soon, partly due to her excellent knowledge of the Saturn enemy’s language and her femme fatale allure. Subsequently, owing to Heroine’s feminist streak the Townspeople were able to fend off the early Saturn onslaught and did obtain some world recognition and the temporary red carpet welcome in the Wild West. From then on, young, intelligent, and good looking Titans were of an enormous asset in Town’s defense, not just on the back stage but right in the first row of high politics. Who can deny that a Saturnine creep known once as Billary, owed her success to her media posturing? Conversely, while the political class in the Wild West had perfectly mastered the art of videopolitics, Townspeople had managed much better to bypass any form of self-censorship and political correctness. Surprisingly, even now one could still utter in Town things which in the Wild West were immediately subjected to penal opprobrium. Astonishingly, Town in Chaos offered the freedom of expression which the national-masochist and politically correct Wild West could not even dream about. Undoubtedly, the modern baby talk in the dying Wild West was only the cooler version of the Bolshoi wooden language, which not long ago had ruled over the Town’s own premises.
When back in Town now, from his long strolls, Held stopped by the vestiges of the Heroine’s cabaret in order to swear his last oath. Surprisingly, the limping Fabrice was also there tearing his
books apart and preparing a huge bonfire. Sitting next to him was Heroine in her armchair, amidst all types of refuse and books now ripped to pieces. He looked at the vanishing Heroine and dwindling Fabrice and then said: “Yes, you are right Heroine, politics is being reduced to delivery service, decision making processes resembling the economic command post, the army being transformed into the auxiliary service of cops, the state into a night watchman, foreign politics into foreign affairs, the statesman into a manager, the nations into markets — this is where we are today within the incoming Saturn system, a system whose armed shareholders have no options in stock other than to mesmerize our Townspeople by means of what they call vibrant diversity, such as violence, delinquency and drugs. This is the garbage that we now live with awaiting our finite Chaos.”
Titans are in Town Page 8
