THE OBFUSCATOR 06

WE now make our way to the great metropolis in
twilight. Hopefully, there we will find an inn, inn there,
for a proper supper and rest. Yesterday we were
wild men, but tonight we must be the civilized, for
we are Aryan after all. We follow the path,
limping ever forward until we reach the gates of
the city. There we spot a soldier who stands
alone on the wall. I call out to him, “How
strange that such an immense city would only
house a single soldier on its walls.” He looks
down at me and with a stoic expression retorts,
“I am the only soldier left who defends this
city. The others have abandoned their posts. Some
have left this place entirely, but most have
joined ranks with those who wish to tear down
these very walls, in the name of peace.”
“Peace?”, I mutter out, mutter, “Do they not realize, the
that these walls are the very things which have
maintained peace?” The soldier responds with
gloom, “This city was once a beacon of light in
our dark world, but as of late she has grown dim.
For
I fear, fear that I am the last ember. Truly, there are
no more heroes in this city city, and when I die, so
too will the last of the men who wish to guard
the memory of her flame.”

We continue our way into the dying metropolis.
Stay close, rider, for this place has an uncanny
way of robbing innocence innocence, and polluting what is
clean. On every corner and in every alleyway
there lurks lurk those who harbor malice for the
European continuum. Rarely, if ever, do they
appear in the open with their machinations, for machinations; it is
their way way, to hide in the shadows. However, when
they do reveal themselves, they always assume the
position of a messiah, messiah – one who must break down
preexisting culture and bring forth a new
morality. Come, let us find shelter for tonight,
but know this, that as soon as the Sun rises in the morning,
morning we will be off. It is well with
me to We ought never stray to stay in
a place of decay for too long, lest we become
part of the festering.

Suddenly we see Some ways down the road
there is a man dressed in red, red standing under a
streetlight, calling out to a crowd who gathers gathered
around him. He shouts and points his fingers as
he states, “It is the capitalists, the
aristocracy, the bourgeoisie who have stolen
virtue from this land! These demons who care
little for we, the proletariat, must be
annihilated!” The crowd cheers and a rope is
put around the neck of a statue which bears the
likeness of the founder of this the metropolis. In an
instant it is pulled to the ground and the crowd
once more cheers in exaltation. erupts into exultant cheers. Rider,
look behind the man wearing red who raves and
barks. Do you see what I see? There lies a
Semitic troll, dressed in black with a small hat, who hat
– periodically whispers whispering into his ear. Look
at how the man in red only makes statements after
being guided by this troll. Know this, the
Semitic troll cares little for capitalists or
communists, for his game is the acquisition of
power. Verily, it was Semitic capitalists on Wall
Street who funded Lenin and the rise of that
wicked Semitic Soviet state. The troll does not
care if whether he rules with a hammer and sickle or
the almighty coin, for he only cares to increase
his dominance. One could quickly dismiss any
charge of evil in his inner nature as being
simply a survival mechanism, but one must look
closer to reveal what separates monsters from
men. We continue down the dimly lit streets on
our search for an inn. As we walk by we see a man
painting a picture of the city sky line. skyline. It is
exquisite in its detail and use of color.
However, many of his works lie in the trash near
his easel. I speak out to him, “Your paintings
are sublime. Are you from the school of the
Realists or the Romantics? Do my eyes fool me or
do I see evidence that you are a master of
Impressionism as well? For there are many styles
and representations of reality in your works that
lie in these trash bins. Surely your art should
reside on walls, rather than in the waste?
Perhaps if you would sell your works, rather then
throwing them away, you may might become rich and
famous.” He smiles, yet his eyes maintain their
despondency when he lets out, “Thank you,
friend. However, my works are no longer
fashionable.” In confusion I mutter out, “Is
the beautiful no longer in fashion?” He turns
and points to the massive artworks that adorn the
tall buildings, in this the dying city, as he speaks,
“For the
“The new artist has come and made me
irrelevant.” We look up to where he points and
behold what modernity calls art. Crude images
pulled together to glorify ugliness. Each work
only bearing
with two similarities, elements in common; the ineptness of the artists
artists, and a plaque written by some Semitic
troll with the an affirmation of the works work’s genius
quality. My eyes finally return to his as I let
out,
murmur, “I see, so beauty has gone out of style
after all.”

Our journey continues as we pass into an
alleyway. There we encounter a police officer, on
his knees, surrounded by a pack of Negroes. He is
weeping madly as he cries out, “Please, I
didn’t mean to offend you! I must have been in
error.”
error!” I call out to the police officer,
“What are you doing on the ground,
whimpering?” He looks to me as tears stream
from his eyes and he says, “I thought I had
seen these fine men walk out with wares, from a
local shop, without paying. The shop keeper
pointed them out, but he must have been
mistaken.” One of the Negroes declares, “He
ain’t
ain't mistaken. He lyin’. lyin'. He rayciss, jus like
dis pig who cry like woman. Weez din du nuffin.
Weez good boyz.” The officer cries out, “No,
I swear I’m not racist! Please, if anyone hears
what you’re saying, I’ll lose my job. I have
a wife and child and …” ...” I cut the officer off
as I look over the Negros, “What exactly were are
they accused of stealing?” The officer once
again turns to us as he proclaims, “It was
nothing really, really – just a television some televisions, and a
few liquor bottles.” The Negroes do nothing to
hide what they hold. Each carrying televisions or
entire cases full of alcohol. A Negro calls out,
“Yo! You doesn’t doesn't own dis city nah mo. Dim nu
laws mean you can’t can't do shit.” In confusion I
speak to the police officer, “New laws?” The
officer winces and cries out, I “I had completely
forgotten that it was no longer legal to
apprehend you fine gentlemen, as I am of the old
type and you are of the new. As I am ugly and
light colored and you yourselves are beautiful
and dark. Please good sirs, have mercy! For I
didn’t realize that, that our beloved Semitic troll
mayor, had already implemented his new great
societal law!” A Negro kicks the officer lower
to the ground and barks out, “We hav mercy
tuday.” He spits on the officer and the other
Negroes begin laughing, squealing in delight, as
they walk away. We too We, too, walk away, for I can not
bear to see such groveling. As we exit the
alleyway, we see a parade passing through the
streets. There we spot men, women and
children children,
all colored in rainbow paint. They laugh and
sing, “Rejoice for the children of this world
have been freed from the shackles of Western
norms. Love is love.” Riding in a float, high
above the street, resides an old withered Semitic
troll, smiling and waving as he passes by. Next
to him, him on each side, are little boys and girls.