Redstater's "Rip Van Whitey"

[ex_machina]

Ex, calling you "ex" causes, not of your doing, me some agita. May I refer to you as "deus" or better yet "deuce?"

Lol, understood. Call me whatever. "Red" is what I go by over at AWD, but I answer to most anything. Deuce will work just fine lol

[AmericanBTGoG]

"Rip Van Whitey" Part 5

On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence he had first seen the young man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes—it was a bright sunny morning. The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze. “Surely,” thought Rip, “I have not slept here all night.”

He recalled the occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of liquor, the mountain ravine, the wild retreat among the rocks, the woebegone party, the inscrutable monologue from that distinguished gentleman, the flagon—”Oh! That flagon! That wicked flagon!” thought Rip. “What excuse shall I make to Dame Van Whitey!”

As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting in his usual activity. “These mountain beds do not agree with me,” thought Rip; “and if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with Dame Van Whitey.”

With some difficulty he got down into the glen. The morning was passing away, and Rip felt famished for want of his breakfast. He dreaded to meet his wife, but it would not do to starve among the mountains. He shook his head and, with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps homeward.

As he approached the village he met a number of people, but none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had thought himself acquainted with everyone in the country round. Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from that to which he was accustomed: wife-beaters atop oversize pants slung down around knees, exposing underwear; gold orthodontia protruding from scowling mouths; tattoos covering all visible flesh. They all stared at him with equal marks of hostility and scorn, and whenever they cast their eyes upon him, invariably grumbled some insult or threat. The constant recurrence of this behavior induced Rip, involuntarily, to stroke his chin, when to his astonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot long!

He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange, nappy-headed children ran at his heels, throwing rocks at him and swearing profusely. The dogs, too, not one of which he recognized, but all appearing to be some sort of pit bull mix, barked at him as he passed. The very village was altered: it was a filthy slum. There were rows of ramshackle lean-tos which he had never seen before, and those which had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Ruins of old structures lay strewn around, as if ransacked. All sorts of refuse—both of the man-made and human-body-made kinds—littered the streets, which were now just patches of asphalt amongst the dirt and gravel. There was an awful stench in the air, a putrid mix of sewage and gas and cooking chicken. Filthy children ran around and played in the filth; filthy adults hooted and hollered on their stoops, smoking their marijuana and drinking their malt liquor, occasionally screaming or kicking at the children. Chickens pecked around willy-nilly for aliment.

Strange music blared from all directions in a cacophonic horror; strange faces peered at him from the holes in the lean-tos; everything was strange. His mind now misgave him; he began to doubt whether both he and the world around him were not bewitched. Surely this was his native village, which he had left but the day before. There stood the Catskill Mountains; there ran the silver Hudson at a distance; there was every hill and dale precisely as it had always been. Rip was sorely perplexed—”That flagon last night,” thought he, “has addled my poor head sadly!”

To be continued…

[AmericanBTGoG]

BTW, Red, trying to give some lead time for your story at AWD first, since we are just piggybacking. Give y'all at least a couple days exclusive. Besides, I'm not that organized.

I just read Part 8. It gets better and better.

[airdrop]

? yip ?

[AmericanBTGoG]

"Rip Van Whitey" Part 6


He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the local sports pub—but it too was gone. A lean-to stood in its place, with a street vendor outside selling halal meat with rice. Over the hovel was written something in Arabic, a language with which Rip had no familiarity. Music of the orient with its wailing singing sounded forth from a cheap radio on the vendor’s cart.

There was a crowd of folk about the scene, but none that Rip recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed. There was a loud and disputatious tone about it, instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquility.

He looked in vain for the sage Jack Smith or Timothy Jones. In place of these, a lean, bilious-looking fellow was haranguing vehemently about white privilege, CIS-gendered oppressiveness, Aztlan, Islamophobia, social justice, and other words, which were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Whitey.

The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, his effeminate dress, and his detestable pale skin, soon attracted the attention of the locals. They crowded round him, eyeing him from head to foot with great rancor. The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, inquired on why he was out of the factory.

Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, “Are you a wizard?”

Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend the question; when a knowing, self-important old gentleman—who was white like Rip!—in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting to the right and left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before Van Whitey, with one arm akimbo, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded in an austere tone, “What brought you to this place with your white privilege and a mob at your heels? Do you mean to breed a riot in the village?”

“Alas! Gentlemen,” cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, “I am a poor quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal citizen of America, God bless her!”

Here a general shout burst from the by-standers: “A racist! A nativist! A white supremacist! Hustle him! Away with him!”

It was with great difficulty that the self-important man in the cocked hat restored order; and, having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit, what he came there for, and whom he was seeking? The poor man humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some of his neighbors, who used to keep about the sports pub that used to reside there.

“Well, who are they? Name them.”

Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, “Jack Smith? Michael O’Kelley? Timothy Jones, the schoolmaster?”

“Were they white?” the man snarled.

“Uh, yes, yes they were,” replied Rip, confounded.

“Well, then, they’re long gone, sir, for no whites are allowed to live past their productive years.”

“Gone…as in dead?” murmured Rip.

“Dead and buried… Or left to rot in the streets perhaps. Makes no difference.”

Rip’s heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and of matters which he could not understand. He had no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair, “Does nobody here know Rip Van Whitey?”

From the crowd a surly voice barked: “What nigga be callin’ me, yo?”

Pushing through to the front, a lanky young man with a shaved head, wife beater, saggy jeans, gold chains, and face tattoos, stared angrily at Rip. Rip stared back in horror at the creature before him.

“Why you be trippin, nigga?” the young man asked of Rip. Rip puzzled over this for a moment.

“I’m sorry…I don’t speak…” and he paused, trying to determine just what language the man was speaking. But as he stared at him, he noticed something—something dreadful. Beneath the tattoos, under the shaved dome, behind the scowling face, was the very visage of Rip himself. This horrified Rip, to the point of making him doubt his very existence. “My heavens…” Rip muttered, mostly to himself.

At this critical moment a fat, slovenly white woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She had three mulatto infants in her chubby arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to wail. “Shut the f*** up Labronte, Shaniqua, Deshoneda,” she squealed, “This creepy ass cracka ain’t gonna hurt yous.”

The names of the children, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recollections in his mind.

“What is your name, good woman?” Rip asked of her.

“Judy Van Whitey. But my niggas call me Judy from the Block.”

“Do you know your father?”

“Hells no I don’t! That nigga ran away when we was kids.”

Rip had but one question more to ask; but he put it with a faltering voice:

“Where’s your mother?”

“Oh, she dead,” the girl responded matter-of-factly.

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. The honest man could contain himself no longer.

To be continued…

[AmericanBTGoG]

"Rip Van Whitey" Part 7


“What has happened to my home? What has happened to my children? What has happened to my people? What has happened to the world?!” Rip wailed, thrashing at his vestments.

This sudden outburst gave fright to the crowd, who took a step back from the blubbering old white devil. This was followed by an animated debate in some unintelligible pidgin that Rip realized was likewise the tongue of his son (n***** this, f*** that, etcetera).

Given Rip’s curious survival into old age—and in no small part due to rising suspicion that Rip was some sort of wizard capable of untold witchcraft—it was determined that they would take him back to the factory rather than put him immediately to pasture.

They stripped him of his fancy outfit with all of its ostentatious buttons and buckles and snaps, covering him instead with a simple, soiled robe. Immediately, a fight broke out over his erstwhile garments, and they were quickly reduced to shreds as the quarreling factions tore them asunder. This ignited a fresh round of arguments, which grew ever more violent until, finally, edged weapons were drawn and bludgeons wielded.

Rip was not privy to the outcome of the battle over his clothing as he was whisked away, like a beast of burden, with a rope around his neck, being led by a gaggle of guffawing buffoons, and, of course, the self-important white man.

As they led him through the seemingly never-ending slum, crowds formed around him, jeering at him, throwing rocks and other such debris at him, some smearing him with mud and feces, others kicking at him or slapping his face. Rip was extremely confused as to the reason for such unprovoked hostility, and not just a little apprehensive about his fate.

In due time, the “factory” appeared—a monstrous brick building in advanced stages of decay, with not a single unshattered window, a crumbling edifice, and a collapsed roof. Behind it stood the remnants of smokestacks, reduced now to their very bases. Rip immediately recognized this place as the old Central Hudson power plant at which his father had worked his entire adult life. But it was obviously non-operational in this state; what on earth could they possibly be doing here?

Pulling aside a torn blue tarp which Rip presumed constituted a “door”, some men kicked his backside and barked at him to enter. Obligingly, Rip ducked his head and entered the dusty, fetid air of the factory.

To be continued…

[AmericanBTGoG]

"Rip Van Whitey" Part 8

Upon entering the factory, Rip was shocked to find a hive of industriousness and an oasis of relative peace and quiet. What was strangest of all was that the place was nearly entirely uniform in its whiteness. With the exception of what appeared to be guards, who dozed in the corners on chairs and lounges, their hats pulled over their eyes, everyone was white.

In the times before his great nap, such a monolithic racial makeup would have disconcerted Rip greatly, causing peptic guilt to burble in the back of his throat, his knees to knock with trepidation at the exposure to accusations of racism, and making him long for the deliverance his betters assured him only “diversity” could bring. Surely, he would say, so as to ingratiate himself to his superiors, lord himself over his inferiors, and inoculate himself against the dreaded r-word, this place was “too white”.

But now…now was a different time, and made for a different Rip. He found not fear in this roomful of whites, but rather relief; not disgust, but solace. How that flagon had changed him!

At the front of the factory floor, near the very “door” through which he entered, stood a giant statue of a man Rip knew all too well—Saint MLK. His arms crossed, he stared down sternly from his commanding height at the white workers below.

Observing this assortment of whites, with their widely diverse appearances—from redheads and blonds to brunettes and brown-haired; from blues eyes to green to hazel to gray; from short to tall, and slender to hulking; from merely comely to positively beautiful—Rip noticed their work was equally diverse: some toiled away making garments, while others were assembling cheap electronics, and still others wearing protective eyewear and gloves as they composited batteries. Some even pedaled away on what looked like exercise bikes attached to the generators left over from the factory’s operational days.

But not all was well, for he realized that the labor of the people did not appear to make them happy; rather, they looked decidedly tense in their affairs. Perhaps it was due to the proctors who paced around behind them, constantly haranguing them and denouncing them as sinners who must purge their original sin of white privilege by working solely for the benefit of the “eternally oppressed”; that they can only properly atone for their sins of racism and sexism and homophobia and transphobia and Islamophobia and nativism and xenophobia and genocide and slavery and colonialism—that they, and they alone!, were guilty of—by praying for the grace of Saint MLK to absolve them; that it was only right that they forfeit their children to The Indoctrinators so that they wouldn’t grow up to be the hate-filled bigots that their parents were; that they should be thankful they were allowed to lead the lives of slaves rather than be human sacrifices to god Diversity; and such things, and so forth.

The self-important white man with the cocked hat nudged Rip, knocking him out of his reverie, and pointed to a vacant seat behind a manual-powered sewing machine. “Do you know how to sew?”

Though advanced in age, and despite never having been exhibited prior—throughout all of Rip’s most miserable and dangerous encounters—his survival instincts finally kicked in; for, not having the slightest inkling as to how to operate the machine let alone sew, he responded without a moment’s hesitation: “Yes…yes, of course.”

“Then get to it,” said the self-important man, and, with that, departed.

Rip noticed a proctor looking in his direction, so before he could incur her wrath, he scrambled over to his seat at the sewing machine.

To be continued…

[AmericanBTGoG]

"Rip Van Whitey" Part 9

As Rip stared at the machine, trying to divine its inner workings, the man to his right leaned over and whispered, “Need some help?”

“If you would be so kind,” Rip responded, bashfully.

The man extended a hand. “RedStater. RedStater Knickerbocker. But you can call me Red.”

Rip looked fearfully at the proctor, then, not wanting to be rude, shook the man’s hand. “Rip Van Whitey,” he said.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Rip,” RedStater replied. Red then proceeded to assist Rip with getting his pieces of cloth in order and demonstrated the use of the sewing machine.

“You’re not from around here, are you, Rip?” Red finally asked.

“Uh, no…no I’m not.” He looked at the proctors again, then enquired secretively: “What is going on here, anyway?”

“It’s a long story, Rip…but we’ve got nothing but time, now, do we?” And with that, Red launched into a detailed history of his experiences in this strange land—how he was a precocious child and the darling of the Indoctrinators until he began to question their preachings; how this consigned him to a life of labor in The Factory; how he believes most others feel as he does, but are too fearful to protest in front of the proctors; how he seethes at the opulence and decadence of Glitterati Hills, which he sees every so often when he is tasked to deliver goods there—

“Wait—’Glitterati Hills’ you say?” interrupted Rip. “I’ve heard of that. I thought it was a dream, but now I’m not so sure that those men weren’t real, and their words weren’t the truth…”

And with that, it was Rip’s turn to chew his neighbor’s ear off, and he launched into recounting his tale of his hike into the Catskills, the young dandy with the keg, the flagons of gin, the game of stickball, and the distinguished old man’s now-not-so-inscrutable monologue.

“So, wait…there were all-white nations, and they were civilized?” marveled an incredulous Red.

“Not only civilized, but wildly successful. For example, have you heard of television?”

Red shook his head.

“Telephones? Microwave ovens? Automobiles? Airplanes? The internet? Nuclear energy? Genetic engineering? Engineering? Calculus? Theoretical physics? Zoology? Newton? Einstein? Tesla? Da Vinci? Aristotle? Michelangelo?”

On and on Rip went, and with each noun, Red would shake his head, signaling his ignorance.

“The moon, Red—do you know of the moon?”

“Why yes—that I know of!” exclaimed Red, happy to finally hear a word uttered by this strange old man with which he was familiar.

“Do you know that we walked on its face? We—we whites—we used slide rules and mechanical pencils and hammers and wrenches and we built a rocket ship and a lunar module and a rover and we walked upon the face of the moon…and then brought those men back safely to earth!”

“Now you’re just messing with me,” said Red slyly.

“No, it’s true; I swear upon all things holy it’s true. And not only there, but beyond—to other planets, beyond our solar system even!”

“But how were such amazing things possible without diversity?”

“I’m beginning to suspect,” whispered Rip, as quietly as possible, “That it was not in spite of a lack of ‘diversity’, but because of it, that we were so successful.”

Red’s eyes widened as saucers as a mischievous grin spread across his face. “Heresy…”

They were interrupted by a scream from behind them. Craning their necks, they saw a pretty blond proctor being dragged by the hair into a corner by one of the “guards”.

“My dear, what’s happening?” Rip asked, alarmed.

They watched as the guard threw the proctor to the ground, tore her dress from her legs, and began to fish his penis out of his sagging pants.

“Looks like one of the guards is horny,” Red sighed nonchalantly.

“Well, shouldn’t we do something? I mean, he’s going to rape her, isn’t he?”

“Eh, what can you do…”

Rip was flabbergasted at Red’s insouciance, and disheartened to see it was shared by everyone else in the room. The other “guards” barely even stirred from their slumber, and the proctors did nothing but continue to heckle the workers, acting as if nothing was going on behind them; that the screams from the poor woman were mere background noise.

“Well, this simply will not do,” Rip declared, arising from his seat and marching to the corner where the rape was unfolding.

Red tried to stop him, but to no avail. He remained seated, but watched the proceedings intently.

Once at the scene of the crime in progress, Rip wondered what on earth he would do next. The beast who was raping the woman was a hulking mass of muscular black flesh, undulating upon the petite blond with testosterone-fueled fury. Surely a physical confrontation was out of the question; and Rip had, at long last, realized reason was beyond the reach of such an individual.

It was then that he saw, tucked into the perp’s white underdrawers, the most dangerous and detestable of all machines ever invented by the mind of man: a gun. In saner times he would have run to the police and reported the discovery, but clearly there were no police to be found in this new and awful place. And perhaps he would have been plagued with doubt and misgivings by so much as considering utilizing that machine, were he even considering it. But he was not considering it; time was too short, and poor old Rip too emotionally discharged, to allow for anything resembling critical reflection upon what the situation demanded. Instead, he did something he never did before in the entirety of his long, pathetic life: He embraced his newly found righteous rage, and his burning thirst for justice, and grabbed the gun.

To be continued…

[AmericanBTGoG]

"Rip Van Whitey" Part 10 (End)


Realizing his gun was missing, the guard turned around and snarled at Rip with all the ferocity of a wild animal. Relying on instinct (and the training of many a violent movie), Rip leveled the gun at the guard’s head and squeezed the trigger, splattering his gnarled and negligible brains against the cinderblock wall. His now lifeless body slumped like an anchor upon the blond below him, pinning her flailing body.

Expecting a welcome cry of gratitude, Rip was astonished to find the victim now screaming at him. “YOU KILLED HIM, YOU HATE-FILLED NEO-NAZI RACIST! IT WAS YOUR FAULT HE WAS RAPING ME! YOUR WHITE PRIVILEGE MADE HIM DO IT! OPPRESSION! MICRO-AGGRESSIONS! LEGACY OF SLAVERY! JIM CROW! RA-”

The gun in Rip’s hand issued another blasting report as the proctor’s blond head exploded in a fine red pomegranate mist. Her insane carping immediately ceased.

There was a commotion behind him. Rip turned around to see the other guards scurrying out of their lounges, squaring off against him at the opposite side of the factory floor, drawing their motley array of weaponry toward him. The white workers, realizing they were in the line of fire, all ducked below their workbenches.

Rip didn’t know what to do, but he felt strangely confident in this turn of events. He realized, for the first time in his life, what it was to be a man: staring down death, his body trembling with fear and adrenaline, and his awakened spirit welcoming all of it.

The guards screamed various orders, half of which contradicted each other, and none of which made any sense given the circumstance. Rip paid attention to none of it, and simply raised his weapon toward them. Screaming ensued as they ran for cover, while simultaneously opening fire—some with revolvers, others with rifles, still others with fully automatic machine guns.

Having dropped all pretenses that competence was equally distributed amongst the races, Rip saw clearly what would transpire: The idiotic guards would expire their ammunition in a frantic spraying of bullets, with the likelihood of contact with Rip near zero. So Rip decided to stand where he was, perfectly still, without firing a shot, and simply bide his time.

The guards ducked behinds desks and lounges and whatever they could find, firing their guns helter-skelter around the room—just as Rip predicted. And, just as he predicted, they soon were out of ammo. It was then that Rip began his casual walk up to each guard, one by one, summarily executing them. After he felled a few, the remainder realized what their fates would be if they stuck around, and so bolted for the exits. They did not get too far, though—Rip, though aged, was still spry enough to give them chase and gun them down in their tracks.

Upon re-entering the factory through the shredded tarp, with the smell of gunpowder hanging heavy in the air and ears ringing, Rip was greeted by looks of hushed astonishment from the white workers. Some were frightened, but many more appeared joyous—hopeful, even. The proctors looked around at the bloody mess with horror, and at Rip with dread. Were they next?

This newly minted Rip, with his courage and sober discernment, quickly assessed the situation and came to realize another novelty in this new life of his: Here he stood in a position of power, where the meek loved him and the evil feared him. What was this called but leadership? And so as a leader—however unexpected and perhaps undeserving he may have been of such a designation—he decided he must lead. And leading begins with stating a clear and unequivocal goal.

Summoning his ancient training in the far more ancient art of oratory, and desiring something pithy yet commanding, he bellowed forth simply: “My name is Rip Van Whitey. And this bullsh*t ends today!”

He commanded the proctors gather in the corner with the deceased rapist and rapee, lest they meet the same fate. Of the workers, he instructed them to gather all the weapons and ammunition they could find.

Were they to kill the proctors? “No,” explained Rip. “That would be a waste of ammunition. Let them deal with the ‘diversity’ that comes looking for them when their baubles stop coming.”

So where to next? The slums? “No,” said Rip. “The slums are not our problem. Our problem resides on Glitterati Hills. Exact our vengeance upon them, take back what is rightfully ours, and the rest will prove a mop-up job.”

The workers were happy to oblige. They gathered the weapons and ammunition from the snuffed guards, packed up their provisions in knapsacks, and vacated the factory, leaving the proctors to beg for forgiveness and tremble in fear as night approached.

Outside, Rip and his crew lit their torches, hoisted their rucksacks, and began their long ascent, guns in hand, up to the gates of Glitterati Hills.

THE END

NOTE: The foregoing tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to Mr. Knickerbocker by a little superstition; the subjoined note, however, which he had appended to the tale, shows that it is an absolute fact, narrated with his usual fidelity:

“The story of Rip Van Whitey may seem incredible to many, but nevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity of our old white settlements to have been very subject to marvelous events and appearances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger stories than this, in the villages along the Hudson; all of which were too well authenticated to admit of a doubt. I have even talked with Rip Van Whitey myself who, when I saw him in the factory, was a very venerable old man, and so perfectly rational and consistent on every other point, that I think no conscientious person could refuse to take this into the bargain. The story, therefore, is beyond the possibility of doubt. R. K.”

As to what happened to old Rip and his scrappy band of rebels who marched upon Glitterati Hills? Well, that story has not yet been written, and only time will tell how our tale is to be told.

A special thanks to my [new] friends over at AngeryAmerican.net, the regulars here at AWD (Snake Oiler, David in SC, Magnum, etc.), and the “geezer grunts over at the veterans’ rest home”—hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. And many thanks for the words of encouragement. The best I can hope for with my writing is to give fellow patriots something of interest, if not something inspiring, to work with. I hope I achieved at least some degree of such success, at least some of the time. If not, I’m sure you—and/or others—will let me know

Oorah!

[tk]

I liked it . Being one who has never held my tongue when I believe some thing is not right. I can see the many similarity's in the story of what is going on in todays culture and where it is heading. I am sick of being accused of racism when all I have done was having been born white. I never have judged a person by their color and never will. But I will judge people by their actions and will call it as I see it whites included. But I refuse to live in fear of any race and will not allow myself to remain silent as to not offend those who want to bring myself and society down to their level. Simply put if you want to act like an animal. I'll gladly treat you like one. This is not meant to sound like I or my race is better than any other. But i'm sure that if this country remains on the path that it is on and we remain silent . Our nation will not survive and all that our for fathers fought for will be lost. Enough Said.
TFK Proud Working American

[dangerdan]

Political correctness is for someone wanting to be elected .
No one running for office around here that I know .
I liked the story .
Thank you for your efforts .


DD