Militant Ideology and Murder

It's always a good time for healthy fedposting.

We can all feel the world going crazy, can’t we?

It’s sliding towards murder on a scale no one has ever seen before.

The gross slaughters of the first two World Wars pale starkly in comparison to what arrives as you read this. Infinite technological genocide has pranced forward to the stage, and it’s beyond frightening for the common man to see.

Therefore, of course, he doesn’t look.

Who wants to see in the dark?

Not many people do.

If you look, and you see, perhaps the rotted lips of an ancient evil might close in and brush your cheek with a glottal sucking chortle and end you on the spot.

Who wants to fight monsters, really?

It’s easier to just quit and succumb as a useless and nameless morsel, churned down the gullet of these strange wobbling caricatures of history rather than argue.

You might get hurt if you fight for your life, don’t you know?

Who wants to get hurt?

Why would you want to risk it?

You have a 401(k), after all.

You had pizza today, and sat in traffic for a few hours.

“The train is fine,” goes the morbid expression, told by one derelict to another as the boxcars rumble off to pits of sardinenpackung and lime.

I’ll tell you what I think.

I think most men are cowards, with a caveat.

I see the annihilation constructed and coming for them.

I know the train is not fine, and I am not sluiced kibble to be ground and traded between feckless tyrants.

I am a militant, and there are millions like me.

There are millions of men filled with rage and disgust, shame and anger, misery and despair, fury and power; who long for nothing so much as release of hands to execute justice on the monsters whom they know have earned it.

You know it, and I know it.

Don’t lie.

Imagine the man who looks upon his son, and sees him desecrated from promise of legacy into a sterile painted monster that stinks of feces from a repetitively gouged hole carved by sadistic physicians under a weird and ugly flag of “pride”.

I have met men who weep with that rage.

Consider the soldier who looks upon his people, and witnesses the insane and appalling treason layered with thick, malevolent horror upon their natural rights and honor, reducing his brothers and fathers and every future generation to slaves.

I have spoken with soldiers who grind their teeth in that disgust.

What burns in the heart of the young man who has never known a future, who sees the bitter and cynical depredations of the old generation that stole everything from him, including even the melted mask of history, running with molten tears?

I see them every day.

Their shame and anger revolts against this inflicted misery and despair.

There is a current of power that ripples across the land, and it is dreadful.

That ripple is recognition of nothing left to lose, and that gives rise to a fury and power that eventually, inevitably, snaps shackles and breaks every boundary of hesitant conscience, injured freedom, and subjugated dignity.

Militants appear, heralds and harbingers both, and they understand something very important that every weeping father, disgusted soldier, and furious man knows in his heart to be true.

It’s coming.

Can you feel it, swelling underfoot in the halls of our universities, in the streets of our nations, in the chat rooms and the cities?

On the encrypted platforms, in quiet words in the dark, in the aching turn of this foul and monstrous age?

Don’t lie.

Do you feel the grim and ceaseless chill as men end conversations, determined not to go too far under the merciless gaze of the State, and in their eyes they look at you and you see the promise of murder yet to be?

Do you hope for vengeance to begin at last, hesitant and agonized before the horror it will deliver, full ashamed at how you cover your ears to the stern, imperative call of Justice as she demands you cease betrayal of your duty?

Don’t lie.

Militants follow truth in the dark, and they turn the gurgled snickers of slouching evil into screams of extirpation with deliberate and fearful purpose.

Militants hunt monsters, and they know that love for your people and advancement of their legacy and heritage requires fealty and cruelty beyond measure.

Militants see the majesty of hierarchy, order, and beauty in the black gulf of terror, and they know beyond doubt, beyond crime, beyond the tawdry remonstrance of cowards and the fickle blithering of tyrants that they have prerogative in the new age.

This is the Age of Militants, and now we will speak of the caveat I mentioned.

Most men are cowards, but not forever.

Most men think the train is fine, but not forever.

Most men will bear rage and disgust, but not forever.

Shame and anger, misery and despair, are not permanent things.

Not where the hearts of Men are concerned;

Not where the minds of Men seek truth;

Not where the hands of Men deliver vengeance.

And today as you feel your way through the dark, groping for truth and leadership, seeking light that overcomes this horror, grip the the hands that reach out and pull you up.

I am Ivan Throne.

I tell you today that you will master this Age, these terrors, and yourself.

I tell you today that you have the same capacity any militant has ever had, who called himself free then spat on his hands and raised the black flag of vengeance.

For his sons, for his brothers, for his fathers.

For his people, for his nation, for his legacy.

It’s coming, and you know it.

They know it too, those who created this storm.

They desired it, they lusted for it, they licked their lips at the thought of it.

You felt that, you saw that, and you made promise to yourself about it.

It’s time to keep your promises, and to form cruel and iron ranks.

You know you want to, and you know it’s time.

Don’t lie.

We are not fools or chattel.

We know the work of justice and the State are as heavy as the enormous duty and provocation that confer it.

You can wait a while longer, but not forever.

Join the Movement.