Why borders matter

Our friend the brilliant British historian Simon Webb addresses the issue of border control here, an important theme to both nationalists and globalists. The former know the importance of border control. The latter do not.

Or likely the latter do, but since they dislike nationalism/patriotism to their bones, they know that border control impedes their goofy, perilous, multicultural dreams.

For years now, illegal immigrants have run unchecked across Western Europe due to the inept or worse governments that are common there. The basic problem is that it is politically incorrect to enforce borders because all cultures “are of equal value” and diversity is a glorious thing, all of which is arrant nonsense.

On August 6, I posted a video of an interview with the president of the Central European nation of Hungary. He addressed his nation’s successful border enforcement. Hungary wants to preserve its language and culture, which is admirable. Poland is now doing the same thing, also fairly successfully. I salute Poland, as should you.

Simon is, understandably, concerned with the floods of illegals arriving unmolested by boat to the shores of England, but his comments equally apply to successful nations’ opening their borders elsewhere, such as the United States where the globalist, dimwit Democrat Party currently sits fraudulently in the Oval Office.

Hold onto your hats or, more realistically, your sombreros. If there is any silver lining here, it’s that those invading the United States illegally are Latinos, not Mohammedans.

—–

(Speaking of Mohammedans, two books to read are Inside the Kingdom: My Life in Saudi Arabia and Black Wave. The Black in the second title refers not to race but to the midnight burkas Mohammedan women are forced to wear by their masters, i.e. their husbands, brothers and sons.)

Max the cutthroat

Maxence had once been a cutthroat but murdering was long behind him. Now, at 78, he was a bellman at the Marbol Hotel.

He was sitting on this dark night, 2 a.m., at the hotel bar sipping a Guinness Stout and talking to Bo the barman. Maxence’s shift had just ended, and big black LeRoy had taken over the baggage cart till 10 in the morning.

Maxence always ended his nights at the Marbol bar. Nobody was waiting at home. It was ever the same. He would talk to Bo a bit, and he would ponder the past even more. Maxence had been born in France — Sant-Amant, a small town south of Paris — and had been a mercenary man.

First, it was the Legion. Later, he freelanced.

After the second Guinness, perhaps even sooner, his thoughts always turned to Chloë Jomo-Gbomo, his long-gone lover from Sierra Leone who had been killed by a berserk jitney bus driven by a Mende man high on ganja along the main avenue of Freetown.

Maxence later killed that Mende man out of pure fury, but he didn’t feel any better for it because Chloë was still dead and gone. He cried and cried.

Maxence liked Guinness Stout because it was dark and savory like the women of the African men he murdered which was how he met Chloë Jomo-Gbomo.

Chloë’s man at that time had missed Maxence’s Jeep with a bazooka shell during a dustup in the Congo. Maxence’s aim was better with his .45.

Chloë dashed out of a nearby hut and kicked her man’s dead body and spit on it. Maxence knew right away there had been no love there, and Chloë was very beautiful. He immediately made her his own, and she was happy with that.

__________

The two of them fled the Congo together and moved to Freetown where they lived six years in a third-floor walk-up. Chloë found work plaiting hair while Maxence drank blazing café and smoked Gauloises.

a0a97920-1af1-012d-b949-0050569428b1Nights were spent naked and sweaty under the ceiling fan.

Maxence drank Castle Lager in those days because Guinness Stout was not sold in Freetown. It didn’t matter, he thought, because he already had something dark and delicious with Chloë Jomo-Gbomo.

On Chloë’s free day they often picknicked at Siaka Stevens Park where they would spread a blanket under the African sun shaded by a cercropia tree.

They drank Castle and ate cans of cashews. And sandwiches.

He would rub her silky bare legs beneath the skirt of kuba cloth, and she would caress the scar on his cheek.

Our spirits call you ghosts, she said one day, white and unsolid. But the scar is a good thing because it proves you’re a protective man.

He fell deeply in love for the first time in his brutal life.

And then she was dead on the main drag of Freetown as the jitney driver tried to escape, but a jitney jammed with passengers makes a lousy getaway vehicle.

She had only stepped out for a pack of Gauloises.

__________

Maxence wandered some years through Africa, Latin America and the Caribbean picking up piecemeal murders till one day he realized he was too old for that game. He retired to hotels, luggage and tips.

The Marbol was a good gig, and he intended to stay as long as they’d let him.

Later, he would kill himself. He knew the ropes.

Another Guinness, Bo. 

Coming up, Max.

* * * *

(The above is an excerpt from the longest and strangest thing I’ve ever written, The Old Marbol — Skullduggery in Dark City and Beyond, which was published hereabouts perhaps a decade ago. I just reread it for the first time in a very long time, was impressed with myself, so I put this here. The Old Marbol contains a cast of bizarre characters rivaled only by those in the famous barroom scene in the first Star Wars movie. Maybe I’ll do more excerpts here in the future.)

The new labels

le-penRIGHT-WING FRENCH politician Marine Le Pen opines: There is no more Left or Right. There are only Globalists or Nationalists.

I think she is right, no pun intended. But those labels are another, fresher way, of saying Left and Right.

The key issue is multiculturalism, the diversity thing. It you favor it, you’re on the Left, a Globalist. If you oppose it, as I do, you’re on the Right, a Nationalist.

Multiculturalism has been the rage in elitist, left-wing circles for decades, and its heavy hand inspired the backlash that has Donald Trump heading to the Oval Office. Perhaps he can knock a little sense into our heads.

Multiculturalism was seeded in the 1960s, a hippie thing. It’s Utopian, idealistic, lovely to imagine, dreamy-eyed, and totally unworkable. Like socialism-communism.

It birthed the curse of Political Correctness.

In the real world, people embrace their differences, their individuality, with a vengeance. We love what separates us, what makes us think we’re better than others.

Ego.

Obama’s a Globalist. Trump’s a Nationalist. The next eight years will be fun as Globalists collide with reality.

I like the new labels.