whadmin

“No Longer shall my Heart be Quiet “

Chapter 4:    Tankman Tommy Robinson

Bellowing bold defiance at the top of his lungs, the protester balanced precariously on top of the Downing Street gates. Behind and below him, a sea of faces cheered him on. Patriots waved St George flags.
Hastily prepared placards said it all:

# FREE TOMMY

# FREE THE TRUTH TELLER – FREE TOMMY

People chanted. People clapped. People felt.
Raw. Indignation.

The pale blue dot, our small, feeling home in the immense void of the Universe, continued its journey around the sun. A passing Alien, kindly disposed towards primitive Life perhaps, might delay his journey, and stop off to check on the emerging civilization there. He might carefully observe for a while, and feel sorry for us.

Still a long way to go to Type One civilization. If you ever make it that far…

He might note the date, easily tapping into our primitive, planet wide, Internet-Mind-Link, and follow our polemics, our divisions and our hatreds. And shake his energy field, sadly, quickly moving on.

What happened to all our friend and spokesman, Tommy Robinson, after that sad date, written in infamy and Government ruthlessness, of May 25th 2018, is another story.
But what happened on that date, the spontaneous feelings of so many people, young and old, working class and professionals, united in the sense of outraged disgust at brute Government tyranny, the sense of betrayal by an uncaring Colossus in Power…

…would be quietly observed by many Historians as an inflection point.

A strange tipping point, if you like, when the scales fall from a gentle people’s eyes.
When revealed, in the full light of Ugly, Sordid Truth, they finally see, the oncoming Juggernaut that wishes only to crush them. The armored tank that cares not for the peaceful occupants of Tiananmen Square. Listens not to their cries. Cares not. That just rolls on.
That day, later Historians argued, when Tankman Tommy calmly, almost serenely, resolutely faced down the monstrous Juggernaut, just like his Chinese predecessor, armed only with the Truth that his people knew to be the Truth, and that day, when he was summarily whisked away, locked up, never to be seen again that day or the next, furiously embittered many good men.

It is said that retired men of former violence, all over the world, sat up that day. And that something happened in their hearts. That these men represented, oddly, different, opposing sides to former conflicts. Now, to become united with former sworn enemies, to combat Government tyranny and genocidal invasion.
Courtesy of a British Government that hopelessly betrayed the trust of its own people.

Irony.

What occurred that day within these men? A hardening perhaps, a setting of the mouth. A clinical coldness.

Ah…

A knowing. What, regrettably, had to be done.

*               *                   *                       *

Studying the computer screen, alone in his study, one such man is said to have made an encrypted call to another. Who called another. Who met with three others. Who…

It seemed even to them a great irony, that the British Government, for whom they had little to no respect, should see fit to embark on a previously already failed policy. A policy of internment without trial, or internment based on flimsy evidence. A policy of massive Media distortion, and outrageous lies. A policy of bullying and threats, and of turning a deaf ear to the legitimate grievances of the people. Which only acted as a magnificent recruiter tool. That turned peaceful men. Into one of the most dedicated, well organized paramilitary groups ever.

It is said that some of these men had mellowed, and were wiser. That they had regrets. Nightmares, even. That they had buried too many of their comrades. But that the day of May 25th, 2018 changed their hesitance. Tripped. The deadly switch.

It is said that from that day onward, preparations for civil war accelerated dramatically. That the process of re-armament, already begun, received  a tremendous boost. A massive inflow. Of new, embittered recruits.

So. They had carried off the Tankman. A wiggy judge, all full of himself, standing at the window laughing, had solved the British Government’s problem in a oner. Silenced vox populi. Right?

Surprise. Not. Peaceful didn’t work, guys.

Pah.

Maybe, it never could.

“No Longer shall my Heart be Quiet “

Chapter 3:    Enter the Rogue Cops

Detective Inspector Hjalmar Andreasson was a changed man.
He had taken to staring out the window for long hours. Silent, uncommunicative. Brooding. Worrying. Staring into the distance. Not seeing the optical reflection of physical items within his range. Neat Swedish houses, white painted fences and neatly parked Volvo cars. Streetlamps, and the odd pedestrian. Seeing not the sky, the struggling pale blue and the dominant grey of a typical Swedish winter’s day. But seeing far, nonetheless.

Very far…

She… sadly observed him, and, loving him deeply, more than life itself, now tiptoed around the house. She ached to see him like this. She longed to be happy again, truly happy, as they had been when they had first been married, almost forty-six years earlier. For many years their lives had been blissful. They had raised children, made many friends, and he had achieved a very meritorious career in Law Enforcement. He had made promotions, and he would always come home bouncy. Serious crime had been rare in those days. Even then, he had absorbed the inevitable encounter with Great Ugliness with a stoic, career Police Officer’s composure. He might come home quieter than normal, seemingly preoccupied, but always those rare excursions into the Twilight Zone of exposure to Man’s inhumanity to Man, were rare events. Sunshine outweighed by far the Night. Their lives had been happy. His career, fulfilling. Their love, unquestioned.

And then…

Fifteen years earlier? No, more like twenty. He had started to come home more tired. His face drawn. Gaunt. His mouth hardened. His voice strained. He would sink into a chair, exhausted. She remembered it like a Great Shadow.  Creeping in, furtively, stealthily encroaching on their normally sunny meadows. Stealing their happiness away, one smile at a time.
At first he would talk about it. The immigrants. From Eritrea, from Somalia, from Niger, from Morocco, from Afghanistan. Welcomed by the Swedish Government. Welcomed by The Mass Media. Welcomed by Academia. Welcomed – at first – by most ordinary Swedes.

Then…

The relentless uptick in crime. Violent crime. Especially, rapes. What was it about these immigrants that they were so eager and willing to viciously abuse the womenfolk of their unbelievably generous host country? He would come home, shocked, and angry, and describe, in hushed tones, as if the walls might have ears, some truly astonishing outrage. A young mother, dragged off the street into a car, amazingly in broad daylight, and taken away to be raped by a dozen men for days on end. It was, at first, so shocking that ordinary Swedes couldn’t wrap their minds about it. Then there was that poor woman in a wheelchair, who gave a refugee a lift home. Back to the refugee reception center. Then asked to use the restroom. They had taken her wheel chair away, and a dozen men had viciously gangraped her in the restroom. Laughing. Joking. Three at a time. It was the stuff of nightmares, and it didn’t make sense. How could flesh and blood men do this? He would come home angry, indignant, and tell her about it. He would be upset, seething, shocked to his very core. And then, one day…

He had simply stopped talking about it.

She loved him so much. It was hard to know what hurt her more. Hearing the terrible tales of violent crime, hearing about lives destroyed, women -and children- left with horrendous physical wounds, even worse mental scars, or… simply knowing that he was bottling all that horror up inside him.
It hurt her to know how he wrestled with all that terrible knowledge.

She thought about the many distinct factors that upset him so much, and on some level were burning him up. Before, when he still talked about it, he had frequently marveled at how impossible his task had become. The introduction, so quickly, of so many tens of thousands of men of foreign extraction, of no fixed abode, unable to speak or understand the Swedish language, and often enough unwilling to even try, had upended the traditional job of Police work. Rendered the hard almost impossible. Wrapped each offender and law breaker in an almost impenetrable mantle of anonymity, with the additional benefit of poor documentation, easily forged, and even more easily ‘lost’. No fixed abode. And the considerable fringe benefit of being able to speak together in a whispered language nobody else had the faintest hope of understanding.

“Name…!”
“Mohommad!”
“Papers!”
“No papers!”
“Where are you from?”
“Somalia!”
“Where are you staying?”
“No understand!”
“WHERE – YOU -STAY…?”
“Oh… errr…. THERE.” (pointing vaguely)
“WHERE – YOU – LIVE…?”
“Oh…errr….. REFUGEE CENTER.”

“Name…!”
“Mohammad!”
“Papers!”
“No have papers!”
“Where are you from?”
“Sweden!”
“No, where are you from before?”
“Errr…. Syria!”
“You speak Arabic?”
“No!”
“How can you be from Syria and not speak Arabic?”
“No understand!”
“Where you stay?”
“Errr…. there!” (pointing vaguely)
“Where you live?”
“Errr….. Refugee center!”
“Which one? There are FOUR.”
“Errr…. no understand!”

He would come home, affecting nonchalance. But she who loved her husband knew his eyes. And she recognized pain there, and soul searing frustration.
When he started to write of his feelings on Social Media, they almost had an argument.
She had protested feebly:

“Hjalmar, Sweetheart, you only have three years ago before your retirement. Why risk everything? Why speak up now? Why make waves? Maybe they will fire you, and what will happen to your pension? What will become of us? And you will make us a target. Our family will be in the crosshairs…”

He almost snarled back:

“I have been silenced for fifteen years. Bludgeoned by the higher ups into a fearful, cowed, non-commentary. On pain of disciplinary proceedings. What sort of country am I leaving our children? Our grandchildren? How long can this descent into darkness, this spiralling out-of-control go on before we suffer a complete collapse of Order? And still the fools in Government appease and placate, pontificate and judge, about things such as Law Enforcement about which they have simply not got the foggiest clue. The ideologues are running mad. The University professors with their PH.D.’s in bull crap. The academics in their heavily guarded, safe Ivory Towers. The young, the naive, the Social Justice types, living in La-la Dreamland, flaunting their virtue for all to see and mutually admire, with NO FRICKIN’ CLUE about REALITY, until it sneaks up behind them and robs or viciously rapes them. At knife point. And even THEN they are pressured into keeping silent, for fear of ‘upsetting the refugees’, and jeopardizing their chances of asylum. What kind of lunatic asylum are we living in, where we voters consistently return into power those who openly seek to dilute our heritage. Dilute? Submerge! Kill! Exterminate!”

His voice had risen -uncharacteristically-in both volume and indignation. She had been stunned into silence, and had felt, for the first time, his raw anger. She had also tasted, more disquieteningly, an emotion that tasted very much like fear.

His Social Media posts had provoked -unsurprisingly- an immediate storm of condemnation.

“Here we go; this is what I’ve handled from Monday-Friday this week: rape, rape, robbery, aggravated assault, rape-assault and rape, extortion, blackmail, assault, violence against police, threats to police, drug crime, drugs, crime, felony, attempted murder, Rape again, extortion again and ill-treatment.”

“Suspected perpetrators; Ali Mohammed, Mahmod, Mohammed, Mohammed Ali, again, again, again. Christopher… what, is it true? Yes, a Swedish name snuck in on the edges of a drug crime. Mohammed, Mahmod Ali, again and again.”

“Countries representing all the crimes this week: Iraq, Iraq, Turkey, Syria, Afghanistan, Somalia, Somalia, Syria again, Somalia, unknown, unknown country, Sweden. Half of the suspects, we can’t be sure because they don’t have any valid papers. Which in itself usually means that they’re lying about their nationality and identity.”

He had been accused of racism, dereliction of duty, bringing the Police Force into disrepute, and the Lady Mayoress had personally called, furious.

No surprise.

It wasn’t even a surprise when he was notified to report to a Police tribunal.

She locked herself in the bedroom, and wept.

After more than four decades of dedicated Police Work.

They were instituting disciplinary proceedings.

“No longer shall my Heart be Quiet”

Chapter 2:   Enter the Brave

Gustav knows the First Step Cell members, of which he is just an ordinary member, very well. Younger men mostly, they have nonetheless known each other for many years, from well before the date of the Great Betrayal, on September 5th, 2015. A Day that was destined to live in Infamy and Contempt.

Merkel’s Great Betrayal…

Open borders! A sweeping promise, a blank check, the Surrender of Innocence, delivered seemingly (?) without much forethought, never mind consultation, by an ageing, childless , burned out, limelight hogging, deluded (and treacherous?) Virtue Seeker.
Perhaps, the Ultimate Dancing Puppet-on-a-string. Even her. Taking orders? From who?  Mad woman. Or incredibly cunning. Ruthless. The worst type. An enigma. The biggest possible liability to Europe. In the first throes of Senile Decay.
With an irrational, pathological fear of… dogs?

Gustav regarded Merkel’s tenure as destructive and as perfidious as that of the reviled Vidkun Quisling. World War Two Nazi collaborator, and traitor to Norway. Gustav fervently wished upon Hure Merkel the same fate as that which befell Vidkun.

Firing Squad.

Meanwhile, until the German people finally come to their senses, and the sleepwalking, cowed, and pitifully pliable masses awaken, Gustav knew it was all down to

the small, reviled minority

to step up

and change History

Again.

His own Step Two level cell, of which he was the leader, was composed of good men. His mind analysed them. It was he, and he alone who had carefully recruited them. They knew only him as their contact person to the rest of the shadowy Spider’s Web.
At issue now, was their ability to adjust to a steady, but remorseless ratcheting up of the intensity of the conflict. So far, their activities had been purely defensive in nature. Not involving the application of Lethal Force. Street Patrols, protecting women and children. Meting out Vigilante Justice. Broken heads, bloody noses, and plentiful bruises. Young Muslim thugs, previously accustomed to owning the streets at night, and increasingly during the days as well, had been in for some rude shocks. They were not -yet- used to inevitably encountering roving SOW patrols, in numbers, determined, capable and willing to mete out severe beatings on the spot. They were still plying their drug trade, enjoying their criminal enterprises, and openly leering and lusting after young white Swedish women. Still openly hanging out at High School gates. Their grooming gangs, enjoying undreamed of spoils, and ever intensifying their brazen contempt for Western Culture and values, were yet in full swing.

But beginning to more often look over their shoulders…

Gustav sighed deeply. A book lay open on his desk, a passage highlighted. What Patriot, he pondered, could possibly not be moved (or infuriated) by Peter McLoughlin’s book? His work, “Easy Meat – inside Britain’s Grooming Gang Scandal” laid out in detail the tragic path the British Establishment had already so cravenly followed. The author’s words on page 59, carefully measured, almost understated, nonetheless screamed a terrible indictment.

In 2011 a wave of reports swept across the news media, indicating that they had finally woken up to the phenomenon of the Muslim grooming gangs. This was followed in 2012 by the Home Affairs Select Committee undertaking an investigation into this scandal (with the Committee’s report finally being published in June 2013). However, it was not always so, and between 2004 and 2011, there was only one journalist who stuck with this story…

What, Gustav wondered, could you really say about the original British Rotherham Report? With the official figures of 1,400 young white girls between the ages of 11 and 16 sexually gang raped and abused for years? What did this “report” represent? A watershed? A turning point? Or a token gesture? Even, a crude white wash? A white wash of Police and Social Workers? A white wash of an ineffective, effete, PC compliant British Government?

However, it was not always so, and between 2004 and 2011, there was only one journalist who stuck with this story…

The true numbers of victims would in later fact not only turn out to be much, MUCH higher, soon running into tens of thousands of cases, even running into claims of six figures, but the abuse tradition itself? Would continue, unabated. It would only increase massively in scope and intensity. As if the Muslim rape gangs would just shrug it all off. Negative publicity? What negative publicity?

We have more and more Muslim mayors in Britain anyway. You think they will cause waves for us? Investigate us? Persecute us? Are you mad? Or just crazy naive?

Nah. Indifferent. Onward. F*ck ’em all. The British Lion can kiss my Muslim *ss.
Easy Meat…
(laughter)

To Gustav, this was insanity. The actions of his own Government, reckless bordering on raw criminality. How could anybody not see the red flags? The writing on the wall? The Arabic scrawl? Dripping blood?
The Muslims, with their numbers still -percentage wise- small, albeit exploding, were demonstrating their true, 7th century, endlessly cruel, harsh desert origins. Their breath taking institutionalized, ingrained, almost genetically coded hatred, aggression, and intolerance for the kafir West. 1400 years of bloodshed, intolerance, and ethnic cleansing. A renewed attack on the gates of Vienna. The eradication from the pages of History, forever, of so many much more gentle, much more artistic, much more feeling clans, tribes and cultures. Whole regions of this small planet, simply casually sterilized, overnight, of anything not bowing down to their Brigand, pedophile, slave owning, interminably cruel founder. Who had demonstrated the brass neck to elevate himself, even in his own life time, to God-like status.

The Perfect Man… What a sad joke.

The rape of the very concept of religion.
It was an in-your-face display of their true colors. A flaunting of Illegality and immorality, and lip curling contempt for everything Christian or non-Muslim, that boded extremely darkly for that which is yet to come. Once they had bred their numbers up.

Gustav sighed. He saw pogroms, white genocide, and terror.

He walked back to his desk, and pondered the young, idealistic, desperately well meaning members of his very own Step Two cell. They looked up to him. They would follow his lead.

But were they ready? Ready for an intensification? A major -huge- escalation?
Trickling down from the top of the Pyramid, cautiously as ever, on guard against Orwellian Government infiltration and espionage, a new tactic was being passed down.
In simple words:

“It’s time to take the fight to the enemy.”

Gustav was in complete agreement.

It was high time.

To man up.

“No longer shall my heart be Quiet”

Chapter 1:   Malmo Reflections

Malmo, Sweden.

The city of his birth. In the early morning. With a dull, grey overcast, a persistent drizzle, and a surreal sense of… what?
Foreboding, probably. Latent, emerging fear. The monster meeting the new day, already voracious. Ah… listen. Distant sirens, feeble attempts to bring order to violent chaos, warbling plaintively in the weary dawn. Another day. More… hate.
He turned away from the window in his high rise, and returned to his battle station. The computer screen glowed softly, and beyond that portal, ten thousand potential warriors awaited the latest news. From hell.
Gustav sighed deeply. Closing his eyes just for a moment, he reflected, sadly, on the insane, twisting road, that had led, unerringly to this troubled day. It hadn’t always been like this…

Back in 2018-2020, not that long ago in one sense, there had still been those hopeful that Sweden might survive. As a modern state. The way it seemingly always had. But harsh reality, bombs and bullets, hand grenades and rampaging Islamic mobs, intimidation and hypocrisy, not to mention skyrocketing crime and sexual assaults, had eventually made even the most ardent feminists, for the most part, shuffle sheepishly off the stage. Rotten eggs and tomatoes, of the physical putrifying kind, and in the form of raw anger on the part of infuriated native Swedes, had silenced many of the former Quislings of a once great and modern Nation. Those noisy feminist politicians who nonetheless remained, still unrepentant, (entrenched firmly behind the locked gates of their homogeneous white, upscale communities), bore the brunt of endless withering popular jokes.
He shook his head. There was work to be done.

Gustav was a young man.
A career professional with a comfortable, affluent life style. Soft spoken, unassuming, and highly intelligent. A humble student of History. But above all, a Realist. An organizer. Recruiter. Leader.
The organization for which he toiled, often at insane personal risk, had grown exponentially. Despite all the nay-sayers, those who had forecast, back in 2020, that the Swedes would roll over, and submit meekly to the Caliphate, despite all the “Sweden-is-finished” talk, patriots had in fact pulled together. He had seen the organisation graduate from irregular street patrols, dealing with petty thieves, thugs, and violent rapists, to a well-oiled machine capable and willing -where necessary – to carry out acts of arson, sabotage and mass civil disobedience. He had at his disposal determined young Patriot men, with muscle and courage, who loved their country, and who were determined to fight the Great Merkel Betrayal to the bitter end. There would be no surrender to either the Islamic Invasion, orchestrated and sinister, or a capitulation to the Establishment Forces. There existed a growing, bitter contempt for nearly all elected officials, and the members of the cowed, broken, gutless Media. Whose sole mission in Life up to this point had been to facilitate Islamic conquest as rapidly and speedily as possible. And apparently welcoming Sharia Law, the emerging Muslim caliphate, and the cultural dilution of the Native Peoples.
He frowned.

Cultural dilution initially. But after that, he knew only too well, in a few short decades, cultural annihilation. De facto enslavement and subjugation to a violent, foreign, misogynistic, pedophile, sickeningly perverse 7th century cult. A naked, worldly power ideology, pretending to be a religion. Brute force, dressed up in sham holy tinsel and cheap glitter.
He stood up behind the flickering computer screen. Pacing restlessly, thoughts and questions tormenting him. Once again at the window, he stared sadly out over his ancient homeland.

How many generations of his forefathers have lived and died there? Too many to count. Going far back before recorded History even began, his ancestors had lived and toiled, worried and fought, bled and died, but never -ever- voluntarily surrendered their heritage.
But now…

Now he had countrymen willing, eager, falling over themselves, to usher in their nation’s permanent cultural and demographic decline and eventual demise.
He shook his head. Time to plan ahead. Not wallow in the recent past. Time to reflect. Plan. Plan. Plan.
The analytic, cold part of his mind took careful control. He silently listed their problems, one by one. Cogitating, meditating, reflecting.

A) They had to continue to swell their numbers of street soldiers, and organize them into effective, rapid reaction, fighting formations. This was easier said than done. Infiltration was the chief worry. Infiltration by agents of an increasingly hysterically repressive Government. The left Wing Government, dominated by so-called ‘Liberals’ who seemed to have hijacked a word and a value to which they intended only terminal harm. The last thing the Government desired was the ‘Liberty’ of its citizens, Free Speech or Self Determination. On the contrary. It was their way, or the High Way. Translated increasingly into long prison sentences.

B) After infiltration, the problem was internal efficiency, security, and rapidity of communication. In just his local area, he counted over one hundred and fifty dedicated Patriots. Arranged in ‘cells’ with six to eight members in each cell, the Sons of Wodan relied on a complex and somewhat cumbersome methodology of ‘trickle down’ commands. They referred to it as “Descending The Pyramid”. Instructions would be passed down from the tip of the pyramid, the top echelon, and be distributed only to the Cell Leaders (also known as Commanders) on the First Step Down. There were eight such cells. Eight leaders. Commanding 57 men. Of those eight cells on the First Step Down, five cells had at least one further Internal Cell. One even had Four Internal cells. These were again cells of six to eight men, arranged on the Second Step down. Headed up by a Cell Commander, who was a dual rated individual. Acting both as Cell Commander for his Internal Cell, situated on the Second Step down, he also was an ordinary foot soldier reporting to HIS Cell Commander on the First Step Down. In this way, the Pyramid was being being constructed steadily from the top down. However, the design factored in hostile penetration of cells anywhere in the Pyramid Structure. No matter which cell was compromised, no matter which Step/Tier that cell was located on, damage limitation was regarded as paramount. Units were expected to exercise a high degree of autonomy, making flexible, local command decisions in accordance with their overall Aims.

C) After infiltration and internal, secure communications, the next issue was commitment and the level of psychological preparedness. It was one thing to ask Patriots to patrol their own communities with the safety of their own kinfolk in mind. Especially that of the women and children. Most volunteered for that enthusiastically. Armed with fists and feet,  clubs and courage, such patrols were effective, and sent a message. The very weight of numbers lent the patrols courage. But Gustav knew that more challenging, pro-active action would be soon required. Taking the fight to the enemy. The psychological profile that matched with a Patriot using his fists and feet, did not necessarily extend a preparedness to use Force of Arms. Never mind, Lethal Force. That need was approaching quickly.

Gustav the patriot, stands at the window, and ponders these fundamental questions. He contemplates overall strategy, and the resultant tactics to be used on the short term, local level.

His brow is furrowed. His heart. Heavy.

In the distance, a bell

tolls.

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on May 25, 2018, 4:53 am