Balder Ex-Libris - Covington Harold ArmsteadReview of books rare and missing2024-03-16T01:56:42+00:00urn:md5:aa728a70505b2fae05796923271581c2DotclearCovington Harold Armstead - The hill of the ravensurn:md5:ed4a3cb31be7cfb4807a09d211c415d92014-05-29T13:30:00+01:002014-05-29T12:31:27+01:00balderCovington Harold ArmsteadCommunismGermanyJewNovelThird Reich <p><img src="https://balderexlibris.com/public/img3/Covington_Harold_Armstead_-_The_hill_of_the_ravens.jpg" alt="" /><br />
Author : <strong>Covington Harold Armstead</strong><br />
Title : <strong>The hill of the ravens</strong><br />
Year : 2003<br />
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The rebels were all dead by six-thirty in the morning. The summer sun had just risen in the east over the distant, snow-capped mountains of Washington. Pockets of mist nestled in the low ground, and beaded droplets of moisture still clung to the blades of grass and the green leaves on the nearby forest floor. The long sloping hillside glistened with dazzling pinpoints of reflected light from the dewdrops. The echoes of the machine gun fire and the RPG explosions died away, leaving only the hanging reek of cordite and the metallic smell of hot brass from thousands of ejected cartridge casings. Black smoke rose into the still morning air from the burning vehicle hulks on the road, and when a soft breeze sprang up it carried the sizzling stench of burning rubber and charred flesh into the American firing positions. There was a long silence, and then the birds started to sing again. The commanding officer of the ambush scanned the kill zone with his field glasses. Major Woodrow Coleman of the Federal Anti-Terrorist Police Organization was a very black man with thick lips and a bristly, dirty-looking beard of short curly whiskers. He was immensely pleased with what he saw in his binoculars. He knew now that he had been right not to call in air support. The sight of a single helicopter, even high up, would have caused the enemy to abandon their vehicles, break up and head for the timber, where long experience had taught the Americans it was most unwise to pursue them. This way the surprise had been total. The guerrillas in the two vans had been roasted alive when the vehicles exploded from the rocketpropelled grenades and the mines, but the ones in the open truck had managed to roll out with amazing speed and discipline. The only retreat for the rebels from the road and the spitting Federal gun muzzles had been up the rocky slope pre-laid with radiodetonated Claymore mines, and their only cover had been a few scraggly pines. Falling into squads, they had moved swiftly up the hillside with their own weapons blazing, right into the strings of anti-personnel mines that cut them down. Caught off guard even as they had been, Jerry Reb had made a fight of it. From the radio chatter in his earphone the CO knew that some of his own men were down. Even under the sheets of automatic weapons fire and the shredding shrapnel, the partisans had proven to be cool heads and crack shots. “It’s those damned teflon-tipped bullets again, Major!” squawked his chief medic in his ear. “They go through kevlar like a hot knife through butter! Where the hell do they keep getting those damned teflon slugs?’’ Coleman didn’t answer. Right now he didn’t care, such was his savage joy at the carnage, at a lifetime of burning hatred at last fulfilled and slaked, his cup of revenge against the hated white man running over. It looked like the ambush had gotten them all. He could see dozens of the rebels who were down now. not moving, littering the hillside like crimson lumps of meat, twists of dirty laundry splattered in the dirt. “Alpha and Bravo teams, move in! Approach with caution,” he said into his radio mike dangling before his lips. “Stay spaced, don’t lump together, stay alert! Do not assume all of them are dead or disabled. Make sure! Blast anything that moves up there. <strong>...</strong></p>Covington Harold Armstead - Freedom's sonsurn:md5:15064e5cba9a705e92119a8db8e39a0f2014-05-29T13:25:00+01:002014-05-29T12:28:00+01:00balderCovington Harold ArmsteadCommunismIsraëlJewNorth AmericaNovel <p><img src="https://balderexlibris.com/public/img3/Covington_Harold_Armstead_-_Freedom_s_sons.jpg" alt="" /><br />
Author : <strong>Covington Harold Armstead</strong><br />
Title : <strong>Freedom's sons</strong><br />
Year : 2012<br />
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Acknowledgements. It has been said that any novel which does not require at least two years of the author’s life to produce is not worth reading. This one required just that. I began it on Thanksgiving Day of 2010, and put the last finishing touches on the manuscript exactly two years later, on Thanksgiving Day of 2012, a little more than two weeks after the date of what will probably be the last American national election in the traditional sense of the term. It is my belief that November 6th, 2012, marked the transition of the United States to a one-party state, and that history will record that date as the end of the U.S.A. as we today understand the concept. Like September 4th, 476—the day when the last Roman emperor abdicated his throne and which scholars officially assign as the day Rome finally fell—no one noticed at the time. But a once-great empire has fallen nonetheless. It would be impossible, as well as dangerous, for me to acknowledge by name everyone who has helped me in the writing and production of this book. We live in a time when we are witnessing the birth of a nascent dictatorship in the United States, and any list of names I entered here would be an invitation to vicious and paranoid victimization of those without whom this book could not have come into being. I will not repay in such a manner the men and women who have given without stint of their time, their money, their proofreading and technical expertise, and their critical assistance in order to make this book a reality. You all know who you are. There is nothing I can say, except thank you. -H. A. Covington Seattle. <strong>...</strong></p>Covington Harold Armstead - Dreaming the iron dreamurn:md5:1f50c65984e5eea0e99ac3851ecabac02014-03-09T22:35:00+00:002014-03-09T22:37:57+00:00balderCovington Harold ArmsteadAmericaAnthroposophyChristianityConspiracyThird ReichUnited States <p><img src="https://balderexlibris.com/public/img3/Covington_Harold_Armstead_-_Dreaming_the_iron_dream.jpg" alt="" /><br />
Author : <strong>Covington Harold Armstead</strong><br />
Title : <strong>Dreaming the iron dream Collected racial and political essays of Harold A. Covington</strong><br />
Year : 2005<br />
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Introduction. Greetings to Mr. and Mrs. America, and all the ships at sea. These essays, or monologues, or rants, or whatever you want to call them, come from what has been up until now my most productive period polemic-wise, the Nineties and the early Oughts. They are what is known in Russian as samisdat, unauthorized dissident political and social commentaries transmitted by a kind of literary underground to a small number of readers by whatever means come to hand. The earlier pieces come from a weekly newsletter which I published throughout most of the Nineties called Resistance, which was a true samisdat publication—small, crudely typed, and reproduced in the cheapest copy shops or in some cases surreptitiously run off on the copy machines at whatever lowly temporary job I was working at the time to keep out of the homeless shelter. The later raves are, of course, from that great purveyor of samisdat in our time, the Internet. Other than some passing references in some of the later articles, I have deliberately excluded most of my Northwest Migration material. The purpose of this anthology is to provide readers with the best of HAC in the pre-Northwest sense; my Northwest Homeland raves will be collected together and melded into one long, stripped-down polemic at a later date, our little white book, so to speak. This collection is frankly a convenience for me, to obviate the necessity of my sending out reams of increasingly aging material to new people. The monologues I have included are in my view the best of my febrile crop, plus several which I added by request from readers, such as How NOT To Do It and Our Socialism. I tried to make a selection that wouldn’t be too redundant. The Movement being what it is, I have to use a lot of spaced repetition. The monologues are arranged in approximate chronological order. For the record, as far as conveying what I want to convey to our people, my favorites are The Song, Not The Singer: Dreaming the Iron Dream; and But Harold, What Do You Want Us To DO ? Enjoy ! -HAC Olympia, Washington October 2004. <strong>...</strong></p>Covington Harold Armstead - Vindictusurn:md5:e6df3fcd86ae59e2be3dec93353053d62013-01-16T00:44:00+00:002013-01-16T00:44:00+00:00balderCovington Harold ArmsteadNovel <p><img src="https://balderexlibris.com/public/img/.Covington_Harold_Armstead_-_Vindictus_s.jpg" alt="" /><br />
Author : <strong>Covington Harold Armstead</strong><br />
Title : <strong>Vindictus</strong><br />
Year : 1999<br />
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England. Autumn, 1652. I. In the fifteenth century, a landless knight-adventurer named Sir John Redmond rendered such bold and sterling service to the Yorkist party during the Wars of the Roses that he was rewarded with the manorial holding of Whitewood, in the county of Hereford. Two hundred years later, two brothers who were the last of the Redmond line rode home to Whitewood in the gloom of an autumn dusk. They too had fought for a disputed throne, but unlike their ancestor, they came home to Whitewood in defeat. The Redmonds rode down darkening country lanes in an unseasonably warm October twilight, to the weathered hulk of stone where they had each grown into a youth which was not yet manhood before they went to war. The younger brother, Thomas, had not been within the walls of the old manor house for more than four years. The elder brother, Denzil Redmond, had been gone for ten. By most reckoning they were in the prime of life, but the faces beneath the wide-brimmed felt hats seemed hewn from the same ageless granite as the walls of Whitewood. Their youth lay buried with the rest of the warıs corpses and débris, strangled in the acrid gunpowder fumes of Edgehill and Marston Moor and Naseby and a hundred other places without names, places where they had fought and killed and suffered. The bulk of the present manor hall was medieval, and had changed little since the days of the first Redmond. Squat, massive grey stone walls with narrow windows supported a sharply angled slate roof, and there were but two narrow, deep-set doorways front and rear. The first structure built on the site had been a crude stone tower heaped up just after the Norman Conquest by one of William the Conquerorıs thuggish barons, who used it as a base from which to fight off Welsh marauders, keep down Saxon rebels, and on occasion to indulge in a little robbery and pillage himself. One wing was anchored by a stout barn and granary of newer, ruddy brick, the other by the original Norman tower, crumbling yet forbidding. The tower was reuptedly haunted by ghost of the beautiful Lady Jeanetta Redmond, wife of the Yorkist lord, who had perished in the upper chamber under mysterious circumstances during the reign of Edward the Fourth. Family records showed that shortly thereafter, Sir John had married the redheaded daughter of a tavern keeper. They reined in at the gate of the park, staring through the deepening dusk at the dark mass which was the only home they had ever known outside the army. Behind them Tom Redmond led a single pack mule, lightly laden with two panniers containing everything they had in the world, mostly military equipment like their breastplates and their long steel gauntlets, smokeblackened so as not to give away an ambush through a telltale gleam. No light showed from the house through the trees. "I wonder if anyone is there?" said Tom. "Surely Sammy and Meg have stayed on, if they still live. Surely Sir Edward wouldnıt turn them out!" "Parliament says it belongs to Pelham now," said Denzil, his voice quiet with muted rage. "He can do what he likes, put in who he likes, turn out whomever he likes. For now." His face was lean and waxen in the gloom, his long dark Cavalier curls and sharply pointed black beard melting into the shadow beneath his hat brim. Even in the twilight his eyes seemed to gleam and wink in pain. Tom secretly thought that sometimes he saw incipient madness in his brotherıs eyes as well. A whorl of white twisted upwards over one of the chimney pots. "Smoke," said Denzil, pointing. "Someone is there. Letıs find out who." They trotted through the park and around the house to the stables in the rear. There was no one in the stables. The place was empty of beasts except for two spavined mules in the stalls, left behind to pull a rickety wagon that stood gauntly in one corner. No lowing of cattle came from the byres, no bleating of sheep from the folds, no snuffling of swine or cackling of fowl; not even a dog barked. The lofts and mangers were empty, the walls devoid of tools or harness. "Pelham and his parcel of Puritan rogues have stripped the place bare," observed Denzil bleakly. "We are here in our own home on the sufferance of a Parliament who murdered the king and a traitor who used the realmıs cataclysm to enrich himself by robbing his neighbours." "He probably took all our stock onto his own land to care for, because there were no tenants left and no labour to be had, with every man in the district dead or in the armies or running from the press gangs," Thomas replied. "You mustnıt impute malice to Sir Edward. He was ever our familyıs friend." "We have no friends among traitors," said Denzil. "I am going to see who is in our house, and if it is someone who has no right to be there I intend to tell them to leave. I will tell them only once." Denzil calmly checked the priming on a pair of pistols at his belt, holstered one and strode towards the door with the other in his hand. <strong>...</strong></p>Covington Harold Armstead - The Book of the National Socialist Brotherhoodurn:md5:3448866a34eb8c983b2bea744c66630b2013-01-16T00:38:00+00:002013-01-16T00:40:29+00:00balderCovington Harold ArmsteadNorth AmericaRacialismUnited States <p><img src="https://balderexlibris.com/public/img/.Covington_Harold_Armstead_-_The_Book_of_the_National_Socialist_Brotherhood_s.jpg" alt="" /><br />
Author : <strong>Covington Harold Armstead</strong><br />
Title : <strong>The Book of the National Socialist Brotherhood</strong><br />
Year : 1999<br />
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On numerous occasions in the past year, I have stated my belief that the Aryan Movement's problem is not one of approach, but of the physical and spiritual quality of the people who are involved with us. Specifically, the problem boils down to one central difficulty from which all others spring: our pathological cowardice. I have said that any new approach is pointless until this basic issue is addressed and resolved. It is clear that we have no intention of doing so. Therefore, I am going to violate my own opinion by offering a new approach. I am doing this because there doesn't seem to be anything else to do. With minor exceptions, I can't get you to talk about the things we urgently need to be talking about or address the very real and very serious issues concerning our racial survival, because those issues make you uncomfortable and cause you emotional pain. (Collective, generic you, no individual reference intended, small number of exceptions duly noted.) For reasons that defy rational analysis, I refuse to give up, even though every indication is that further pursuit of any racial endeavor with the human material we have now is useless. So let's run this one up the flagpole and see if anyone salutes. <strong>...</strong></p>Covington Harold Armstead - Rose of Honorurn:md5:31b917102aa31e19971c4ed4718a7d612013-01-16T00:37:00+00:002013-01-16T00:38:31+00:00balderCovington Harold ArmsteadNorth AmericaNovelUnited States <p><img src="https://balderexlibris.com/public/img/.Covington_Harold_Armstead_-_Rose_of_Honor_s.jpg" alt="" /><br />
Author : <strong>Covington Harold Armstead</strong><br />
Title : <strong>Rose of Honor</strong><br />
Year : 1999<br />
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The Casting of the Die. Spring, 1457. I. We arrived at Raby Castle, in the northern English county of Durham, on a rainy afternoon in early April. Our horses clattered across the drawbridge after the queen's heralds had formally demanded entry and the castle gates were opened. The royal entourage had been strung out along the road since before dawn, slogging onward after a miserable night spent huddled around hissing campfires in a sodden meadow beside a roadside inn wherein the queen had slept. In the pre-dawn darkness and drizzle we had struck the pavilions, folded the soggy things and heaved them onto carts, and then we trudged through the mud towards Raby. We were a small army, over five hundred of us in the entourage: noblemen, knights of the guard such as myself, noble ladies and their tirewomen, soldiers, priests, minstrels, clerks, courtiers, scullions, valets, pages, squires, archers, doxies, leeches, porters, clowns, laundresses, pastry cooks, astrologers, heralds, huntsmen, and hornblowers. At the centre of it all was the queen herself, Margaret of Anjou: a proud, strong and beautiful woman whom some believed to be possessed by the devil. So she was. The devil that possessed our queen was hate, endlessly athirst and unslakeable, and she was perforce dragging us all with her as she toured the kingdom from end to end in search of support for her most cherished goal in life, the destruction of the Plantagenet Duke of York and all his kinsmen. For in Anno Domine 1457, the year of which I speak, the two great Plantagenet houses of York and Lancaster were mortal enemies, and ill fared England. I am Sir John Redmond, born outside Tavistock in Devonshire. In that time of which I write, I was then a landless knight in the queen's service. As I had not been among the fortunate ones chosen to remain behind in London with the Tower garrison, thus it was that on that misty afternoon so long ago in the days of my youth, I found myself leaning on my saddle pommel in the fine drizzle in Raby's outer courtyard. The castellan, a rotund little man in ill-fitting armour, stood bareheaded as Margaret stepped regally from her litter. Then he knelt upon the muddy flagstones of the courtyard and kissed her hand, formally surrendering the keys of the castle to her. The amenities now over, the castellan escorted the queen and her ladies into the great hall and thence to their chambers. We knights of the household dismounted and handed over the reins of our horses to squires or servants, save for a few such as myself who were too poor to afford either and who perforce led their destriers to the stables ourselves. As the last of the entourage crowded into the wide outer ward, the gates gave a lugubrious squeak and crashed behind us, a precaution against surprise attack. At the stables I snagged a skinny young groom, slapped a penny into his hand, and gave him specific instructions on the care and feeding of my war-horse, Thunder. I had to look out for the animal, since he was all I possessed in the way or worldly goods save for my sword and my wits, the customary legacies of a younger son. After having seen Thunder off-saddled and his manger filled with oats, I inquired of the groom the location of the bachelors' dormitory and set off in search of my bed for the night. I had feared that by delaying at the stables I would be late in grabbing a bed, but most of the knights had stopped off in the hall for a drink to take off the chill, and there were few besides myself in the long, low chamber with groined stone vaulted ceiling. The room was clean, the mattresses newly stuffed with straw and purged of vermin, and fresh new rushes crackled underfoot. Throughout the castle, signs of preparation for this rare royal visit were manifest. Tapestries had been cleaned and patched, burnished harness adorned the menat- arms, the stables boasted new-cut bracing timbers, and the sleeping chamber smelled of perfume and fresh linen which I savoured. Castles generally stink, and so would this one in a few days, but by then no one would notice After testing several of the beds along one wall of the room I found a soft mattress and threw my helmet and my saddle bags down onto it. This reserved for me only one side of the coarse linen pallet, for another knight would share the other half. This was a rather comfortable arrangement. In some castles we had visited it was three or four to a bed, while in others, cramped Norman keeps built just after the Conquest, we knights had to sleep on the rushes in the great hall along with the soldiers, the servants, and the dogs. I eyed my gear and shrugged. If one of these Lancastrian pugs tossed it aside and took my bed I'd remove the intruder with a fist in the face. It was ironic that so far the only fighting I had seen in the queen of England's service had been with the arrogant young men of her retinue, over just such paltry things. In the great hall, the servants were busily setting the board for the evening meal, their task rendered more difficult by the throng of courtiers who milled around the trestle tables, congregated in the aisles conversing, and crowded around the ale kegs for a draught. There was a good deal of laughter, pummeling, and loud ostentatious horseplay, albeit a bit more nervous than usual, for we were deep into Yorkist territory. Richard of York was raised from childhood right here in Raby Castle, and the Neville family which had then held the fief were now his most powerful allies. Cecily, Duchess of York was a Neville herself. We Lancaster men called her "Proud Cis" and several cruder epithets, but to her husband's adherents she was still "the Rose of Raby". A babble of voices drifted across the cavernous hall "God split me, this stuff is sour!" someone swore. <strong>...</strong></p>Covington Harold Armstead - The march up countryurn:md5:d71d112fa8ca33bb7bd6cbcbc794e0732013-01-16T00:11:00+00:002013-01-16T00:11:00+00:00balderCovington Harold ArmsteadNovelUnited States <p><img src="https://balderexlibris.com/public/img/.Covington_Harold_Armstead_-_The_march_up_country_s.jpg" alt="" /><br />
Author : <strong>Covington Harold Armstead</strong><br />
Title : <strong>The march up country</strong><br />
Year : 1987<br />
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Biography. HAROLD A. COVINGTON was born in Burlington, North Carolina on September 14th, 1953. During his teenaged years he received a number of minor awards for achievement in creative writing, music, and the dramatic arts. He attended the Governor's School of North Carolina in 1970 in drama. He worked as a cub reporter for the local newspaper in Chapel Hill, N.C., and his weekly columns became the paper's most popular Sunday feature, despite their frequent attacks on the behavior of black students at the high school in Chapel Hill. Covington's political career began in the United States Army in 1972, when he joined a National Socialist front group called the White Servicemen's League and was expelled from the service for racial agitation. He joined the national headquarters staff of the National Socialist White People's Party (NSWPP) in Arlington, Virginia and shortly thereafter became editor of the party newspaper, While Power. After a year as editor he resigned and emigrated to Southern Africa, where he worked for a short time for a civil engineering firm in Johannesburg before going north to enlist in the Rhodesian Army, where he participated in the defense of the country against black terrorists. While in the military he assisted local Whites in the formation of the Rhodesia White People's Party (RWPP). The party was suppressed by the Ian Smith government and Covington was arrested on a charge of allegedly "terrorizing Jews." He was deported in 1976, along with two other American National Socialists who had been politically active. Two years later the Smith regime surrendered to the blacks and in 1980 Rhodesia became a Marxist dictatorship appropriately re-named "Zimbabwe" after some local ruins. Returning to his native North Carolina, Covington formed a local National Socialist group and wrote articles and books for White Power Publications, Samisdat Publishers in Canada, the newspaper New Order, and other periodicals. He edited and published his own newsletter, White Carolina, as well as a short-lived theoretical journal, the National Socialist Review. He also ran in four North Carolina elections over as many years, gaining 34% of the White vote in a State Senate campaign in 1978 and a whopping 43%, representing 56,000 votes, in the 1980 Republican primary for State Attorney General. He assisted in the defense campaign for the "Greensboro 16" in 1980, and in 1979 was elected Party Leader of the National Socialist Party of America (NSPA) by a special conference of officers. In December 1980 the Federal government began a full-scale offensive against the NSPA, utilizing legal frame-ups and informers inside the organization as well as financial pressure. Despite Covington's best efforts, the organization collapsed. In September of 1981 he was ordered to leave the country or be killed by Federal agents seeking to suppress his testimony in a new round of Greensboro trials. In March of 1982 he was again told point-blank to leave or be murdered. He spent the next five years in South Africa, Great Britain, and Ireland, constantly being "moved on" by the authorities. In April of 1987 he returned to the United States in defiance of the Federal threats. To date there has been no retaliation from the government. Covington has been married twice, both marriages ending in divorce. He has one son and one daughter in Ireland who are presently legally barred from the United States. In 1980 he published his only major work of fiction, an historical novel set in Medieval England entitled Rose of Honor. The book was suppressed by the Jews, who bought out the entire press run from the publisher and destroyed it so that only a few copies survive. <strong>...</strong></p>Covington Harold Armstead - The Brigadeurn:md5:8e3dba6328c193800c20fdbebbfde36c2013-01-16T00:08:00+00:002013-01-16T00:08:00+00:00balderCovington Harold ArmsteadNorth AmericaNovel <p><img src="https://balderexlibris.com/public/img/.Covington_Harold_Armstead_-_The_Brigade_s.jpg" alt="" /><br />
Author : <strong>Covington Harold Armstead</strong><br />
Title : <strong>The Brigade</strong><br />
Year : 2007<br />
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This book is dedicated to the memory of David Lane, a true hero now ascended into Valhalla, and to all his comrades, living and dead. St. Crispin’s Day This day is called the feast of Crispian: He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say “To-morrow is Saint Crispian.” Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars. And say “These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.” Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot, But he’ll remember with advantages What feats he did that day. Then shall our names. Familiar in his mouth as household words, Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester, Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd. This story shall the good man teach his son; And Crispin Crispian shall n’er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remember’d; We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition: And gentlemen in England now a-bed Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day. King Henry V – Act IV, Scene 3. <strong>...</strong></p>Covington Harold Armstead - A Mighty Fortressurn:md5:6274dc24eaba0def82b7be448fb0e5fc2013-01-16T00:05:00+00:002013-01-16T00:05:00+00:00balderCovington Harold ArmsteadNorth AmericaNovel <p><img src="https://balderexlibris.com/public/img/.Covington_Harold_Armstead_-_A_Mighty_Fortress_s.jpg" alt="" /><br />
Author : <strong>Covington Harold Armstead</strong><br />
Title : <strong>A Mighty Fortress</strong><br />
Year : 2006<br />
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“Be a gentleman tonight, and don’t clip any of the bimbos.” – Bobby Bells Kelly Marie Shipman and William Cody Brock were both born on the same day in June. Both of them lived in Washington state. Both were newly graduated seniors at Hillside High School in Seattle, and both gratefully received welcome birthday presents from their friends and family. For her gift on the day she turned eighteen years old, Kelly received a new car from her proud and doting parents. To celebrate his eighteenth birthday, Cody got to kill a man. Kelly’s birthday began at seven o’clock on a fine summer morning, when she bounded down the stairs of her home in the affluent Seattle suburb of Mercer Island, a bundle of joyful youth and energy and anticipation at the beginning of her life. She was tall and leggy, an athletically perfect blonde teenager with ivory skin, crystalline blue eyes, and a killer smile of capped teeth that had set her father back almost ten grand. He had been able to deduct the dental work as a business expense, since Kelly had been modeling for advertisements and acting in commercials and on local television since she was three years old. The profits she made were scrupulously placed into a special trust for her by her father, who was administrator of the trust but who wasn’t above spending it on his daughter, especially if it gave him a good tax write-off. The Shipman family lived in one of the last remaining small islands of the American dream, in a split-level ranch dwelling located in a gated community which was flawlessly landscaped, well lit, and discreetly fortified against the outside world. The house had six large bedrooms, a swimming pool, a basement rec room containing more sports and games and entertainment gear than the downtown YMCA, and a capacious garage containing at any given time at least four late model motor vehicles, including her father’s prized Ferrari. The house carried a mortgage larger than the municipal debt of some American towns, but the Shipmans could afford it. They were among those lucky Americans who were not only still employed, but very gainfully so indeed. Kelly’s father, Dr. Edward Shipman, was a cardiologist who ran his own clinic and HMO in Seattle. His company provided three essential services: heart attack and stroke recovery, emphysema home care including home oxygen supplies, and out-patient AIDS and HIV care. Dr. Shipman used to remark wryly that “Our clinic cashes in on the three great health disasters of the past hundred years: smoking, AIDS, and the American diet.” He wasn’t joking. With Medicare and Medicaid long gone the way of Social Security, Shipman’s HMO catered only to the dwindling number of Americans who either still had health insurance, or who were sufficiently wealthy to pay for the services of himself and his doctor-partners to keep them alive. Doctor Shipman had also developed a reputation for discretion which brought him a number of special celebrity patients whom he treated for assorted embarrassing conditions in a consulting room tucked away in his home. Kelly’s mom, the elegantly attired and flawlessly presented Marty Shipman, was senior vice president of a major medical supply firm linked with the HMO, and Kelly herself had already brought in more money in her lifetime of modeling and minor acting gigs than some bluecollar workers ever earned in their lives. The American dream was very much alive in the Shipman household. This morning Kelly was attired in spotless, glistening tennis whites. She was holding a covered racket under one arm, while in a tote bag over one shoulder she carried jeans, shoes, and a knitted top. “Tennis this early, Kel?” asked her father, looking up from the breakfast table. Shipman was a tall and distinguished-looking, avuncular man with a suave bedside manner which stood him in good stead with his well-heeled patients. “Tomorrow morning I could see, since you’re going to have a huge birthday dinner to work off,” he continued. “How’s eight o’clock at the Belvedere sound? And you can certainly bring Molly along.” “Why not invite Craig as well?” suggested her mother, referring to Kelly’s intermittent boyfriend. She approved of Craig Crabtree wholeheartedly. Dr. Shipman wasn’t quite so certain. There were one or two dimly perceived warning flags up in his mind regarding young Crabtree, although he couldn’t have explained why. Something in the boy’s manner, a slight oiliness, a few small but definite indications of dishonesty, a little too casual interest in the drugs cabinet in Shipman’s home surgery had put him on his guard where Craig was concerned. Shipman looked at the young beauty at his breakfast table in silent wonder. He knew that she had been a woman for a good while now, and today would make it official. Once again he fought down his panic and his fear at the terrible world she was about to enter, where he could no longer protect her. In the America of this day, to love a child meant quiet, lifelong terror. “Great, Dad! They’ve got a ricotti quiche to die for!” laughed Kelly. “And I already invited Molly to wherever we’re going.” She pointedly did not mention Crabtree, which her father found relieving. Maybe they were having another spat, and maybe this time it would last. He was honest enough to admit to himself that it wasn’t just that he didn’t want his daughter with Craig Crabtree. He didn’t want her with anyone. Not until she was thirty. Or thirty-five. “Well, good, because that’s where we made the reservations,” said her mother, who kissed her daughter’s cheek. “Happy birthday, honey!” “Don’t worry, I’m hitting the court tomorrow as well and every morning for a while,” Kelly told her father as she sat down at the table. “I’ve got a couple pounds I need to drop before they get too comfortable on my butt, so I’m going to get in a couple of sets with Molly before class starts every day. We can change in the locker room.” “Oh, Kel, for heaven’s sake, you are not fat!” exclaimed her mother in exasperation. “The scale decrees otherwise,” replied Kelly. “Manny says I’m now at optimum weight and I need to nip any gain in the bud before it gets to be a problem.” The Emmanuel Skar Agency was representing Kelly’s talent down in Hollywood. <strong>...</strong></p>Covington Harold Armstead - A Distant Thunderurn:md5:bb9e07fccb1f8228315a37c2b39a859c2013-01-15T23:44:00+00:002013-01-15T23:47:51+00:00balderCovington Harold ArmsteadEugenicsNorth AmericaRacialismUnited States <p><img src="https://balderexlibris.com/public/img/.Covington_Harold_Armstead_-_A_Distant_Thunder_s.jpg" alt="" /><br />
Author : <strong>Covington Harold Armstead</strong><br />
Title : <strong>A Distant Thunder</strong><br />
Year : 2004<br />
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Link download : <a href="https://balderexlibris.com/public/ebook/Covington_Harold_Armstead_-_A_Distant_Thunder.zip">Covington_Harold_Armstead_-_A_Distant_Thunder.zip</a><br />
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The Turning Wheels. At the end of the twentieth century, there was a Japanese college professor named Francis Fukuyama. He wrote a long, intellectual, and trés chic essay called The End of History that became quite famous. Francis Fukuyama was an intellectual whore who sold his mind for money. He was a tame academic who sucked up to the wealthy and powerful of his era, big time. He told them what they wanted to hear and he reaped their largesse. When the blankfaced white men in the silk suits said jump, Francis Fukuyama asked “How high?” When the suits said run, Francis Fukuyama asked “How far?” He politely avoided the mildly disturbing term plutocracy, and substituted a much more fashionable practice of publicly referring to the wealthy, corrupt, amoral, incompetent, discreetly homosexual Anglo-Zionist corporate ruling élite of the late twentieth century by the grotesque name of liberal democracy. It was, of course, neither liberal nor democratic, but truth didn’t matter in those days. Fukuyama argued that liberal democracy was the final form of human government for all time to come. He claimed that the allegedly irresistible combination of liberal democracy and multinational capitalism had triumphed over all other competing systems such as monarchy, fascism, communism, National Socialism, welfare state socialism, and of course that nasty Islamic theocracy of the ignorant Arab peasants that persecuted poor little helpless Israel so. History was now at an end, Professor Fukuyama told the world. All that remained was to formalize that fact by taking care of a few little details and getting everybody on board and whipped into shape. Then once we got rid of all those picky little details like race, and religion, and culture, and morality, and the traditional nuclear family—in other words, once we destroyed all that makes humanity truly diverse in the nonpolitically correct sense of the term—then all the nations of the earth would boogie down in one great conga line onto the great worldwide Euro-American consumer plantation. There mankind would graze in the grass, dancing and singing and blowing dope and fucking anything with a pulse, bathed in the warm soothing glow from the television. The very flow of history itself would cease and the Garden of Eden would be reborn, but instead of a serpent in our new paradise we’d have only Ronald McDonald. The world would henceforth and forever be benevolently ruled from the corporate boardroom by pale, unseen beings in expensive suits, while at their shoulder for spiritual guidance whispered the holy rabbi Hyman Heeblebaum from Temple Schmuck-El, wearing his little blue and white knitted beanie, his heart filled with the brotherhood of man and confident in his ancient Talmudic knowledge of what is best for us all. Wrong, asshole. Dead wrong. The United States of America into which I was born was all a lie. A cheap, shoddy, vicious, evil lie that deserved nothing but bloody death at the point of the sword. In the United States of America, if you had a white skin and a dick on you, if you had no money, then you were nothing. Get back, redneck! No one cared about you. No one would lift a finger to help you, and all you were good for was to fix the rich people’s appliances and toys. You were raw material for biped swine in suits to make money for themselves off your sweat and your pain. You lived your whole life like a dog, you were beaten like a dog, and you died like a dog. Well, by God, we showed those rich sons of bitches and their smart Jew lawyers and their pet monkeys that dogs have teeth! Oh, yeah. Amazing what a few well-placed bullets and a dab or two of Semtex under some rabbi’s kosher tuches can do to get the wheels of history jump-started and turning back on track. My name is Shane Ryan. I was one of those little details Fukuyama and his kind could never quite take care of. I was a Northwest Volunteer. This is how we started the wheels of history turning again. <strong>...</strong></p>