From Titans To Lemmings: The Suicide Of The White Race Part I - Selected For Extinction
From Titans To Lemmings: The Suicide Of The White Race Part II - Halting The Tide
Oh, I remember that bickering, shuffling crowd and those forever nights so long ago. We all marched along, sometimes stumbling, but ever forward we went — never stopping, never thinking, never saying no.
It was never a silent crowd, by any stretch. Although most just grumbled far too quietly to be heard by anyone but their closet neighbors, still quite a few raised their voices loudly and indignantly over the least little thing. Usually, I had no idea what was shouted because I had long since tired of listening to it. Yet, I do remember that almost all the marchers stridently insisted that we continue the course we were on and those who disagreed were shouted down as misguided, evil or derisively hooted into embarrassed silence as crazy.
And I was never exactly sure of the shape to that marching crowd. Most thought it to be widely amorphous and impossible to measure, but the only thing I was ever sure about was that we were all marching forward, towards some final destination, of what no one seemed to really know.
Often, I gave thought to the further sides, maybe off someplace to the left or right of me. But never could I see much other than all the bobbing, gibbering heads that surrounded me in the darkened gloom. Likewise, it was dangerous to turn around and go backwards — the pressing legions behind would quickly overwhelm you and grind you into the ground.
The crowd appeared guided and controlled by unknown people with loud electronic bullhorns off on the distant sides and, as we went along, we were prodded and cajoled with syrupy pleadings, needling commentaries and, far too often, explosive exhortations, angry denunciations and insistent demands.
The apparent purpose of those bullhorn messages — usually disguised in dripping altruism — was for us all to mix together into a babbling, chaotic and diverse mass, one that would not even know who we were, let alone think or talk about what was going to happen to us down the road.
They seemed expressly designed to confuse and divide any like-minded individuals, making it impossible for any one group of us to form coherent strategies to deal with our plight or to set our own direction.
Knots of marchers would sometimes coalesce together by virtue of some similarity with each other, comfortable with those that looked and thought alike. But these groups aroused the immediate interest and ire of the bullhorn people, who angrily denounced them as enemies to all the rest. Soon, these groups would break-up from internal dissensions egged on by the bullhorn voices and dissolved back into the surly, anonymous morass once again.
I also remember that the unseen bullhorn people off on the right, would accuse the unseen bullhorn people way off on the left with trying to run things and vice versa. Fellow marchers would then take sides with one or the other of them, adding their own voices and accusations to all the electronic shouting, but often much more acute and vitriolic in their rhetoric than even the bullhorn people themselves.
Most of us just tried to gravitate toward the middle so we could have some measure of peace while lost in the main part of the crowd.
We were a confused and easily frightened herd — whose only thought was to be the middle, away from any extreme. To be surrounded by ourselves gave us silent comfort, so that we would seek the center, even if it meant knowing little or nothing about what we were dealing with off to the sides.
This effect propelled us marchers along the way, at first heading off to the left, but soon it came back towards the right again before being lost in the distance. Every so often, we heard panicky rumors about people way off to either side just disappearing, it was said that they were plucked from the ranks by sinister unknown forces, or maybe they were lost in that dark and swirling miasma that we could sometimes see surrounding us. These disapearences created a sense of urgency to move away from those dangerous and troubled sides.
This back and forth, left and right rhythm seemed to be the method that fueled us ever onwards. I realized that it might be possible to find out what was going on by moving towards the sides to get a look around, yet I knew it was much riskier, since I really did not know the actual fate of those who became lost. It was easier and safer to stay in the middle, where it was also faster to gain ground on your neighbors — which everyone seemed eager to do.
You could not just stop right then and there because it was nearly impossible with the immense crowds behind you, ever pushing forward. Some would appear to want to help you along by grabbing and lifting you back up, but most were quite willing and even happy to walk right over you, forcing you down into the dirt, giggling with selfish pleasure. Doing so allowed them to get closer to the front sooner and this alone was enough of a reward.
I’d asked those around me where we were going a thousand times. A million. Everybody seemed to have some imaginative idea, often with quite detailed and convoluted stories to back them up, but none, that I could really tell, knew anything when you got right down to it.
A lady that I was walking along with for some time said she knew exactly what was going on and where we were headed. She was so sure about it all. She had talked to some people before joining up with me and they told her about this hill awhile back, that allowed them to see the final destination. It was all so beautiful they insisted: Bright sunlight, white marble columns shrouded in gold and purple banners, blue skies and fluffy clouds — all surrounded by green fields, rolling pastures and bountiful fruit trees where all of us could rest beneath!
But after talking to her more closely, I could gather that no one she had known had actually witnessed that vision for themselves. Only others had told them about what still others had said, no one she or myself had ever known any to have seen it with their own eyes. Others had heard about it too and weaved in wildly different details and versions. Her ideas were fascinating to listen to, but rarely could I get a word in edgewise in her continuous babble and self-absorbtion; nor could I convince her of her fallacies, so I eventually tired of her and edged away.
Although it was difficult to make out in the continual gloom we were in, I could note the vain preoccupations of my fellows, who seemed more concerned by what they wore and the petty status symbols adorning their clothing — as if any of that made the least little difference. Small, silly bits of individualism were rewarded by fellow marchers by hearty slaps on the back and shoulders, or envious looks and jealous comments. Those that sported what some considered the wrong symbols were sullenly ignored or sneered at.
Growing weary of all this petty drama, day after day after day, I thought to hell with it and decided to see what was off to the sides. “What was there to lose?” I told myself resignedly.
Unobtrusively as I could, I laterally eased my way in-between the other marchers; as I tried to slip past them they would quiz me about what I was doing, about my beliefs or if I was another part to their group. After listening to the arguing and bellyaching for so long, I knew exactly what to say and when.
Gradually, making my way further and further to the outer edge, the people seemed to get angrier and more paranoid, continually they bitched about why the rest of the crowd could not see what they did so clearly. The attitudes became acutely belligerent the further I went along, with much shouting and remonstrances, about this or that.
Sooner than I anticipated, I suddenly sensed that there was no crowd to the right of me. It took me a long time before I even had the guts to look over to confirm it, after being surrounded on all four sides with marching people my whole life.
I could make out nothing but a heavy, dark and fog-like gloom mere feet away on my right side. Peering closer into the swirling clouds, I thought I could see dark, asiatic faces buried within, moving in short, spasmodic jerks — monstrous faces with thick, bulbous noses, puffy lips and heavily-lidded eyes, which seemed to follow me closely. Or so I thought.
Some of these faces spouted slanderous threats at me, some pleaded, while others whispered tempting offers of secret advantage. Trying my best to ignore them, they resorted to calling me vicious names, rancorously declaring me insane if I didn’t resume my privileged place back in the middle of the marchers. Just looking over at them seemed to increase their interest in me. Now quite mortally afraid, I felt that I had to stay in the column or else fall victim to whatever fate those alien visages held in store for me.
I noticed someone up ahead of me drift off to the side even further than anyone else ever did. He kept his head up defiantly, but still looked over to his right side quickly and nervously. The fog-like gloom soon surrounded him and, just as I went past the point where he was swallowed up, I heard what seemed to be a muffled screaming or bellowing, way, way off in the distance inside the fog.
I kept thinking to myself, “oh, to hell with it,” wanting to just step out of this march and get it all over with. I had asked people about doing this all along and everyone told me that doing so would be far worse than I could ever imagine. Funny thing, they seemed to have no idea of exactly what would happen to a person, only that it was really bad.
With a palpable fear in my gut, but along with a growing curiosity that had now grown into driving obsession, I decided to just do it and then stepped off to the side.
As the dark billows surrounded me, I immediately felt an odd tingling sensation deep within my head, a dizziness not unlike deja vu, but far more intense. At first, I thought I was done for, but just as quickly as the sensation invaded my brain, it was gone. And, right along with that, the fog before my eyes. Yet I could still see the other marchers, slogging along on the forever march, right there in front of me. But they now seemed totally oblivious to my presence, for some reason.
It was all so easy. So easy. The dangerous wall that we thought contained us was as flimsy and inconsequential as rice paper.
I tried to yell something to them, telling them I was OK, that I was still alive and it was all cool, but they seemed not to hear me at all as they cast nervous glances off in my direction, exactly as I had done when I heard the muffled screaming earlier. I begged them to stop and come through the fog with me, but they just shook their heads sadly or laughed hysterically at the ground.
I felt naked and so very, very alone. I had never experienced that feeling before and it scared me.
I decided to get a better view of things, if possible. Although it was still pretty dark still around me, I could make out that it became lighter and lighter the further from the crowd I went. I also sensed, with some trepidation, that the further I walked away from the marchers, the less chance I would ever have in rejoining, what I now saw from my new perspective, to be a long, snake-like column stretching off in both directions as far as the eye could see.
With every step I took, my mind seemed to clear more and more, the fog I once saw surrounding us had disappeared from my head. Giddy with surviving the nothing barrier and the sensation of my mind now clear as a bell, everywhere I now looked stood out in a stark, dazzling clarity. And no longer did I even hear the continuous bickering of all those nameless souls, or the incessant electronic blaring of those infernal bullhorns!
I made out a copse of trees sitting on a nearby mountain-top and made going there the first decision in my new life. I wanted to see the line of marchers from a higher elevation and it seemed to fit the bill. Climbing it was harder than I thought it would be, with downed trees and boulders barring my way this way and that. Strange and frightening animal noises whistled from dark recesses nearby; loose gray mossy stones on the slope made me slip and fall, sweat stung my now clear eyes.
But eventually, I reached some kind of pathway, weaving it’s way back and forth up the hill. At first, it appeared to be the barest of animal trails, but then gradually widened, becoming more defined and much easier to hike.
All of a sudden, close-by on my right, I spotted what I first thought was a skinny black dog, his ribs poking out, looking down at me from a opening in the brush. Then I heard a scrambling sound nearby and, looking quickly to the left, I saw two chubby, well-fed bear cubs scramble down the side of an old rotten tree trunk, probably feasting on some beehive honey when I interrupted things.
Before I knew what happened to the bears, the top of the mountain came into view. The little copse of trees that I saw from down below had turned out to be expansive forest glade, sitting on a wide plateau, joined together with another by an open saddle ridge. Magnificent, knarled oak trees seemed to have lived here forever with no brambly undergrowth or fallen timbers blocking my way. It was as open and pastoral a scene as I could have imagined.
I couldn’t quite understand if the sun was setting or rising, then I realized with a start that I had never actually seen the sun in that always darkened crowd of marchers below. The rays from the warm sun slanted in from the right side of the glade like a glowing, airborne carpet and a little ways off in the distance, I saw a large cinnamon-colored bear looking back at me, her flanks warmly bathed in the golden rays of the sun.
Instinctively I knew she was the mother to the three cubs that I just saw, the two fat and happy, along with the third skinny runt that I first thought was a black dog. She looked back at me for a long moment and turned, walking slowly and patiently away with her offspring hidden nearby.
Somehow, I felt welcomed by her. It was then that I noticed I was not the only person who had reached this beautiful mountain-top plateau, for I could now see several others standing and sitting here and there, too. They smiled at me as I went up and plaintively asked each of them if I was really dead. They all laughed pleasantly and said no, that I was now very much alive. Alive, at long last, they happily assured me.
This night was the solstice to the rest of my life. The sun was indeed setting off to the right side of the plateau and I could see a bright, full moon rising up at the exact same time on the other. It seemed so close to me in the sky that I could literally reach up and touch the craters and mountains.
Even with all the questions that now filled my mind to ask of my new-found friends, I stood there as silently as they all did; taking in that glorious, oil-painted landscape arrayed around and before us. I could even see the long dark line of marchers winding their way down below, bathed in that strange forever moonglow I had once mistakenly believed was sunlight.
A large, dark and solitary bird could be seen circling above the marchers, which I first thought to be a vulture, but upon looking closer as it soared nearby in the updrafts, I could make out was a coal-black, malevolent war eagle with sinister, bright red eyes.
I then noticed, standing next to me was an older woman with long blond hair streaked in gray, with a face that bore a strong, noble countenance and a steely glint in her bright blue eyes. This woman then gently tugged at my wrist to get my attention and pointed off sharply at the distant marchers down below us. She said: “Look now and thusly you will see the fate you have escaped.”
At that exact moment, the rays of the setting sun suddenly burst forth from the mountain saddle off to my right, and illuminated in a harsh light what looked like the very front to the column, not too far off in the distance. Only it wasn’t anything like what I or the other marchers had ever foreseen.
For the line of marchers was now hemmed in close to the sides of a steep, rocky ravine — funneling them directly to what looked to be a sharp cliff-edge, with a yawning black abyss just beyond. Even at the distance I was at, I could just make out the marchers at this point bunching up, frantically trying to back-peddle or climb away from what they now saw was their final destination — as the unseeing, uncaring, unbelieving crowd behind them pressed onwards.
— Phillip Marlowe
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