Note: I wrote most of these entries in 2022, so certain aspects of their references and cultural assessment are outdated. But I still believe it is best to republish that original series of articles unabridged, in spite of its datedness, because an honest history of the “Charlottesville era” from an actual eyewitness and participant—i.e., me— ought to be presented to the world.
The manifold lies told about the event known as “Charlottesville,” and more generally about the movement which came to be called the “alt-right,” a term which soon became little more than a slur shortly after it emerged into the broader culture, are in desperate need of correction; even eight years later, little of the truth is known, buried under a cornucopia of falsehoods .
Though I despair of any such needful revisionism, as is contained in this document, reaching a wide audience, at least in the short term, one must nevertheless do what one can, so here I offer my meager effort to set the record straight.
Contents:
1. THE ‘ALT-RIGHT’: PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE
2.THE ‘ALT-RIGHT’: EVOLUTION OF A MORAL PANIC
3.HATE FROM ON HIGH: THE POST-TRUMP ‘PSYCHO OP’
4.SUMMER 2017: CHARLOTTESVILLE LOOMS LARGE
5.THE EVE OF CHARLOTTESVILLE: TIKI TORCH TENEBRAE
6.CHARLOTTESVILLE, VIOLENT ANTIFA, AND DO-NOTHING COPS
7.CHARLOTTESVILLE: THE GOON SQUAD ARRIVES
8.CHARLOTTESVILLE: AFTERMATH
9.CHARLOTTESVILLE: CRASH AND BURN
CONCLUSION: CHARLOTTESVILLE MURDERED MY MARRIAGE
1. THE ‘ALT-RIGHT’: PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE
What was the “Alt-Right”?
I put the term in the past tense, because the “movement,” such as it was, seems to have existed mainly in the past. Its adherents at present are generally inclined to avoid this designation. Those who still talk about the “alt-right” today most commonly sling it as a slur; and as a slur, it has become so elastic as to lose all meaning. In fact, its usage typically reveals more about the user than about those whom its user targets, as it has assumed all of the rhetorical characteristics of a cheap, unearned smear.
Being vaccine-hesitant is “alt-right.” Questioning NATO’s role in Eastern Europe is “alt-right.” Preferring Tulsi Gabbard to Joe Biden is “alt-right,” as is preferring Bernie Sanders to Hillary Clinton. Taking a critical view of the mainstream press is “alt-right,” as is favoring natural remedies to prescribed products of conventional medicine, as is finding fault with the practices of powerful tech companies, corporate giants, and mammoth pharmaceutical conglomerates. Entertaining so-called “conspiracy theories” (a highly “problematic” term if ever there were one, with a quite sinister provenance) renders a person alt-right, but of course, but so does enjoying articles by liberals like Glenn Greenwald and Matt Taibbi, and admiring anti-authoritarian icons like Julian Assange and Edward Snowden.
When it was first seized upon as an epithet, “alt-right” was at least used in a manner that presumed to critique a particular mindset: “alt-right” people were said to be racist, sexist, homophobic, and xenophobic. This, too, amounted to a cheap, unearned smear more often than not, but at least it offered a set of assumptions which, even if unfair, was nevertheless coherent. It was once true, not long ago, that opposing mass Third World immigration to the West earned one the label of an “alt-right” racist, even if one were left-of-center on every other issue imaginable. Such a determination was certainly ludicrous, but it was at least consistently applied. Today, however, the epithet is unleashed upon anyone and everyone who opposes the official, establishmentarianly-determined party line, which, for its part, has grown ever more expansively-rendered (see the previous paragraph).
Today, “alt-right,” like “conspiracy theorist,” is used exclusively to shame, scold, heckle, and harass all who don’t hold to every aspect of the contrived consensus. This tendency tracks with the ominous proclivity towards intellectual totalitarianism promoted-- one gathers quite deliberately and not by accident—by nearly every officially-appointed opinion-shaping forum and outlet currently in circulation. Sometimes, in fact, it isn’t even enough to refrain from promoting “wrongthink”; unless one actively takes a stand in favor of the policies favored by the ruling oligopoly, one is regarded with suspicion and contempt. “Silence”--so they solemnly instruct us—“is violence,” after all.
Today we see a most appalling miscegenation of the very worst aspects of the Left and the Right, repackaged as a horrific hybrid, blandly sold as “conventional wisdom.” A nightmare ideology has now emerged to assume “default” status, and conspicuously straying too far from this “default” manner of thinking lands a person in dire straits, both socially and professionally.
Borrowing from the loonier depths of the far-Left, the default ideology now demands that degenerate behavior, including child sexualization, and destructive lifestyle choices, like obesity, promiscuity, and abortion, ought not merely be tolerated or accepted, but positively celebrated. Most ordinary citizens chafe against such notions, but they are nevertheless avidly promoted and reinforced by nearly all the monied institutions of the media establishment, from network news venues to tech outlets to glossy periodicals to nearly every corner of showbiz, most notably Hollywood and the music industry.
Meanwhile, in what amounts to a parodic echo of conservatism from a saner time, we are commanded never to question authority, to shun all vestiges of critical thinking, to unquestioningly trust duly appointed “experts,” to revere corrupt and murderous institutions like the CIA, the State Department, and the Pentagon, and to love the military-industrial complex just as Winston Smith grew to love Big Brother.
Thus all that was truly good about traditional liberalism, such as its humanitarianism, its enthusiasm for peace and goodwill, and its interest in caring for the poor and oppressed, is callously jettisoned; at the same time, all that was truly good about traditional conservativism—its advocacy of self-control, societal orderliness, moral uprightness, and loyalty to faith and kin—is likewise cast aside, to pave way for the contrived nightmare ideology referred to above, an ideology which is sometimes called “neoliberal” (even though it is in fact deeply illiberal) or even “centrist” (even though there is nothing moderate or sensible about it, as one would expect from the “centrist” appellation, which stakes out a presumably reasonable “center” between two ostensible extremes), but which is in fact little more than manifested hostility towards anything normal, healthy, rational, innocent, or wholesome.
In the realm ruled over by an intentionally inverted morality, with its accompanying deliberately debased aesthetics, anything seen as violative of the mandated Zeitgeist is deemed “alt-right,” or else branded with some similarly dismissive and disingenuous term (“conspiracy theorist,” “fake news,” “Q-tard,” “incel,” “Russian disinfo,” etc.).
Just the same, “alt-right” once had an actual meaning before it became an all-purpose slur. In future entries, I will explore the actual history in the years leading up to the onset of our current totalitarian dispensation.
THE ‘ALT-RIGHT’: EVOLUTION OF A MORAL PANIC
In examining the “alt-right” question, including the manner in which this appellation has largely become a term of disapprobation and contempt wielded by the disingenuous and whined by the brainwashed, I find myself in a weird, even schizophrenic, position.
After all, I have a personal history with the label “alt-right.” I was a part of the (primarily online) alt-right scene almost from its inception, but I certainly never expected it to become a household term. In a relatively brief span of time, my mostly obscure intellectual clique suddenly became altogether too conspicuous, and then very conspicuously mischaracterized, on the world stage.
I first began writing for the “flagship” website alternativeright.com, founded by the then relatively unknown, now notorious Richard Spencer, in 2010. Within months, I was coediting the site, along with Colin Liddell. Liddell and I were also regular cohosts of Richard’s “Vanguard” podcasts from 2011 through 2013.
In 2011, the thinktank with which Richard was associated, the National Policy Institute, bankrolled my two-week trip to South Africa, during which I visited various sites, including the famous Afrikaner mini-homeland Orania, spoke with various luminaries, and composed an extended essay concerning the state of the Boer nation in the post-Apartheid era, eventually published in the short-lived NPI-sponsored print periodical Radix.
Later, Richard Spencer and I had a falling out-- the details of which I will not discuss here-- but I remained affiliated with alt-right circles, including coediting a second incarnation of the Alternative Right website after the first had been taken down by Spencer in December of 2013.
Curiously, Richard seemed to think that the expression “alt-right” had by this time run its course and had ceased to be relevant anymore. He elected –disastrously, in my judgment-- to rebrand as Radix. What Richard seemed to little realize then was just how much “alt-right” was catching on, particularly on Twitter and amongst 4channers and other young, tech-savvy people. In 2014 and particularly in 2015, with the emergence of Donald Trump on the national scene, “alt-right” continued to gain an ever-more conspicuous presence in the rhetorical lexicon of anti-liberal, anti-establishment online dissidents. Presently, the establishment media started to notice, with horrified chagrin, that these “trolls” were somehow making headway, winning hearts and minds to their “extremist” notions. MSNBC host Rachel Maddow even dedicated a segment of her show to this alarming trend, during which, with a hilarious absence of insight, she fretted over Colin Liddell’s article entitled “Holocaust Forgetfulness Day,” taking Liddell’s irony at face-value.
All of this buildup eventually led to Democrat presidential candidate Hillary Clinton delivering a speech in the summer of 2016, in which she mentioned the “alt-right” by name, and attempted to tie these disreputable internet miscreants to her opponent Donald Trump.
Was this effort at rhetorical triangulation and shaming by proxy successful? Apparently not to Trump (the intended target), who, to the astonishment of much of the world, and in defiance of the stern admonitions of corporate media pundits and the hysterical objections of mouthpieces of establishment-backed institutions, proceeded to defeat Clinton in November.
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When Trump became president-elect, the cultural commissars were left in shock: their chosen candidate, whom they felt so sure was invincible, had crashed and burned harder than Clinton secretary of commerce Ron Brown’s plane (an event felt by many to be a clear and present “Arkanciding”) had in Croatia twenty years prior.
Once their disbelief subsided, their anger was ignited. How dare things not go according to how they, the supreme arbitrators of righteousness, the approved, duly appointed arbeiters of a brave new world (order) had envisioned them going? Someone needed to be held to blame for this horrifying eventuality playing out, whereby the plans of the anointed ones were so rudely thwarted! Heads needed to roll.
Soon afterwards, internet censorship and rampant “deplatforming” of dissident ideas became the “new normal.”
In fact, the Trump era, far from ushering in a renaissance of corruption-busting and swamp-draining, as had been promised, instead saw the corporate and governing class bare its fangs and prowl for blood in a manner seldom seen before. Cancel culture, already a blight, was amped up to previously unheard of levels, in a manner patently reminiscent of McCarthyism. One defied the seemingly arbitrarily-defined “party line” at one’s extreme peril, more often than not putting one’s livelihood at risk.
As for “alt-right,” I watched, first with astonishment, then with dismay, as this label, which (accurately or inaccurately, for better or for worse) had largely come to define me as a writer and thinker for several years, came to be Stalinistically associated with everything evil, rotten, disgusting, appalling, and obscene. A full-fledged feeding frenzy was afoot, an officially-sanctioned moral panic of book-burning proportions was on the rampage, its enforcers taking aim at non-conformists everywhere, and freethinkers like me were in their crosshairs.
HATE FROM ON HIGH: THE POST-TRUMP ‘PSYCHO OP’
Trump’s victory in 2016 unleashed a “rough beast” in the United States, one which continues to rage and rampage to the present day.
The metaphorical “beast” to which I refer, however, isn’t at all related to Trump, but rather, to his enemies in the political and media establishment.
This wouldn’t be particularly significant if the nonstop invective spewed by these establishment forces were directed at Donald Trump himself. Politics is bloodsport, after all, and Trump is hardly a man of a refined or genteel disposition, unable to take what he can’t dish out.
The problem with the feral and vicious hate campaign unleashed by those post-2016 election “malcontents in high places” is that they chose not merely to target and vilify Trump (who, being a rich and resourceful business tycoon and politician, was fair game), but all Trump-supporters; moreover, they chose not just to target Trump supporters, but in fact anyone who felt that Trump was a better presidential choice than Clinton. And their hate campaign did not merely attack anyone who preferred Trump to Clinton, but rather anyone who disliked Trump but was equally unimpressed by Clinton. And, still more egregiously, their acrimonious, sanctimonious psycho-op blitzkrieg did not just bully those who was equally unimpressed by Clinton and Trump alike; in fact, it did not even spare the ones who didn’t vote out of indifference towards, or general contempt for, politics.
Essentially, the bulk of the managerial class declared psychological war on at least half of the population of America; that is, they used the massive resources at their disposal to shame, disparage, and “cancel” nearly everyone who declined to do their bidding at the ballot box. This might seem, to some, like a staggering misallocation of effort; it may also strike many others as profoundly petty and mean-spirited behavior.
Unsurprisingly, those who actively engaged in this scorched earth rage-offensive, didn’t see it that way, however. In fact, they appeared to feel absolutely morally justified in conducting this no-holds barred assault on a broad swath of their own countrymen, on the grounds that those with the gall not to have approved of opinions and beliefs are BAD people who ought to be made to suffer until they finally learn their lesson and obediently mouth the approved platitudes and docilely mutter the prescribed shibboleths.
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The poisonous trend of nonstop vituperation first began in late 2016, and it has scarcely let up since. In fact, it continues to this day.
Trump is no longer president, but the concerted hate-campaign against Americans not compliant with all aspects of the prescribed ideology-- which for its part seems to grow increasingly expansive, with more and more obligatory planks, penumbras. and amendments, with which one must pledge fealty or else be disparaged as an “alt-right anti-vaxxer transphobic incel Q-tarded Russian shill”— or other slurs to the same effect—continues unabated. Notions that were unthinkable a short time ago, or were laughed at for being wild and wooly “conspiracy theories,” not long afterwards become mandatory and mainstream.
For example, in early 2020, some feared that the unprecedented (and highly unconstitutional) Covid lockdown would eventually culminate in mandatory vaccinations and vax passports required to travel or obtain entrance to restaurants, stores, clubs, and arenas. The upholders of the approved Zeitgeist of course mocked these crazy, tin foil-hatters for making such nutty predictions.
Less than a year later, vax passports became a reality in much of the Western world, and without missing a beat, these same mockers from early 2020 became fearless promoters of the brave new status quo.
Similarly, those who sneered at “paranoid” right-wingers who feared small children were being inappropriately propagandized about sexual and gender identity matters by overzealous educators… now appear up in arms about a newly passed Florida law which forbids just such behavior on the part of educators of small children!
The pattern could be summarized as such: “First we call you paranoid, then we laugh at you, then we get angry with you, then we kick you off social media, then we banish you from polite society… and THEN we admit that you were right all along, but that the atrocious and dystopian outcomes you feared are in fact good things, which you are crazy, irresponsible, and dangerous to oppose in any way!”
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It is in the context of this relentless frenzy of dishonesty and unremitting hostility that the event now known as “Charlottesville” must be taken into account. Quite simply, if you are interested in knowing the truth of things, you must simply forget everything you have heard about this event, which I shall discuss next.
SUMMER 2017: CHARLOTTESVILLE LOOMS LARGE
During the summer of 2017, in the weeks leading up to the “Unite the Right” debacle in Charlottesville, as “alt-right” assumed an ever-higher profile in the wake of Clinton’s public admission of its existence, followed by her subsequent humiliating defeat at the hands of Trump and the latter’s assumption of the Presidency (an event immediately met by the unceasing, screeching fury of feral malcontents, who after January 20th, grew ever more batty with blind rage that the Bad Orange Man had ever been allowed to ascend to power, much less remain there), I soon slowly became aware of something closer to home: namely, my own growing infamy.
In a sense, I had already been “infamous” for a while, but only on a very small scale. I was one of those bloggers with “unsavory” connections, writing about certain forbidden subjects. I had published a few books, both in the realm of fiction and nonfiction, though the bulk of my fiction work would soon get dropped by Greg Johnson’s Counter-Currents imprint as a result of me finding myself caught in the middle of nasty infighting between Johnson on one hand, and Colin Liddell and Daniel Friberg of Arktos Media on the other. Since I was affiliated with Liddell at the time, Johnson opted to stop publishing my books as an act of sheer spite. (Fortunately, they were later republished by Matt Forney’s Terror House Press, where they are still available for purchase.)
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I’m not sure how I first came across the Anti-Defamation League’s anti-alt-right article, in which I, your humble interlocutor, was featured amongst a list of various other luminaries of badthink. It wasn’t the first time that I had been unflatteringly profiled by a self-appointed “watchdog” group, but it was certainly the most high-profile instance of the same.
The piece, entitled “From Alt Right to Alt-Light: Naming the Hate,” mentioned me third on the list of “Team Alt-Right,” just behind Andrew Anglin, editor of the Daily Stormer, and Andrew Aurernheimer (“aka Weev”). There was also an accompanying list for the supposed “Alt-Light,” which featured the likes of prominent shit-stirrers like Milo Yiannipoulos, Mike Cernovich, and Gavin McInnes.
The ADL hit piece still almost inevitably comes up, close to the top, whenever one types my name into a search engine, ensuring that those wishing to find out about me will likely witness my ironic defamation at the hands of a group of self-proclaimed anti-defamers:
The inaccuracy of the writeup skirts very close to being libelous, but uses weasel language to clear itself of its rancid insinuations. I wondered for a time if I should pursue legal action, considering the degree to which I believed myself to have been mischaracterized, but a lawyer at the time basically told me that there was nothing I could do. Whether or not I was a white “supremacist” or a promoter of “white sharia,” he informed me, others were allowed to claim that I stood for such things, since that was construed, legally, as their constitutionally protected “opinion,” regardless of how incorrect it was.
Much as the writeup irked me, I’ll admit that I also took a sort of pride in being labeled a “ghastly so-and-so” by an organization seemingly composed of smarmy hall monitors, swishy snitches, and prissy schoolmarms. Certainly I could wear their scorn like a badge of honor. But what I little knew at the time is how this shameless engagement in character-assassination would follow me around, algorithmically speaking, for years to come. Even now, in 2022, if you type my name into a search engine, the ADL “Naming the Hate” article will invariably turn up at on the first page of results. At the risk of sounding paranoid, I can’t help but wonder if its ubiquitous proximity to my name is due to something other than the laissez-faire workings of the impersonal internet acting alone.
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As August approached, I decided that I would make a pilgrimage to the “Unite the Right” event being planned in Charlottesville, Virginia on August 12. Initially, attendance was limited to “Southron” patriots who wished to protest the removal of the Robert E. Lee statue in the downtown park, yet another brazen example of the determined effort of the contemporary cultural commissars to demolish, erase, and purge of all vestiges of Southern identity in the formerly Confederate states. However, the “Unite the Right” cause came to be more expansive, and considerably “edgier,” as various newly-christened alt-right “leaders,” including Richard Spencer, Nathan Damingo, The Right Stuff’s Mike Enoch, and enigmatic rhetorician Augustus Invictus announced that they would speak on the occasion.
The planned event was slowly gaining momentum as an “IRL” meetup for those who had previously only experienced one another’s company on the internet. A permit had been secured for the rally to be held at what used to be called “Lee Park,” and had been retitled “Emancipation Park,” in front of the soon-to-be snatched away statue depicting that ultimate icon of Virginian marital virtue and masculine gentility.
At the time of my opting to make the trip to Charlottesville, I had lost most of my former ties with “movement” types, and I felt myself mostly to be an outsider. My earlier friendly relations with Richard Spencer and Greg Johnson had soured, and I had also fallen away from Matt Parrott, who, along with then-son-in-law Matt Heimbach, had started an organization called the Traditional Workers Party, which was attempting to win Appalachian folk to white nationalism… and Eastern Orthodoxy (a gambit I always took to be quite bizarre and doomed to failure). Most of the alt-right had by this time become a legion of Trumpian online trolls with anonymous handles; the culture had changed considerably-- and to my mind, not for the better-- since I had first begun writing for Alternative Right seven years earlier.
Nevertheless, the notion of “Unite the Right” intrigued me, and I wished to check it out, not as a participant, but as a guardedly sympathetic observer.
I suspected that things would probably get a bit dicey. I knew antifa would be there, doing what they do best: instigating violence and hurting people. But I figured that law and order would prevail, that the police would be out in force, keeping the peace, and that the First Amendment rights of the event-organizers would be respected. They had, after all, obtained a permit, signed by a judge, to hold the event; how could such an insuperably legal documented be superseded by fiat? This was the United States, after all, not some pathetic banana republic!
I was about to be proven wrong, on every single count.
THE EVE OF CHARLOTTESVILLE: TIKI TORCH TENEBRAE
I first began hearing about strange things goings-on in Charlottesville as I began my drive up from my home in Savannah, Georgia on Thursday, August 10.
It seemed that some who had come to the area for the event were reporting being turned away by local motels, where the clerks refused to accept their check and credit cards. Had a list of probable attendees been provided to the local Chamber of Commerce, and then distributed to various motel owners in Charlottesville, commanding those motel owners not to allow those on the list to stay at their establishments?
If so, how had such information been unearthed, by what means, by whom, and under what pretext?
Such was indeed a “first,” but alas, it would hardly be the last of such “firsts”—indeed, in the past five years, we have seen numerous cases of “undesirable” people denied various services, up to and including permission to start a bank account—as a form of corporate virtue signaling indistinguishable from the general push of “cancel culture.” In August of 2017, however, such draconian tactics were still relatively new, and thus more shocking to contemplate.
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Another bit of news that crossed my transom concerned the (then) YouTube channel Red Ice Radio, a well-known alt-right venue which I had been on as a guest a few times, most recently to promote my 2017 book Meta-#Pizzagate. But on August 11, as I sped up I-95, I heard an interview in which Henrick Palmgren, one of the show’s hosts, shared a bizarre and frustrating experience: his site, he claimed, had been hacked, and afterwards tampered with to such a degree that it was no longer operational. The sophistication of the operation indicated that this had been a professional job. It seemed clear that Red Ice had been targeted for sabotage in the days immediately leading up to the scheduled “Unite the Right” event in Charlottesville.
Again, the question arose: who had done this, and by what means, and under what justification?
As I continued to wind my way northwards, I began to feel assaulted by dread. I was alarmed at the fact that citizens’ credit card numbers were seemingly being tracked; surely, that was against the law, an intolerable invasion of privacy? And if such extra-legal means were being seized upon in an effort to thwart this get-together, and popular (albeit niche) podcasts like Red Ice were being harassed by high-level hackers, then perhaps government, or government-adjacent, or government-contracted organizations who had experience with “black-ops” and “wet works” were on the loose, and maybe a few more nasty surprises were to come.
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Upon arrival in Charlottesville on Friday afternoon, I found to my relief that I had no trouble checking into the motel, which I had reserved under my own name. It seems that, for whatever reason, I wasn’t “flagged.” Other Unite the Right-ers were present as well, occupying various rooms around me. I was flattered when a couple of people, mannerly Southern youngsters, recognized me by name, and a friendly conversation ensued. I started to feel slightly more at ease. I phoned Matt Parrot—my “inside guy,” (though he and I had been out of touch for a while, as previously stated) and arrangements were made to pick me up the next morning. The plan was to have me “embedded” within the ranks of a certain WN organization with whom Matt had some contacts; since there was safety in numbers, I would accompany this group to the site of the rally.
Later that evening, I caught wind that a pre-rally “happening” had apparently been staged, in which several “tiki torch” bearing people had marched through town and onto the University of Virginia campus, chanting slogans like “Blood and soil!” and “You will not replace us!” The march appeared to have been led by Richard Spencer, with other known figures like Augustus Invictus and “Baked Alaska” being present in tow. A few skirmishes broke out when leftist students saw the undeniably “fashy” look of the gathering, and angrily attacked; nevertheless, these disturbances were broken up, and the march, which had been permitted and even granted a police escort, ended peaceably enough.
The night march of August 11th would prove to be what some might call a disaster of “optics”; then again, it seemed designed to be provocative.
Provocation is not, of itself, a bad thing, of course. The problem, besides the attempted aping of National Socialist slogans and aesthetics (certainly an alienating and counterproductive tack, under the circumstances) was the fact that members of the hostile media snapped pictures of the mostly quite young participants, who were soon afterwards ruthlessly doxxed, causing many of them to lose their jobs in the weeks and months to follow. Did Spencer and company not have an inkling that such an eventuality might unfold? Could he and his friends not have taken better steps to protect those under their charge from a feral, rabid, and hateful press and an equally malevolent political establishment, who clearly aimed to reduce to ruination everyone and anyone who defied their political, social, and cultural dictates and injunctions?
I called Matt again, to inquire if he knew anything about the “tiki torch” event, and he owned that he was aware of it, but opted out of taking part, as he found it to be inadvisable, or words to that effect. We said our goodbyes, and I told him I looked forward to meeting him in the morning, bright and early. Tomorrow we would assemble before the Lee statue in “Emancipation Park” for the main event.
Though I could not shake the apprehension that had seized me earlier in the day, I still figured that all systems were “go.” I reasoned that if any controversy erupted, it would primarily be limited to the northern Virginia area.
I certainly had no inkling that the very name “Charlottesville” would, within hours, become a byword for infamy across the nation, and indeed, over much of the world.
CHARLOTTESVILLE, VIOLENT ANTIFA, AND DO-NOTHING COPS
On Saturday, August 12, 2017, date of the scheduled “Unite the Right” rally in Charlottesville, Virginia, I woke up early, went for a morning jog, then showered and changed into my “work clothes” (i.e, a T-shirt and my trusty, if mildly wrinkled, khakis).
Soon thereafter, Matt Parrott picked me up as promised, with a couple of other passengers in tow, before driving us all to the fairly nondescript parking lot of a strip mall just outside of town. This was apparently one of several “meet up points” for UTR attendees “in the know” to begin their journey to the Lee monument site, where the rally was to be held. Two police escorts were there, and from what I can recall, they seemed like conscientious men eager to ensure people's safety and keep the peace.
(Unfortunately, this marked the last time that day that I would experience law-enforcement officers actually interested in fulfilling their ostensible duties. Thereafter, the “boys in blue” would prove to be utterly useless, if not worse than useless.)
Soon we had all boarded various larger vehicles and departed in a caravan. Our destination, reached a short time later, was a downtown parking garage. Within the protective steel and cement guts of this structure, people clambered out of their vehicles, where some got attired in protective gear resembling that which “Based Stick Man” had popularized earlier in the summer.
From this sheltered perspective, it was impossible to gauge just how chaotic things had already become just below us, in Emancipation Park and its immediate environs. However, we were able to spot a low-flying police helicopter as it hovered just above us. No doubt its pilots had tracked our arrival and they were duly delivering the new surveillance info to headquarters.
Presently, it came to be time to begin our procession down the various levels of the parking garage and emerge onto the street below, where we knew that counter-protesters were waiting for us with requisite spittle-flecked hatred and avid bloodlust. There was some effort to generate bravado, to start a marching chant, something with a “based” message, along the lines of “Hey ho, hey ho/Send illegals back to Mexico,” or more simply, “White lives matter!” (There was, however, no talk of “blood and soil” or any other Nazi-esque sentiments, unlike had been uttered by the Tiki torchers of the previous night’s reverie).
Some of my companions held St. Andrews flags and other assorted forbidden paraphernalia of a decidedly “Southron” aesthetic, yet I did not feel, as one “embedded” within this group, that I was surrounded by people who were spoiling for a brawl. These were not “scrappers,” but generally sedate, mostly middle-aged men and women. They were there to take part in a rally, not to engage in a violent confrontation.
But peaceable though they may have been at heart, it little mattered. For the events that followed clearly demonstrated that neither local nor state authorities had any interest in ensuring that participants, however docile, remained safe.
When we walked up the road which led to the elevated grassy area of the park, it was clear that someone had released tear gas in our direction. For a few minutes, enveloped in a puff of smoke, we were doubled over, coughing as the stinging substance wreaked havoc on our lungs. But somehow we moved past this spot, and past an unrestrained, unbarricaded mob of screaming malcontents, up the steps to the park.
It was here that I met up with Francis Nally, aka “Pilleater,” the somewhat eccentric proponent of “Asian-Aryanism,” whom I had gotten to know online in the months leading up to the event. However, there was little time to talk, or to relax, or to feel at peace in any way, because it soon became clear that the park was encircled by hooligans who were using makeshift weapons to take potshots at us. Antifa and BLM-affiliated agitators were launching both smoke bombs and glass bottles, apparently filled with concrete, in our direction as they screamed, swore, and spewed angry invective all the while.
Again and again, their homemade catapults launched objects which could well have proven fatal, or at least highly injurious, had they managed to strike anyone in the head. Yet the policemen on the scene were (quite literally) unmoved by the violent crimes happening in their midst. They were doing exactly squat to stop, arrest, or disarm anyone. Instead, these intrepid law-enforcement officers, who to a man had sworn an oath “to serve and to protect” the public, just stood there, their arms by their sides, their expressions blank, making no effort whatsoever to shield anyone from the openly violent acts being perpetrated in broad daylight, much less to apprehend the violent malefactors.
Later, of course, it emerged that a “stand down order” had almost certainly been promulgated, either by the BLM-friendly Charlottesville mayor, or by the city’s Chief of Police, or by the supremely odious (and thankfully now removed from office) Virginia Governor Terry Mcauliffe, though no such admission was never actually made. Still, it was clear to everyone with eyes to see that the cops on the scene had neither the interest nor the inclination to do their jobs. In the weeks that followed, even some liberal outlets decried the Charlottesville PD’s “woefully unprepared and poorly organized” response to events, and a scathing writeup by a federal attorney took the Chief of Police, among others, to task for their unforgiveable inaction.
Had the local police been properly prepared, barricades would have been set up to prevent the two hostile camps from coming to blows, and anyone (on either side of said barricades) who attempted to assault those on the other side would have been intercepted, arrested, and taken away in cuffs.
But here in Charlottesville, in “Emancipation Park,” before the stern-faced stone countenance of General Lee, even such elementary precautions had been neglected by law-enforcement. One wonders if this was truly due to the sheer incompetence of the local constabulary, or if indeed things had deliberately been set up to fail, in order that bloody mayhem might ensue, so that the “alt-right” attendees (and by extension, President Trump) could be blamed by the Democrat mayor and governor, even though nearly all instances of violence were instigated by antifa and BLM counter-protesters (whose atrocities, as noted, went entirely unpunished by the cops on the scene).
No doubt, some Machiavellian calculation was afoot. But as the saga was still unfolding, it wasn’t easy to discern such motivations or sought-after political outcomes. Nevertheless, in the midst of the anarchic tumult, I recall standing on the border of the park, facing the roiling mob of murderously hateful, spitting, spluttering goons, and muttering to Francis Nally, “This isn’t going to end well.”
Prophetic though my statement proved to be, the truth was that I didn’t yet know the half of it.
CHARLOTTESVILLE: THE GOON SQUAD ARRIVES
Presently a few harried-looking young men summoned us to the front of the park, just in front of the Lee statue, where a certain makeshift set of barriers had been set up. Behind us, the streets continued to teem with a roiling sea of angry, screaming, jeering counter-protesters, led by bottle-chucking antifa agitators.
Meanwhile, the Charlottesville PD, as previously mentioned, flanked us on the park’s eastern border. They all stood in a line and did absolutely nothing to attempt to contain the increasingly violently chaotic atmosphere, which—again, it must be pointed out (since it is a truth which flies directly in the face of all of the mainstream media’s propaganda concerning Charlottesville)—was entirely fomented by the lefty, “anti-racist” antifa-led counter-demonstrators, and NOT by the participants in the “Unite the Right” event.
We reported to the appointed spot, and for a moment I began to think we would begin to see the “show” which had been advertised all along. Richard Spencer-- whom I had once known and even called a friend, but who had essentially become a stranger to me by now--was up in front, dressed to the nines in a swanky suit and vest, flanked by several other men, including Nathan Damingo and Augustus Invictus, as well as a few others I didn’t recognize. Clearly, these were to be the speakers of the event. Again, however, there was little time to relax, reflect, or contemplate the present state of things, nor even to wonder what was about to happen… because now an entirely new sight was greeting our peripherals.
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On the western edge of the park, we gradually became aware, an armored van had pulled up. From the back of the vehicle emerged something like ten or twelve men (no one, in the heat of the moment, thought to count exactly how many there were). All of these men wore SWAT gear: helmets and visors, bulky body armor, and thick black boots. They strode, Robocop-like, to the peak of the park, forming a semicircle just in front of granite General Lee. Their Stormtrooper getups made for ominous optics indeed, but perhaps they were there to finally provide some much-needed security, the sort that Charlottesville’s “finest” (those standing idly by as violent assaults broke out all around them) were proving conspicuously loathe to offer.
However, we were soon disabused of the notion that these hulking goons had arrived to help ensure that the rule of law was followed. One of these men removed his helmet, and, reading off a piece of paper, delivered a terse, prepared address into a bullhorn:
“This gathering (he announced) has been declared unlawful by the Commonwealth of Virginia. You must disperse, or you will be arrested.”
It was at this moment that I lost my cool.
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Up until now, I had pretty much behaved as a largely impartial observer. My sympathies clearly lay with the event attendees, but I have never been a rah-rah kind of guy when it comes to politics. The antifa had shown themselves to be utterly despicable (as per usual) but I had no interest in “mixing it up” with them or anyone else… I did, however, support the preservation of Southern heritage, and even more than that, I supported freedom of speech. And now here these geared-up goons had just shown up, swaggered in, and abruptly pronounced that this lawfully scheduled rally, for which a permit had been secured from a federal judge, was “unlawful.”
By what authority were this gaggle of petty tyrants ordering those present to “disperse” or else “be arrested”?
I vociferously expressed myself to such an effect to this legion of jackbooted goons. Unsurprisingly, the goons evinced no inclination to hear me out. The man with the bullhorn repeated his address, making the exact same rote pronouncement as before. When he again stated that the event had been “declared unlawful,” I shouted “WHY?” but got no answer.
Richard and the other well-dressed men were busy making their own appeals. “You don’t have to do this!” one of them declared to the helmet-heads, seemingly attempting to establish his pro-cop bone fides. Richard, for his part, strove for a sort of futile diplomacy. “We aren’t going to fight you,” he announced, “but we’re not going to leave.” The state-hired SWAT stormtroopers weren’t amenable to this proposal, either. Instead, they began to march forward, in lockstep, toward us.
Without even thinking, I linked arms with the others. We hunched down did our best to stand firm, but eventually, using brute force and a few well -timed kicks at certain exposed legs, the goons soon broke our human chain. I fell backwards, my glasses flew off my face, and as I hit the ground, I felt sure, for one dreadful moment, that I would get trampled and possibly crushed. Luckily, someone grabbed my hand and pulled me up. In all of the confusion, I wasn’t sure who provided the helping hand, but I’m pretty sure it was Augustus Invictus. I am still thankful for his intervention, as it saved me from possible grievous bodily harm.
Having recovered my footing, I pulled my glasses off the ground (it was a small miracle in itself that they remained unbroken) and strode right back into the heart of the goon battalion. This time I faced off against one goon in particular, who grabbed ahold of me, and told me through clenched teeth that I needed to leave. As before, he began pushing me back, in the manner of a steamroller, with an aim to flatten that which was in its path.
“Get your hands off me!” I yelled indignantly, adding that I wouldn’t leave until he could tell me why this event, for which a permit had been secured, had been “declared unlawful.” Of course, he had no counterargument (one such as him was assuredly not the type to philosophize about the uses and abuses of state power). Instead, he merely continued to shove me backwards, until I finally buckled under his armored girth and fell to the ground yet again.
I stayed down for a moment, then again rose, and rushed towards their position, my head still awash with rage and defiance. I noticed, absently, that Matt Parrott had advanced to the Lee statue, and was now calmly taking refuge next to the General’s horse, a sight which would have struck me as amusing under different circumstances.
Then-- whoosh!-- one of the goons interrupted my reverie by hitting me directly in the face with a full blast of pepper spray.
Immediately my eyes and throat felt like they were on fire and I dropped to the ground a third time, overcome with a fit of coughing that I felt would never cease.
I hugged the earth desperately, sure that I was about to vomit my guts out, but presently the effect wore off—it could have been anywhere from two to five minutes that I spent curled up on the grass of “Emancipation Park,” but when I finally clambered up, blearily, I noted that the goons were gone and the would-be attendees of the “Unite the Right” rally had been pushed into full retreat, forced to run the gauntlet through screeching antifa hordes, with no protection whatsoever from any representatives of law-enforcement.
Thanks to the violent counter-protesters and the do-nothing Charlottesville cops, things had gotten quite needlessly out of hand. But soon things would get even uglier. Before August 12 was over, three people would be dead.
CHARLOTTESVILLE: AFTERMATH
Many Unite the Right attendees, forced by authorities to retreat into the midst of the feral, snarling antifa hordes, reported enduring numerous assaults and other outrages. However, my experience was different. After tussling with the goon squad, I was basically on my own. No antifa singled me out for attack because I wasn’t done up in “Based Stickman” gear. I just looked like a normal, middle-aged guy in now slightly grass-stained khakis and disheveled white T-shirt.
Though my eyes were still red and bleary after enduring the goon’s peppery ejaculate to the face, and though I strode in a somewhat broken and hobbled manner after being wrestled to the ground twice by Robo-brained stormtroopers, I still made, I suppose, a passable “bystander.” So I managed to sneak through the midst of the fracas. I wandered away from the park and down the side-streets, not at all knowing where I was headed, my mind in a kind of fog. I recall seeing National Guardsmen standing astride their vehicles (like the Charlottesville PD, they seemed to be doing little besides hanging around), as well as a group of young, earnest-looking representatives of the American Civil Liberties Union, whom I recognized as such from the nametags they wore.
Since the ACLU, in spite of their liberal orientation, had supported the judge’s injunction allowing the event to take place in the park, I felt like I should inform them that the rally had been “declared unlawful” under what seemed to me extremely spurious grounds. These junior ACLUers, however, seemed for some reason unable to comprehend what I had told them. They behaved toward me with polite but distant regard, the way you might speak to a beggar whom you wish to placate without having to indulge. Perhaps it was my unprepossessing appearance. Whatever the cause of our “failure to communicate,” my desire for commiseration over the injustice I had experienced firsthand went entirely unconsummated.
I wandered a bit more, finding my way out of town and into a pastoral area. I decided to call my daughter figuring that, drawn to “drama” as she was, she would get a kind of kick out of what I had experienced. Instead, she seemed frightened and alarmed, worried for my safety, and had no desire to view things through any lens of irony. It was then that I realized that the Charlottesville debacle had become a nationwide sensation, something well beyond what the local news would display that evening.
Eventually I was spotted by Matt Parrott, who was driving around, essentially on the lookout for Unite the Right attendee “strays,” engaging in what he called “goy patrol.” I settled into his backseat, enjoying the blast of air conditioning, and heaved a heavy sigh. He turned to me and declared, “Ya fucked up, Andy!” He spoke jocularly, of course, but did maintain that I had been foolish to attempt a standoff that was bound to fail. Instead, he said, I ought to have rushed to the shelter of the Lee monument, like he'd had the presence of mind to do. I allowed that his finding refuge in the shade of the iconic Virginian had been a stroke of genius, though it hadn’t prevented him from getting briefly arrested and temporarily detained at the police station. They let him off with a mere fine (for trespassing, I suppose?), but others hadn’t been nearly so fortunate.
Matt drove me back to my motel, and when I reentered my room I began speaking with the hosts of the “Boiler Room” podcast, on which (at the time) I was one of several weekly guests, including Jay Dyer. It was from Dyer that I first heard that a young woman named Heather Heyer had died, after being struck by an automobile driven by one of the several “fashy” groups who had flocked to Charlottesville that weekend. It turned out later that the driver, 20-year old James Fields Jr., was trying to flee antifa miscreants who, recognizing him as the “enemy,” were beating on his car with baseball bats and other implements.
Heyer’s tragic death was almost certainly a result of the anarchic atmosphere which had pervaded all day, with hardly any police presence in the streets, and retreating attendees consequently becoming sitting ducks for antifa, who were after all feeling their oats at having managed to “cancel” a gathering of non-like minded people, and thus, in concert with conspiring state and local authorities, of achieving their anti-free speech objectives.
All of this exculpatory information would come out later, but it wouldn’t keep Fields from receiving the maximum sentence possible, since the facts of the case mattered far less than “sending a message” to the alt-right, who had easily become the most villainized group in the West, at least in the eyes of the political establishment, their lapdog mainstream media, and the numerous credulous adherents of both corrupt entities.
In the days to follow, everyone who was “respectable,” Democrat and Republican alike, would duly denounce the Unite the Right rally and all of its attendees, which they held responsible for a woman’s death. The stench of sanctimony was altogether unbearable, and one had to stop paying attention to news entirely in order to avoid it. When President Trump reflected that there were “good people on all sides” of the conflict, he was subjected to a withering assault by many an indignant congressman and bloviating editorial staff of news outlets. The two former GOP presidential candidates, the brazenly warmongering John McCain, and the milquetoast pro-abortion Mormon Mitt Romney , cried out with simultaneous self-righteous fervor that the alt-right and the antifa were NOT morally equivalent; in fact, McCain insisted, the antifa were the same sort of people who stormed the beaches at Normandy to free Europe from Nazism! (Trump, to his credit, never backed away from his initial statement, though he eventually clarified that he was indeed opposed to neo-Nazis and the KKK.)
For me, the most frustrating aspect of my Charlottesville experience was observing, in plain sight, just how little truth matters, when truth gets in the way of lies told by extremely powerful and influential societal forces. The truth of Charlottesville was that antifa instigated a sustained degree of violence against a legal gathering of generally non-violent people, in concert with local and state law enforcement, who, by the order of somebody on high, chose to 1) illegitimately declare the gathering “unlawful,” before engaging in physical violence against those (such as myself and others) who resisted this entirely arbitrary edict, while at the same time, 2) deliberately “standing down” as antifa attacked peaceable attendees both before and after the edict of “unlawfulness” had been illegitimately declared.
Then, when the chaotic atmosphere created by the anarchy they had fomented with their simultaneous tyranny, on the one hand, and intentional negligence on the other, resulted in a woman’s death, they chose to place the blame on the one party NOT involved in organized violence or the complicity thereof.
One suspected that this compact had been long in the making; The Unite the Right attendees had simply walked into the trap that had all along been set for them.
And I had seen it all happen at close range, as had many others. Yet truth seemed to matter to no one. Instead, all they seemed to care about was engaging in smarmily virtuous posturing for the “correct” side of the conflict, the better to please their masters on high.
CHARLOTTESVILLE: CRASH AND BURN
Cultural historians often speak grandiosely about the 1969 Altamont Festival concert, in which a member of the Hell’s Angels stabbed a fan to death in ostensible self-defense, while the Rolling Stones obliviously played on, as “the day the 60s died.”
In essence, that is, all of the presumed enlightened idealism of the decade was betrayed by (or perhaps, exposed as) a darker, more violent, ultimately murderous force, which emerged on the night of this concert, resulting in the killing of one person and the accidental deaths of three others.
In terms of counter-culture, the debacle of Charlottesville represents something similar for the anti-establishment alt-right. Just like at Altamont, there were deaths. Besides Heather Heyer, the two pilots operating the police surveillance helicopter also perished on August 12. Their mysterious mishap was never explained, though witnesses reportedly saw their craft “circling unnaturally” before going into a full-fledged “tailspin” and crashing near a golf course, killing both pilot and copilot instantly.
Had it been sabotage, or just a freak accident? There seemed to have been no particular reason for the helicopter’s fatal malfunction and the resultant tragic loss of life. The sun had been out all day, with no sign of inclement weather. These two pilots had flown several previous missions, and they knew protocol like the experts they were; still, something caused their aircraft to begin “circling unnaturally” before going into a “tailspin.” Even so, they sent out no distress signal prior to meeting the unexpected trouble which led to the sudden downing of the ’copter.
If the craft had indeed been sabotaged, might this have had some relation to whatever they observed from their aerial position? We will never know. The crash of the surveillance police helicopter, however, is certainly an event of symbolic significance. It demonstrates that the destructive chaos fomented in Charlottesville came at the hands of state-affiliated bodies, whose credibility consequently crashed and burned.
Still, in the minds of the public, the alt-right resonated as the “baddies” of the conflict. The events of Charlottesville were displayed through a lens of deliberate distortion, the better to make it seem as though the Unite the Right attendees were singularly responsible for the chaos and devastation unleashed on August 12. That so many were taken in so readily by these blatant mistruths and flat-out falsehoods is of course frustrating; then again, those portrayed as “Nazis,” whether rightly or wrongly (as the attendees of the event, rightly or wrongly, were), are automatically held in suspicion due to several decades of indoctrination against the ideology with which American servicemen fought a bloody and terrible world war, an ideology which after all was responsible for grave human atrocities, both before and during that global calamity.
Since the alt-right were cast as “Nazis” (and UTR attendees didn’t always do their level best to resist the trappings of this label, what with the torchlight procession chanting “Blood and Soil,” and so forth), it could scarcely expect to be granted positive PR by a press which had already proved promiscuously libelous, compulsively labeling anything slightly to the right of Trotsky or AOC as “fascist.”
Still, to have antifa given a complete pass for their typically execrable behavior, and police given a pass for “standing down” in indifference in response to antifa thuggery, was disappointing, to say the least.
But when I returned home two days later, I found that my alienation from the world around me, post-Charlottesville, had reached heights and depths previously unimagined.
CONCLUSION: CHARLOTTESVILLE MURDERED MY MARRIAGE
Upon arriving home, I became aware that my marriage was basically over.
It had, of course, been on life-support for years, but I had always managed to convince myself that it could be salvaged. When there was a will there was a way, and I, at least, had the will to keep things going. And as long as my will persisted to this end, my wife at least could do her best to summon up something resembling interest in the subject.
Unfortunately, whatever interest remained on her part was by 2017 conspicuously on the wane, bringing increasingly diminishing returns as each day, week, and month drifted past.
But my presence in Charlottesville during the Unite the Right gathering, which proved to be one of the most notorious events of the year, and the consequent branding of such men as myself as “domestic terrorists” by those with “conventional wisdom,” was, I believe, the final straw for my wife. I could see it in her eyes. When I walked into eyeshot, she cast me a look that I remember to this day. That look communicated everything. I recognized that she no longer wished to acknowledge me as her husband in any sense but the most nominal.
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That look also informed me that nothing I could say in my attempted defense could possibly mitigate anything in her mind regarding me, or her, or us. It let me know that there was in fact no “we” or “us” to speak of anymore. The matter need not even be discussed, in fact; the last word on the subject had finally been pronounced, and there was naught left to say.
In defense of my wife—now my ex-wife—she didn’t marry me thinking that I would become the sort of man who avidly embraces forbidden and hated ideas, and who allies himself with people generally considered to be reprobates. When we courted, I was just a sort of artsily bohemian, mildly eccentric, but generally “normie” conservative. We bonded over faith. Neither of us were raised with much religion in our homes, and we both wished to experience a deeper connection to God.
Our courtship, as well as the decade or so following our wedding in 1996, were generally happy years. Things became more complicated later, as they often do in marriages. I don’t wish to be too detailed here, but those who are interested should consult the second book of my series, Ruminations of a Low-Status Male.
Suffice to say that my involvement with the alt-right didn’t do wonders for what, by then, for a host of reasons, had become a marriage in decline, teetering precariously on the edge of collapse.
Again, when we said our vows at a relatively young age, we little knew what lay ahead for each of us individually. Surely she imagined that I would go on in my “normie” conservative mode, would grab an English professorship at a Christian college somewhere, and would perhaps publish some articles in First Things or Touchstone, or Crisis, along with perhaps a heavily-footnoted book or two examining the theological dimensions of Kierkegaard, or CS Lewis, or GK Chesterton. Mrs. Nowicki and I would find a cute but affordable little three-bedroom house in a humble but safe, bucolic little cul-de-sac, surrounded by sweet and friendly neighbors. We would have two children, who would be raised in the financial security provided by my collegiate employer.
But instead of treading the path to respectability, the sort of quality that I could surely have had within my grasp had I simply applied myself in that direction, I instead became a dissident writer who associated with disreputable miscreants, becoming chummy even with whom some might call racist or sexist or xenophobic, and even counting a Holocaust revisionist or two within the bonds of my acquaintanceship.
Surely my (now soon to be ex-) wife never could have anticipated my career taking such a trajectory. Not only did my alt-rightwards drift as a writer divorce me totally from every semblance of the respectability spoken of above, it also wound up raising awkward questions for her. Since she was “with” me), would my views then consequently also be assumed, by those familiar with me as an author, to be her views as well?
She fretted over such implications, and resented me for creating the conditions under which such nefarious notions even needed to be considered. It didn’t help, of course, that she already suffered a degree of debilitating social phobia; now she had to deal with having people suspect terrible things about her, on account of being married to a representative of the “alt-right.” My headlong eschewal of respectability and determined rush toward literary infamy had never been what she had envisaged for me. Indeed, my presumed path to “normie” professorship, and our subsequent happy and financially secure life together, had never panned out.
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And now, post-Charlottesville, look what I had done to myself! Nationwide news coverage had captured my visage at an event which seemed to have been designed to be socially ruinous to “badthinkers” who wished to preserve some vestiges of traditional Southern culture, such as a statue of the venerable General Robert E. Lee in the state of his birth.
Hence, when I returned from my highly inelegant adventure, and saw my wife’s face, I knew that I had lost her, the girl who had once adored me, who had wept tears of ecstasy at the altar as she pledged her troth to me so many years before, when we had each stood before God, taking the vows that we each joyfully accepted at that moment, and for years to come.
When she cast me that look upon my return from Charlottesville, I knew that I had lost her forever.
I have seldom felt more alone than at that moment, yet my grief was somewhat tempered by fatalism. The ship had sailed, it wasn’t coming back, and pretending otherwise was just a patent waste of time, a useless indulgence in sheer futility.
Andy Nowicki is the author of several books, most recently The Insurrectionist, and Muze, as well as the recently-published The Rule of Wrath. Visit his YouTube channel.