Let us compare some of Peter Campbells’s assertions to the Oz with what he says in the company of his fellow Nazi twats.
I would be PROUD to hammer the fuck out of you Henderson-Hau. My conscience would be clear.
—
…Going to school in Bankstown in the Seventies, I am something of an [amateur] pugilist myself. I relish the prospect of skinning my knuckles on your half-bred head.
You can consider yourself warned that the WPCA lads are an ENTIRELY different prospect and you bring your shit to OUR door at your peril. But hey, you ARE a real hard case ain[']t you? I heard you are a boxing instructor who teaches Abos [sic] how to box? THAT’S responsible isn’t it? About as responsible as teaching Arabs the finer points of bomb-making. What? You want them to be able to bash white kids for their lunch money more EFFICIENTLY?
—
“I would like you ALL to check out ‘darpism.com’ and its author, Matthew Henderson-Hau, a half-bred mongrel who has sworn to dedicate his life to eradicating White Nationalists in Australia and New Zealand. His mother was a Maori and his father was a Jew. WHAT a disastrous mix!
I personally regard him as the most dangerous entity to emerge from the ZOG funded Left in years and is certainly even MORE dangerous to the true cause than Jamahl Saleam! He is funded by ZOG and protected to a certain degree by the local Police.
He has contacts with the NSW Labor Council and specifically the CFMEU
He MUST be stopped and he WILL be stopped. We simply can NOT allow such a dangerous enemy to arrogantly strut about laughing in our faces and continue to score point after point on our movement with impunity and IMMUNITY!
All those wishing to get off their arses and actually DO something VERY practical about one queer Lefty c##t who wants to put us out of business should contact the WPCA leadership via E-Mail or P.M. on our Forum.”
Praytell Peter, what does something “VERY practical” (note his favoured caps) mean? Sitting around a certain house in Chippendale stuffing envelopes?
“But we are not a violent group of people. We don’t have AK47s, we’re not the IRA or anything like that. “
Cough*bullshit*Cough
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!
—
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
Of course, even these quotes don’t take into account the fact that some WPCA members are quite proud of their firearms stash. Here is Carl Thompson from the Queensland cell chatting about the weather with some of his kamaraden on Stormfront:
The argument that the pathetic little Steyr has any advantages over the SLR would only be made by a person who had not used and understood both weapons. The 7.62mm round has about twice the impact energy of the piddling little 5.56mm round. 7.62mm is a one-hit-one-kill weapon. If I shoot someone it is because it is my intention to kill him, not just make him angry . . . so I want a weapon that I know will kill with one hit.
Don’t worry though… Old Carl is perfectly safe. Though he does have that one issue where he sits in his room every night with a pistol in his lap, reciting Hamlet’s soliloquy. And he did say he was going to be the next Timothy McVeigh…
But anyway, why are we getting so worked up about this? According to Pete, all the WPCA are is just a bunch of good ol’ boys who want to see the return of Vanilla Paddlepops, Sunnyboys and Merv Hughes to the One Day side, all the things that made Australia great before the wicked spectre of multiculturalism descended:
“We’re a group of people who want to return Australia to the days when European people were dominant and before multiculturalism came in - the sort of things that Pauline Hanson was saying openly.”
Hmmm, we don’t recall Pauline Hanson fantasising about a second Holocaust, writing slash-fiction about firebombing lefty bookshops or bemoaning the day that Lemmy from Motorhead dropped the swastika as a stage backdrop. It’s all here folks, take it away Pete:
I used to be the HUGEST Lemmy fan but have gone off him a bit I must admit since he dropped the swastika from their logo.
Yep, just a dinky di patriot through and through. How does one express one’s love of this wide brown land? Down a VB whilst watching a favoured sporting team romp on home? Relax with some billy tea and a collection of Banjo Patterson’s finest works? NO silly, in Kromlek’s world, real Aussie Patriots go out and pick on Jews!
“I AM a little soft and overweight right now but I can give up the overindulgence anytime. I think. I used to be VERY fit but I no longer have the time to waste. I am too busy writing stuff for The Nationalist and going out causing shit for the Kikes and the Lefties.”
We still wonder what “causing shit” actually means. Ringing the doorbell on the Great Synagogue and doing a runner or something a bit more aggro? Anyway, onto Peter’s grand opus - fantasising about a second final solution:
The Cure:
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 ‘culture’. None but the most filthy of beasts could be so pathologically obsessed with bodily fluids and excreta and the minutiae of their bizarre ritual ‘cleansing’ 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 ‘cure’ 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 “Well, they have copped a hard time of it down through the ages. You can hardly blame them for protecting their own interests!�
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 don’t just “look after themselves�. 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 mélange 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! [DOTR is a reference to Chapter 23 of the Turner Diaries, in which the white supremacist heroes dispatch tens of thousands of "race traitors"]
Story By Kromlek
—
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 æons, the sleeping dæmons 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 fœtid 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!
This next one is totally a work of fiction. It is, you can drop the sarcasm detector. Still, it begs the question of what kind of non-violent, non-terrorist inclined “white nationalist” spends his days writing fiction concerning the firebombing of lefty bookshops.
The Urban guerilla
“F..k it’s cold!� Shannon Callan was in ‘The Third Planet Bookshop’ 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 ‘revolutionary’ lowlife from Karl Marx to Ché 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 they’d read (and understood) while sipping café 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 ‘Shannon The Cannon’ 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 he’d been “beaten up by experts� they’d sent after him. True enough, but he’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 ‘kneecapper’ for the provisional IRA. Extreme politics was in the Callan’s genes, anonymity was not an option for them.
His cold, petrol soaked fingers fumbled in the darkness for the box of ‘Redheads’ in his greatcoat pocket. The brand name made him smile, considering where he was and what was about to occur.
He wished he hadn’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 ‘fire-bombing’? It wasn’t a bomb! Technically speaking he was only dispersing a ‘volatile accelerant’. The novel Fahrenheit 451 occurred to him and he decided he wasn’t a fire-bomber at all, he was a “fireman� doing good work!
Still, he was nervous. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this mission� 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 ‘Smithy’, who’d blown half his own cock off, trying to pull his revolver on a coon in the pub car-park! He’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, ‘Blank Frank’ they’d called him, because he was a randy, alcoholic bastard who’d had a vasectomy and was always telling the women he was making a move on that he “fired blanks�. He thought that would impress them and they’d feel ‘safer’ with him!?! Yeah sure!
Frank’s claim to fame was that he’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 commissar’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 he’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 Murphy’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 ‘Das Kapital’ by Karl Marx. “Take that, you Commie bastard! That’s what I think of you!� he said, grinning.
Having finished his urgent appointment with nature, he returned to the mission’s primary objective. Raze this c**t of a place to the ground! Hastily flicking a match across the box’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; “Are 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?�
Story By Kromlek
Let’s close with a poem.
Raiders (Poem)
by Kromlek
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
“With no remorse we rape, pillage and fight, Our bitter hearts swell with hatreds lust.”
Yep, just your everyday, average, dinky di Aussie patriot who wants Australia to return to our 1920’s ethnic mix. That’s all. These poems about raping, pillaging? Meh - they’re just poetry. These stories which fantasise about a second Holocaust and call for the total eradication of all Jews? Well uhm, that was like a creative writing assignment for a community college course Peter is taking, same with the firebombing fiction.
(cough)*BULLSHIT*(cough)
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