by Eric Thomson

Dear Robert:

I'm putting Holme's letter to his local jew (?) editor and copy to the confirmed jew, Dan Rather, to even better use by typing my letter on the back of it. I mentioned to him in my reply that sending such a letter to the jewsmedia is like a shell-damaged warship radioing its damage report to the enemy fleet. Since then, I've heard not a word from Holme. Why does he waste so much time and effort writing his lamentations to the enemy? It would be more constructive if he would walk out into the woods and shout "Sieg Heil!" At least the fresh air and exercise would benefit him.

I heard brief mention on the radio today that the FBI et al. are assigning a special task force to investigate "terrorism", defined as "White Supremacists" in the states of WA, ID and MT. I suspect that it relates to 2 men who are pumping zogbucks into "Aryan Nations" (sic) and who are also putting out true-jew propaganda, Messrs. Vincent Bertollini and Carl Story. According to USA TODAY, they made their zogbucks in the California computer industry. The 'fake jews' who received their 'true jew' propaganda claim that the dissemination thereof constitutes a "hate crime".

Stay tuned! Now that the so-called Genocide Convention (a treaty) has been ratified, there is no legal reason that the 1st Amendment will be protected. As we know, the jews are not ones to sit on their laurels. Having succeeded in foisting the Genocide Convention upon the U.S. boobs, they may think it timely to push the proverbial envelope. All we need are a few Injun Johns (John Ross Taylor, ed.) to put forth some really crude propaganda which will alarm and alienate nearly everyone, as was done in Canada, just before thought crime laws were enacted in terms of the Genocide Convention. Injun John used to brag that the "hate law" was passed on account of him. I have no reason to doubt it. Hey, Tom, and Jim, you guys could really do the ZOG a favor: just republish Mason's recipe which appeared in the first edition of White Power Report in the blue pages, if I recall correctly. I'm sure the hebes would like that one Masonic suggestion that Whites should sell poisoned lemonade to Black kids. Mason claims that Charles Manson is the reincarnation of Adolf Hitler (sic) and very sick. If I believed that were true, I'd turn in my gold Party pin. No, I do not identify with true-jews, nor with satanic sado-masochists who pose as Nazis. If those were the only games in town, I would spend my remaining years studying "Tea Planting as a Career" or "The Care and Feeding of Wombats".

As I mentioned during our recent telephone conversation, my field of studies and practical experience are essentially the establishment and/or destruction of governments and the proper running or premeditated ruination of countries, in addition to which I studied anthropology and comparative nationalism. If I were a hebe, I can assure you I would have a very interesting and useful zog-job. I am schooled to recognize war preparations, as well as the lack thereof. I know the basics of infrastructure, the means of production and distribution; where one would expect to find a hydroelectric generating station or a heavy-traffic rail route using my knowledge of terrain and topography. I can sort out phony nationalism from the Real Thing, using certain indicators. Unless I am treated to a Potemkin Village hoax (which had better be very clever and competent) I can derive a good gestalt of economic/military infrastructure just by strolling around a port city or walking down the main street of a factory town. No wonder the Soviet Bloc did not want me even peeking across their borders! I never, ever carry a camera. Most places I've been, cameras attract bandits and/or firing squads. I learned to buy postcards, which presumably have already passed censorship, although one got a few snips from a government censor in one place which had an ongoing civil war.

When I lived in Spain during the sixties, the Franco government prohibited the taking of snapshots of many items: railroad stations, navy ships, soldiers, fortifications, power plants, etc. The usual stuff. My parents complained that my postcards from Barcelona were marred by the shadow of the zeppelin, from which the aerial views had been taken. Sorry about that!

As I mentioned, the blightwing has made little use of my abilities and far more abuse with their hostile reception of anything deemed to emanate from Thomson the Terrible. Not being an egotist, myself, I did not understand their mean little motives at first. Later, I learned the Blightwing Principle: NEVER SUPPORT ANYONE WHO CAN DO ANYTHING BETTER THAN YOU! In this regard, the book entitled, "Further Up the Organization" (How to stop management from stifling people and strangling productivity) by Robert Townsend, supports a lot of your own experience working with good and bad employers.

You may already have the text of the section entitled "Conviction vs. Ego", but I'll copy it for you any way. "Things get done in our society because of a man or a woman with conviction... At the other extreme the economy is crowded with giant institutions – scientific, religious, educational, or artistic – that are not centers of conviction but monuments to an ego... Lots of money goes into them. Lots of good people work there. No results. Before you commit yourself to a new effort, it's worth asking yourself a couple of questions: 'Are we really trying to do something worthwhile here? Or are we just building another monument to some diseased ego?'"

Another brief section is entitled: "Institution, on not becoming an". "...Since the leader must lead the battle against institutionalization, it's to the leader that you should look for early signs of losing the war. Is he getting confused about who's God? Polishing up the image instead of greasing the wheels? Preoccupied with the price of the stock? Listening to the public relations department? Short-tempered with honest criticism? Are people hesitating before they tell him? ... Saying the same old magic words, but doing something different? ...it's time for a new leader."

On the section entitled "Leadership", Townsend quotes the Chinese sage, Lao-Tzu: "As for the best leaders, the people do not notice their existence. The next best, the people honor and praise. The next, the people fear; and the next, the people hate. ...When the best leader's work is done, the people say, 'We did it ourselves!'"

Townsend says "the true leader can be recognized because, somehow or other, his people consistently turn in superior performances." If we compare the blightwing 'leadership' with such real leadership, we see that the blighters are light-years away from achieving such leadership as could organize a beer-bust in a brewery. "Diseased ego" accurately describes The Zud, but I have never before encountered a megalomaniac with a wish to be punished, as in his case. "I am the cause", eh? How pompous and how pathetic!

Townsend also warns of another Zud-characteristic: "Objectives": "Concentration is the key to results... no other principle of effectiveness is violated as constantly today as the basic principle of concentration... Our motto seems to be: 'Let's do a little bit of everything.'" We never seemed to know if we were a political organization, a book publisher or a warehouser of moth-eaten clothing and stale food – or just one man's hobby. After the trials, The Zud madly spun his wheels on brief political forays into erstwhile East Germany; deals to import amber; to dig up Tiger tanks on the outskirts of Breslau; to sell boric acid powder to people whose homes were afflicted with cockroaches; health-food promotions; promoting fags as 'Nazis' and many more absurdities. The Zud's activities began to make Don Quixote's tilting at windmills look positively practical! There was only one sure result of all this frenetic Zudulation: all the good people were driven away by seeing their best efforts always discarded and dissipated on one waste-work project after another. "I use people," quoth the Zud. "I give their lives meaning." "They are only (!) volunteers." "I sell hope." (But not results.)

As soon as I was taught to read by my American grandmother, I began to explore the world of print. As The Law of the Contrary dictates, she considered reading to be a waste of time, for it did not produce food, clothing, shelter, soap, etc. My Scottish grandmother considered reading an almost sacred activity, and those who were engaged therein were not to be disturbed. To her, reading meant education and education was the key which would open the door into a better world than the slums of The Royal Mile of Edinburgh where she was born.

In our house in California, and in the garage, we had several full bookshelves. One of the volumes I chose to read when I was 10 years old was entitled "The 7 Pillars of Wisdom" by T.E. Lawrence (Lawrence of Arabia). What lodged in my young mind, like an old refrain was Lawrence's solution to the riddle posed by the facts of the situation: How could the Turks' strength be turned into weakness and the Arabs' weakness into strength? Lawrence knew his Arabs very well. The "town Arabs" he deemed worthless in warfare. The nomadic Bedouins had potential, but they could not stand losses, nor hold positions. The Turks had modern weapons and superior numbers. They were fierce defenders and could stand losses from combat without stampeding off in all directions.

An entire Turkish army stood in Medina, at the end of a long, slender railway line, over which it received supplies necessary to mount an offensive against the British forces. Lawrence reasoned that by attacking the Turks' metal, rather than their manpower, he could imprison their 4th Army in Medina without even fighting them. His Bedouin raiders committed sufficient acts of railway sabotage to prevent the build up of supplies, but allowed just enough stuff to get through so that the Turks remained in their exposed, isolated position. That was Lawrence's answer to the riddle.

For decades, I have pondered this riddle, seeking to apply it to the rescue of Our Race, which appears to hate itself and which does all in its power to become extinct through non-breeding, down-breeding and race-mixing. We consider saving a race which neither has nor wants to identify itself as White, although it is always identified as White by its enemies. We consider a race which is childlike in its idealism, hog-like in its desire to wallow in idle luxury and fleeting pleasure; a race whose imagination and intelligence can take it to the stars, but which largely prefers to indulge in jewish fantasies and niggerball distractions; we consider a race which fears to hear a jew say 'boo' to it, but which will go to war like lemmings rushing into the sea, without care for themselves or the future. We consider a race which is so materialistic that it will give everything it owns to non-White invaders, without a whimper, let alone a fight. How can anyone save a race from itself? This is the riddle that confronts me. It is like a Gordian Knot which I study and attempt to unravel with a tug here and a tug there, but the Knot remains. The saving Sword which will cut right through the dilemma is, of course, major events which have immediate impact upon Whites, so that they will either organize to defend themselves or allow themselves to be exterminated piecemeal, by the colored usurpers and invaders. Otherwise, we are like the frogs in the gradually-heated water and we shall remain in our American cauldron until we are boiled to death.

I see a cosmic joke in the fact that growing numbers of Ostensible Whites and mongrels appear ready to kill jews because they deem themselves to be the true kikes. Does it take insanity to fight insanity? We shall see. I do not wish to belong to any group of crazies, no matter how White they appear to be. Fortunately, most "true jew" types do not appear to be White, but mongrels posing as White. By clinging to any version of the jewish religion, we assure our demise, first morally, then mentally, then physically. We have survived as Whites, not because of our beliefs in Christianity, but despite them. In the end, the pursuit of error will kill us, as it always has, and there are fewer and fewer of us left to kill. Right now, the situation remains: "They Live, We Sleep."

When I was around 8 years old, I decided to explore South America, because its lush green jungles and great rivers contrasted with the brown desert areas I lived in, where rivers were only lines on the map or dry declivities which carried water only during the occasional flash floods. I therefore bent every effort and took advantage of every opportunity to learn about South America. In junior high, French or Spanish were optional. Naturally, I chose Spanish. In university I was one of the few students who graduated in a tailor-made subject: The Regional Group Major on Hispanic America, which is what it says on my university diploma. The U.S. Army called it "geopolitics". In fact, it was bio-cultural politics, and it prepared me very well for life in the present U.S.A.

The reason for my choice of studies was always to find out The Big Picture of what was going on in the world. Once I knew the general nature of things, I could easily work out the Little Pictures which applied more immediately to myself. That is what I have done. Most Aryans do the opposite. They start with fragmentary experience and bits of immediate knowledge and seek no further. Then they are bewildered when their lives come crashing down into chaos and ruin. When you know you are living on a flood plain, do you make no plans for high water? And when it finally comes up to your eyeballs in your livingroom, are you surprised? Does this experience cause you to crack up and become mentally and physically paralyzed? Can you blame "the government" for your distress? Most do so and expect other taxpayers to bail them out. So it goes throughout our society. I read in the jewspapers that deaf people are being killed by trains when they walk upon the railroad tracks. Why is this so shocking?. Are deaf people also stupid? At least 2 of them were.

When I first arrived in Cali, Colombia, I took the train to my first assignment in Palmira, 10 miles away. I met my Colombian boss who asked me to write my introductory speech in Spanish. That done, he asked me to come into a room packed with people who were waiting TO HEAR ME! I stood at the speaker's podium and my boss said to be sure to speak directly into the microphone which was in front of me. "You're now being broadcast live, on national radio," said my boss. I gave my little speech in Spanish and received polite applause from the audience.

I had been in Colombia barely 48 hours and I had just turned 21 years old. But that's no big deal. My great grandfather made his first fortune when he was 34 and was able to retire, until his investments went sour. He was always better at earning money than he was investing it. Such strides are my normal pace, and I do not think such matters are so important nor awe-inspiring. The same year, I visited Leticia and saw the Amazon in all its lush grandeur and tropical squalor. Yup, been there. Done that, as some say. I have never regretted following my inner directive. My tropical experience taught me not to fret when the steamer left without me because the train was derailed. I can use the lulls and doldrums of life to good effect, just as I now do in Yakima.

My daily work schedule changes like the fruit disks on a one-arm bandit. Days off are put on my weekly schedule here and there, like pepper, then suddenly changed. Usually I do the night shift from 9:00 p.m. to closing (3:00 a.m. or 5:00 a.m., depending on the number of gamblers). But, for no particular reason, except for the convenience of the 'in' bunch, I am on from 1:00 p.m. to 9:00 p.m. and from 1:00 p.m. 'til closing! That means I can get 5 or 6 hours of sleep this morning before I must return to work. It would be a holocaust if I were jewish, but I'm just a dumb, good-natured Goy.

What, me worry? Sometimes I feel as if I were Beethoven in a kaffir kraal, attempting to play a symphony on some gourds, accompanied by sticks while the kaffirs and pickaninnies pick each other for lice and scabs, paying me no particular attention. Nevertheless, I feel that there is still important work for me to do, just as I felt when I studied the map of South America at the age of 8. With that, I shall temporarily sign off for a fast, aggressive sleep.

It's now five o'clock in the morning. 9:25 p.m. Back from work.

Please excuse this rambling reminiscence, but certain recollections which happen to come to mind may be entertaining to you.

I remember one of several voyages which I took from western South America to Panama. Going overland is a real macho adventure, especially through the swamps of the Choco region which effectively separates Colombia from Panama and North America from South America in regard to land transportation, unless you don't mind travelling by canoe and doing a lot of wading amongst the piranha, crocs, leeches, etc. while shrouded in clouds of mosquitos carrying malaria and yellow fever.

Those travellers who do not go by air must rely upon the Spaniards' means of communication between the continents: ship. At any rate, on one voyage up from Peru I travelled on the SALISIOS (trade winds) which was originally named TANNENBAUM. The ship had been built in Germany in 1936 and its huge Diesel engine in Malmö, Sweden, that year. But this was 1968. Who knows how the Peruvians acquired this artifact, perhaps from an Allied seizure of German shipping which occurred in both world wars. That's how everybody got their German-built "Tall-ships", a message from one being on the back of this letter. At any rate, the TANNENBAUM/SALISIOS looked as if it were a time capsule. Very little had been changed since the German crew ran it, and as I prowled around the dusty compartments on the main deck, I half expected to encounter an old German sailor in a uniform as tattered and worn as the ship itself. The cabins were equipped with fake coal fireplaces of the same design as the one which used to grace the Zud's livingroom at 206.

Well, as luck would have it, I managed to catch the ship in Chimbote, just north of Lima, because they were delayed with engine trouble. We got underway with all cargo hatches open to allow the cargo of fishmeal to ventilate. As we approached the Equator, out of sight of land, the lack of air conditioning became oppressive. Up on deck the sun blazed down and the steel decks and bulkheads blazed back, parboiling anyone foolish enough to venture into this virtual convection oven. My partial solution was to submerge in tepid water in my cabin's bathtub.

When travelling by ship, one gets so accustomed to the throbbing of the engines that it was always a shock when it stopped. Ours had stopped. I listened. Hearing nothing, I dozed in the water, but was awakened by a loud knocking on my cabin door. This is often the case when I travel on freighters with mestizo crews. It always means that they need help. When a ship's crew needs my help, I get worried. I pulled on a shirt and trousers and answered the door. A grubby character in soiled and tattered overalls introduced himself as The Chief Engineer, and asked me if I'd like to tour the engineroom, since we were not going anywhere. What a great idea, I said. I'm always interested in enginerooms, but I suspected he had another motive in inviting me on the tour. "You speak German," he asked. "A little," I replied. Naturally, our entire conversation was in Spanish, because he spoke no English. Well, it was indeed interesting. We worked our way amongst the machinery, and I attempted to translate all the little brass labels, which were in German, into Spanish. "Abflusspumpe", which I took to mean "bilgepump", I translated as "bomba para aguas negras al fondo del barco." The engineer eagerly scribbled these translations into a small, greasy notebook. As we made our way around, I looked up at the great Diesel engine. One of its pistons was partially pulled from its cylinder by the overhead gantry crane. The piston surface could have accommodated four dancing couples doing the foxtrot, but not the tango. "¿Que pasa con la màquina?" I asked. (What's wrong with the engine?) The engineer shrugged and mumbled something about having had the same 'trouble' in Chimbote. Since he obviously did not know what trouble it could have been, he quickly changed the subject by drawing forth a small book from his pocket: "Maschinentagesbuch." I smiled in recognition. In Spanish I said: "It's the engine diary. This should tell us what the problem is!" Unfortunately, the last entry was 3 years old. Nice try, but no cigar, I said. We broke for lunch.

The dining room was just below the bridge. We sat at a long table presided over by the Peruvian captain at the far end, while the 3 passengers, including myself, sat with the officers lower down. The 1st mate sat next to the radio operator so they could continue their acrimonious argument which always resumed at mealtimes. The engineer stuffed himself in silence and the captain spoke pleasantly with himself, since he was drunk. The other two passengers on this fishmeal freighter bound for Bremen and the brothels thereof were two young Peruvian males, one of whom could not sit down because of his syphilis sores. There was not a breath of air. We sat in a white-painted oven which reeked of fishmeal. The coffee began to taste like fishmeal, along with everything else. The last straw to me was a tiny electric fan, as old as the ship, which growled, but turned so slowly that it made no breeze at all. It was at this point in my saga that I said to a local Toronto high priest, now deceased, that I was almost tempted to leave the straight life behind. He nearly spluttered his beer across the table. "You've never lived a straight life," he declared. "You've always lived like Humphrey Bogart!" "That's not true," I said. "I've lived in much worse dumps than he ever portrayed. Why, the places I usually hang out in would make villains like Peter Lorre and Sydney Greenstreet look like Sunday school teachers." Yes, I've lived in big-name places all over the world.

The Grand Hotel, where I stayed in Bulawayo, Rhodesia, was partially demolished. About the only grand thing about it was the sign. Most of the places I've stayed in were 'grand' in, say, the 19th century or before the 1st World War. When I stayed in such places, they had gone from being grand, to being notorious, and then, merely disreputable.

The place I live in here in Yakima was originally a livery stable. With the automobile, the horses moved out and the whores moved in. It even had a secret bar or speakeasy upstairs. Later, it became a haven for druggies as well as whores, but now it is an Alzheimer's apartment building for geezers 55 and over. Only slightly disreputable. Its cracked fieldstone walls which are decorated with mestizo gang graffiti are complemented by the weathered window frames and tattered awning over the main entrance. Yes, it's my kind of place. Where I work is actually an abandoned hotel over a rundown cafe with a cardroom. The sign leaning against a wall in one of the corridors displays in faded letters: Olympia Hotel. It folded so long ago that only the present owners of the building have ever heard of it. Some of the rooms have been walled off by latterday ventilation ducts. Who knows what may be in them? A yellowed notice on one wall says: "These rooms are equipped with Edison Electric Lights. Do not use matches. Turn the key beside the door. Electric lighting will not interfere with sleep nor harm your health." The rooms I've seen are small, but the ceilings are so high that one needs a tall stepladder to change the light bulbs when they do burn out. As the song from "Oklahoma" goes: "they've gone about as fur as they can go."

As we enter the 21st century, I reflect that I have travelled more sea miles than I have by air; that I have travelled more rail miles pulled by steam locomotives than diesel or electric ones; that I have done more river miles via paddlewheel, wood-burning steamers than by motorboat; that I have travelled by horse and mule and camel, weeks away from the nearest road. I live in a 19th century livery stable and work in a 19th century hotel. But I am never quite fashionable. When I stayed in Stockholm, Sweden, I lived in a hotel built in 1620. The floors were timbered like the deck of an old sailing ship and they never, ever creaked under foot. In 1620, they built things solid indeed! Yes, I tried the 'straight life' for almost an entire year in San Francisco where I worked as a clerk in the head office of The State Compensation Insurance Fund. I'm sure the entire staff has long since been replaced by one desktop computer. So much for 'job security'.

With 20-20 hindsight, I conclude that I was wiser than I knew by heeding my own inner compass, for the 'straight life' was, in reality, THE RAT RACE, which one can only avoid by living below one's means, as you have mentioned. Unfortunately, the women I knew in the U.S.A. believed in using a man the way an Apache uses a horse: he rides it until it dies, then 'persuades' it with torture to go another 10 miles, as I've heard said. No, there was nothing to keep me in the Jew-Ess-Eh, nor is there now. I merely mark time and earn a bare living as I wait for a new and worthy assignment, somewhat like Gordon of Khartoum. The soldier of fortune. I guess I am more a seafarer than a landlubber, for I can feel at home nearly anywhere. Since I've lived so many years in alien lands, it is no strain for me to adapt to the accelerating alienation of American society. I see what is happening. Most Whites like to pretend it is not happening. As I said to White Rhodesians: "If you do not care that you are losing your country, then neither can I."

I hope you don't mind my sharing these thoughts with you and I hope you find them informative.

A local bircher who is a Christian Armageddonist, hoping for the speedy end of the world and the return of the Sky Jew's Son, told one Yakimoron that I am much older than I appear to be and that I am really a Nazi ghost sent by Satan to spy on him. Gee, I didn't know what a reputation I have amongst the locals. No wonder some of them avert their eyes when they see my approach, and scurry past me at a great rate of knots. "Get thee behind me, Sanity!" quoth the Yakimorons.

22 December 1998