The WPCA removed their website mirror within hours of us publishing the following article. This is all rather strange considering that Peter Campbell (Kromlek) was all “like I care, do your worst” on Benny’s blog earlier this afternoon. Never fear, the entire contents of that domain have been archived by us and will be uploaded to our server soonish.
In other words, don’t expect them to be returning to cyberspace any time soon. Have you heard of a server meltdown issue that left paying customers waiting for two weeks to get back online? Neither have we.
There is always the off chance they moved to a silent domain and are still hating away in private. Don’t worry, if it’s out there, FDB will find it.
There’s plenty of good stuff on here (if you’re a raving homicidal maniac). The old Australian Nationalist Movement page is intact plus some kooky pics of the Aussie KKK.
Of great interest are the archives of the WPCA hard copy publication, The Nationalist. You’ll remember that circulation of this photocopy job newspaper was what initially kicked off the big stink against the WPCA in Toowoomba.
If anything, the content of The Nationalist has actually tempered a bit with age. These archives from five years ago are incredibly full-on.
The main author is of course Peter Campbell (Kromlek of Asgard). He writes under Kromlek and also under the pseudonymn Peter Van Der Graf. As you can see on the main index page for The Nationalist, highlighting Van Der Graf’s name will provide you with an email link (email@example.com). This is the very same email address that Peter Campbell uses on the Australia New Nation Yahoo Group.
So Peter Campell = Kromlek of Asgard = Peter Van Der Graf – got it?
Some quick highlights of Peter’s work down through the years:
We White Nationalists must be physically armed as well as ideologically and spiritually prepared!
The days of merely staging conferences and talk fests are drawing to a close, we must take a leaf from our enemy’s book, get ORGANIZED and start to assert ourselves with real action. White Power will forever be an empty slogan if we never actually DO anything! C’mon, Let’s go!
If you have even the slightest nagging doubt as to the situation, then put it to the test. Be my guest. Put up your soapbox ‘anywhere’ and go for your life. Vent your spleen. Get it off your chest. Tell it like it is. Let the bastards know. In Public!
Then see how long you last. Physically, financially and socially. I guarantee You will last about as long as the next Yo-Yo fad! Because in this society Free Speakers are ‘troublemakers’, ‘dissidents’ and an impediment to Progressive politics.
OUR AIM IS TO PHYSICALLY DESTROY THE ENEMY THAT STANDS IN THE WAY OF AUSTRALIAN SELF-DETERMINATION. THEN WE CAN ESTABLISH THE AUSTRALIAN STATE TO EMBODY THE AUSTRALIAN ETHOS ON THE AUSTRALIAN CONTINENT; our actions would force upon the Aussie consciousness the acceptance of the “frontier situation” in relation to the Asian invasion, and thus the need to physically fight.
PURITY: No White Man has the right to betray his Race or pollute his Races gene pool with alien and inferior characteristics. Purity Is Strength!
HONOUR: Honour is the highest of Human virtues, it does not occur naturally and must be maintained and nurtured constantly in the face of incessant erosion from Marxist / Zionist political correctness.
THE NEW ORDER: We are the New Order, Tomorrow belongs to Us. We are here to drive a stake through the heart of the bastard monster called Multiculturalism.We are here to smash down the Abomination of Political Correctness so that â€œFree Speechâ€? might exist as a reality. These are our duties and obligations. We must not fail. Our struggle is not futile, whatever the odds, for is it not better to light just one candle than to sit in total darkness? Remember the old slogan â€œ Evil triumphs when good Men do nothing.â€? Well that is true and we shall be those good Men and expunge the filth of Internationalist Mongrelisation from this Globe!
By Kromlek Of Asgard. 14 18 88.
Amongst all this waffle is a very succint swipe at Jim Saleam:
Anyone who pretends to fully understand this work, including Saleam himself, is a f**king liar. Books like this are not written to be understood by the reader. Books like this are written to make the author appear clever.
This is most ironic considering the amount of effort that Peter Campbell has put in this year posting Jim Saleam’s “Darp Dossier” around to Ryde Council and other supporters of FDB.
If you take a look in “Asgard’s Rogues” section, you’ll see Jim Saleam lumped in with Karl Marx and Kim Beazley as an enemy of the movement. If you look in his heroes, you’ll see the usual Hitler and Hess.
Anti-Semitism appears to be the stock trade of Peter Campbell and a number of these articles go beyond the pale. One of Campbell’s major criticisms of FDB is that we take his work out of context and selectively quote it to make him look bad. Well, we fail to see how comments like “the Khazar Jew problem must be lanced with steel and cleansed by purifying fire!” can be put into any acceptable context but just to keep Peter happy (he is going off on Benny’s blog about our supposed selective editing), we’ll post some of his articles in full.
Forget the Bex, the nice cup of tea and the good lie down! This pain will need more extreme treatment. Oh, and smile for the cameras! The festering canker that is the Khazar Jew problem must be lanced with steel and cleansed by purifying fire!
Just look at their mindset as it manifests itself in their sick, twisted â€˜cultureâ€™. None but the most filthy of beasts could be so pathologically obsessed with bodily fluids and excreta and the minutiae of their bizarre ritual â€˜cleansingâ€™ processes.
But no amount of scrubbing, grooming and agonizingly complex food preparation techniques can expunge their intrinsic grubbiness as a Race. Just as no ablutions are adequate to eradicate the stench of endemic Kike guilt. But a â€˜cureâ€™ is at hand. Righteous Death!
Circumcision, colonic-irrigation, douches, fasting, and all other attempts at detoxification are also futile. Their basically natural rottenness transcends the physical plane and is embedded in their blackened, spiritually diseased souls.
There are White People who with misguided empathy will state â€œWell, they have copped a hard time of it down through the ages. You can hardly blame them for protecting their own interests!â€?
Well! Number one. They never had it half as bad as they make out. Number two. They only ever got the punishment they deserved. Number three. They donâ€™t just â€œlook after themselvesâ€?. They actively work at destroying the host culture and elevating themselves to the position of an exclusive elite with all the malevolent spite and hive mentality of a swarm of parasitic insects!
As a working component of the general Liberal Democratic movement and the mÃ©lange of misfits that comprise the broader Marxist Left, the academic social engineering Kikes have always been at the forefront of any Anti-White, progressive (subversive) social trends.
They are the instigators and playmakers coaching from the sidelines whenever there is any sort of anti-establishment protest or a chance to have a dig at Normal, Straight Society.
They bear the stigmata of their sins through the manifestation of extreme physical ugliness. This is why they have desperately infused their diseased gene pool with Aryan blood whenever it has been possible to acquire White Women and even by abducting White children in the past.
Well I happen to know the big shiny bags with the zippers come in several designer colours. All of them various shades of black and there is an inexhaustible supply ready for The Day Of The Rope!
Story By Kromlek
He takes the Jew hatred a step further into the macabre with this next one:
IN THE VAULT OF ZION
Lichen encrusted gargoyles crouch on a rotting roof amid a jumble of cracked and broken masonry. Sepulchral sentinels, they seem grimly oblivious to the vile evil that waits in the darkness below.
In the cryptal darkness, ancient entities lurk like creeping death. Their ravenous mouths gape like silent, black holes, ready to vacuum up light into the howling vortex that feeds the abyss.
There is no sound down here. No movement. Yet there is a dismal rhythm barely hinted at, which lies beyond Human perception. An eerie presence, that throbs slowly on a different level.
The cold stone floors sweat with a chill slickness. The dank, seeping walls are daubed with kabalistic icons and streaked with the grime of millennia. Drifts of debris, made up from the pulverized bones of White infants lay knee deep against their scabrous surface. Only the most diseased of minds could hope to even speculate at the debauched wickedness they have witnessed. Thin shafts of sickly green half-light weakly intrude through cracks in these walls, their source not known.
Deep in the dreamless slumber of Ã¦ons, the sleeping dÃ¦mons lay, their cruel blue lips await the taste of new flesh. Their real name is unspeakable and is unwritten even in the dreadful Necronomicon, but we know them by the word given to their visible protrusion into our plane of existence. They are the Khazars!
Their frosty un-flesh and bloodless visages have wound-like, black mouths, beak-like noses and deep sunken eye sockets.
The curse of eternal wretchedness and unimaginable suffering is the punishment awaiting anyone foolhardy enough to waken these things from their chrysalis of evil.
They are like the jungle tick that lies dormant deep in the dark, thick forest waiting to sense the right vibrations and heat of a potential living host before launching themselves and burrowing into waiting flesh. Once attached like a satanic succubus there is little hope of removal as they feast upon White lifeblood. Venture not, into their lair, lest you be consumed by their evil.
Story By Kromlek
The Jews, we truly have dark and twisted souls as adversaries. The more potent among them are walking talking Karmic disasters, life forces that make Darth Vader seem like The Dali-Lama!
For the Aryan Warrior this dark World offers up some grotesque creatures for battle. Diabolical denizens stalk the stygian darkness, psychic vampires thirsty for White Aryan lifeblood.
The lurkers in the shadows are the Filth-Beasts of ZOG, formidable yet spiritually damaged and diseased entities. Their fÅ“tid breath providing the miasmic fog in this sepulchral underworld that clouds the minds of the unwary.
Golems walk, and Death wears a twisted smile. The Khazar Kriminals are exquisitely perverse and quite possibly the Earths ugliest people. There is always fresh flesh and new skin for their ancient and strange ceremonies where pseudo Semitic slime oozes from purulent wounds. Beware, young traveler, lest you be dragged beneath by the toxic undertow.
The sooner we White Men are rid of these vile, loathsome bloodsuckers, then the sooner we can get on with the task of re-establishing White homelands for our people that are free from contamination!
He’s not a one trick pony is our Peter Campbell, he also indulges in some poetry and ‘fiction’.
Arrogance we say is the privilige of the brave
Grim pride our creed we take to the grave
Our souls this world has poisoned with spite
With no remorse we rape, pillage and fight
On Albions shores our ships broke like thunder
Castle walls were shaken then split asunder
Berzerkers from the northlands of the ancient lore
Frosty celtic winds have borne us to this shore
Drenched in the blood of our enemy slain
With warhammer and sword we deliver our pain
No quarter is given and none is taken
The brutal truth, your god has forsaken
The men of the steppes have fallen to our nordic swords
Now you too will tremble before our pagan hordes
Your axe hewn flesh with smashed bones knee deep
A clotted carpet, grim red, leads to your castle keep
As we bear aloft our battle slain
Their soil stained blood washed by stinging rain
Our bitter hearts swell with hatreds lust
Dark vengeance is ours, the cause is just
This piece of fiction is rather interesting considering the obvious autobiographical lilt contained in some of the detail. You could probably also interpret this as a quick lesson in how to burn down lefty bookshops:
The Urban guerilla
â€œF..k itâ€™s cold!â€? Shannon Callan was in â€˜The Third Planet Bookshopâ€™ and he was trying to warm his hands by cupping them together and blowing on them. The Third Planet Bookshop was one of those grimy, untidy little places in a dilapidated old terrace building on Newtown Road. It smelt like moldy paper and stale tobacco, with just a hint of cats piss.
The damp, flaking walls were decorated with a collage of curling and tattered posters depicting every â€˜revolutionaryâ€™ lowlife from Karl Marx to ChÃ© Guevara. Most of the floor-space was a maze of sagging and dusty shelves, cluttered with the sort of books that Left Wing university students loved to brag theyâ€™d read (and understood) while sipping cafÃ© lattes in their trendy little coffee lounges.
It always amused Shannon how all these Anarchists, Communists, Socialists and Trotskyites seemed to come from middle class backgrounds and privileged families. It also intrigued him how the hypocrisy and irony was lost on them, intelligent though they were supposed to be.
That was what made him different, he reckoned, his innate sense of justice and his inimitable style of observation. His mates all called him â€˜Shannon The Cannonâ€™ because of the way he was always shooting his mouth off. He always had an opinion on everything, sometimes more than one.
An example of his perverse sense of humour was the way he loved to brag how the Reds hated him so much heâ€™d been â€œbeaten up by expertsâ€? theyâ€™d sent after him. True enough, but heâ€™d also given out a few hidings himself to the Marxist Scum around the city. His father, Ken, had been a red headed Irish boilermaker with fists like sledgehammers whose earliest memories were of watching his dad making nail bombs in the coal cellar. Yes, Pop Callan had been a â€˜kneecapperâ€™ for the provisional IRA. Extreme politics was in the Callanâ€™s genes, anonymity was not an option for them.
His cold, petrol soaked fingers fumbled in the darkness for the box of â€˜Redheadsâ€™ in his greatcoat pocket. The brand name made him smile, considering where he was and what was about to occur.
He wished he hadnâ€™t spilt so much fuel from the can as he had carried it, sloshing, up the narrow, steep staircase to the stock room. Why did they call it â€˜fire-bombingâ€™? It wasnâ€™t a bomb! Technically speaking he was only dispersing a â€˜volatile accelerantâ€™. The novel Fahrenheit 451 occurred to him and he decided he wasnâ€™t a fire-bomber at all, he was a â€œfiremanâ€? doing good work!
Still, he was nervous. â€œIâ€™ve got a bad feeling about this missionâ€? he spoke aloud in a mock Schwarzenegger voice.
Jeezus! He thought, the organization had attracted some complete wankers over the years. What about that dopey bastard â€˜Smithyâ€™, whoâ€™d blown half his own cock off, trying to pull his revolver on a coon in the pub car-park! Heâ€™d nearly bled to death and ended up having a blood transfusion and contracted a particularly virulent strain of HIV. He was dead in twelve months. Poor tragic prick!
Then there was Frank, â€˜Blank Frankâ€™ theyâ€™d called him, because he was a randy, alcoholic bastard whoâ€™d had a vasectomy and was always telling the women he was making a move on that he â€œfired blanksâ€?. He thought that would impress them and theyâ€™d feel â€˜saferâ€™ with him!?! Yeah sure!
Frankâ€™s claim to fame was that heâ€™d broken into Commie Headquarters one night, by himself, with the intention of making a mess of the place, but while rifling through their drawers had discovered a bottle of Stolichnaya Vodka which he proceeded to drink. He fell asleep in the commissarâ€™s chair, his feet on the desk and a copy of The Socialist Worker draped over his face. He was rudely awakened early the next morning by one of their office women who called the Police. To add insult to injury, when heâ€™d made a run for it, the fat bull dyke had cracked him on the head with a chair leg and knocked him out cold! A most undignified performance.
Shannon was suddenly aware he was busting for a slash after those three schooners of Guinness at Mad Murphyâ€™s, so sniggering to himself he unzipped and began to urinate noisily over the stacks of books piled against the walls.
He could just make out the titles of some by the flickering light coming from the dying streetlamp outside and directed his stream over a few copies of â€˜Das Kapitalâ€™ by Karl Marx. â€œTake that, you Commie bastard! Thatâ€™s what I think of you!â€? he said, grinning.
Having finished his urgent appointment with nature, he returned to the missionâ€™s primary objective. Raze this c**t of a place to the ground! Hastily flicking a match across the boxâ€™s striker strip, he broke it in two, and the flaring head found its way up his coat sleeve and burnt his arm before going out. NOT a good start!
The next one worked fine and he threw it at the fuel trail on the floor. Whoomph!!! Oh S**t! He was on f***ing fire! The thoughts racing through his head as he attempted to vault over the flames and down the stairs were; â€œAre Gazza and Billy still awake out there, in the grey primered Monaro in the street waiting for him? Are Doc Martens fireproof? Was Hitler really right?â€?
Story By Kromlek
Anyway, there’s plenty of disturbing reading to be had at http://whiteprideco.250x.com/frames.htm if you can stomach it.
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