The Patriots – Part 8: The Patriots and Their Selves

After the London incident, Lord Rockford decided to indefinitely suspend the Patriot Initiative. He was already being sought out for questioning in the disappearance of Bhivan Singh, and he feared more information would come out about the Patriots.

The other Patriots said their goodbyes to Lord Rockford as he departed on a getaway helicopter at the White Cliffs of Dover.

“Well, gentlemen,” Lord Rockford began. “This is the end of the line, for now. But always remember that we are the rightful sovereigns of this earth. Our stark white Anglo-Teutonic flesh and blood makes us better than the rest. Should the Initiative ever start up again, you will be contacted. Please, do carry out the principles of the initiative in your own lives.”

“Of course, we will,” Walter sobbed. Even with his Anglo-Teutonic fortitude, he could not contain his sorrow and frustration, for the most noble man on Earth was forced to go into hiding. There was truly no hope in this Jew controlled, dark skin dominated, globalist world. “I am forever grateful for your tutelage, milord.”

“I am grateful as well,” Percy sniffled. “You were like a father to me, and I will forever aspire to be half the man you are.”

“You are the Ubermensch of Britannia, Herr Rockford,” Dietrich praised. “Never surrender.”

“Wherever you go, be a badass,” Bill exclaimed. “Don’t take shit from no darkies!”

“Rest assured, my dear Bill, I will not,” Lord Rockford smiled. “I am thankful for all of you. Now, I shall be on my way.”

Lord Rockford entered the helicopter, and waved his top hat to the Patriots as he took off. The helicopter flew into the sunset, and the Patriots were left with themselves.

“I’ve got an idea,” Percy announced to the group. “How about every year, we meet up on the anniversary of the day in London, and go out for some beans on toast?”

“I like the sound of that,” Walter smiled.

“It will be a good way to commemorate our struggles,” Dietrich agreed.

“Beans on toast? Fucking badass!” Bill cheered.

The Patriots all shook hands, and went their separate ways.

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Walter returned to Virginia, eager to get back to business. He wasn’t just making toys for children anymore. Tadworth Technologies would be a supplier to the US Armed Forces, as well as private groups like Blackwater. He of course ignored his wife and children when he returned, for his business was more important than effeminate affection.

One day, when heading out to oversee the factory, he was approached by the factory’s manager, John Houser, who was hysterical.

“Mr. Tadworth!” he cried. “I’m so sorry, but the workers are striking again! You have to do something! Call the police like last time, or something!”

“John, there’s no need,” Walter smirked. “I can do it myself.”

Walter laughed as he put on his gauntlet, and formed his suit of armor. He flew up into the sky, and looked down upon the striking workers, a disgusting huddled mass of black, brown, and poor white faces. Walter readied a heat seeking missile and launched it into the crowd, instantly killing all the striking workers. He laughed and flew down, kicking the worker’s corpses around. Organized labor would be no more in Tadworth’s new world.

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Dietrich returned to Illinois, where he returned to his laboratory in Urbana, Illinois. He continued to assist his great-nephew, the landlord Andrew Peabody Walker, as well as other Midwestern landowners, such as Raymond Burton, the heir of the Milwaukee Burton fortune. He had to lay low, because of his Nazi past, but he enjoyed living in solitude.

One day, Andrew came to visit him. Dietrich welcomed him into his home and the two sat down for tea.

“How was your trip to Britain, Uncle Derek?” Andrew asked.

“Oh, it was fantastic,” Dietrich replied. “I met some truly great people.”

“That’s good to hear,” Andrew nodded. “Anyways, I have to inform you about something.”

“What is it, boy?” Dietrich asked.

Andrew pulled out a folder from his briefcase, which had several signed forms, along with the picture of an individual.

“My newest tenant is a Jewish man named Elias Demsky,” Andrew began. “Given your history, I wanted to seek out your advice on how to deal with him, for I predict he will be an irresponsible tenant.”

Dietrich looked at the picture of the Jew and fell his heart drop. That awful dark, curly hair, those menacing brown eyes, that gargantuan hooked nose, all looked too familiar to Dietrich. And the name, Elias, was also familiar. This was a true Untermensch, a filthy Juden. It took him back to his days at Buchenwald. He was looking back at the cost of his own immortality.

“This Jew is not like any other Jew,” Dietrich seethed. “We must need a secure contingency plan to truly deal with his evil.”

“What do you mean, Uncle Derek?” Andrew asked.

“He is an adversary from the past,” Dietrich uttered. “We were meant to fight.”

Dietrich shooed Andrew out of his house, and went back to his laboratory, where he studied the chemicals, preparing for his ultimate battle.

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Percy returned to his flat in London, where he was without mission from his superior. He was watching old James Bond movies, admiring the noble misogyny Connery’s Bond showed towards the women in his films. Despite being a subhuman Celt, Percy also admired Sean Connery’s stance on beating women.

There was a knock at Percy’s door. When he answered it was his superior, the Head of MI6, an older man who simply went by the codename A.

“Good afternoon, Percival,” A greeted. “How was your excursion with Lord Rockford?”

“It was fantastic,” Percy replied. “Always good to work with the old man.”

“Hope he’s doing alright,” A said. “Anyways, I’ve got a new mission for you.”

“What is it?” Percy asked.

“Some black girl in the Virgin Islands is accusing Prince Andrew of raping her on Jeffrey Epstein’s island,” A explained. “Now, we cannot have rabble-rousers slandering our Royal Family, can we?”

“Absolutely not,” Percy agreed.

“Very well,” A nodded. “Her name is Portia Hamilton, she’s sixteen years old and lives in Road Town. She needs to be silenced at once. Are you available right now?”

“Of course,” Percy declared. “Anything for my country.”

Percy packed up some of his belongings and left with A, ready to perform his patriotic duty.

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Bill leaned back in his seat. He was on a flight to Japan, a country he had yet to brave. He had read stories about Dutch traders who had travelled to the island, and fantasized about all the virgin Japanese pussy they got when they came in to port.

When the plane landed at Tokyo Haneda Airport, he got off, with absolutely no luggage. He really enjoyed experiencing new countries without much preparedness, as it made the journey all the more exciting. When he arrived at the main lobby of the airport, there was a young Japanese woman in a flight attendant’s uniform, who was greeting all the tourists who came in. Bill’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull when he noticed the woman had massive breasts, barely contained by her tightly buttoned shirt. Bill’s hooligan brain was overcome with testosterone, making him extremely horny.

“Welcome to Japan,” the Japanese woman said in broken English with a jarring Asiatic accent. “Do you need any help, kind tourist?”

“Oppai ga hoshi!” Bill screamed, burying his face in the woman’s chest. She screamed and slapped him. This slap, of course, only angered Bill, and he grew in size, becoming the Orange Man in the middle of Haneda Airport. The woman screamed and ran, and Bill took chase.

“DEJIMA!” Bill screamed. He charged forward, like a kaiju of Japan’s bizarre cinema, and caused much destruction in the city of Tokyo.

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Peter and Eugene continued their journalistic careers. Peter went back to the Daily Mail, where he continued to publish intellectual anti-Ireland pieces, such as calling for a hard border with the Republic of Ireland, specifically a brass wall, as well as the implementation of Catholic internment camps in Ulster, citing their terroristic threat. Eugene, on the other hand, joined a new publication, a prestigious American magazine called Delaware, which was the leading publication of the anti-Hispanic current, a movement founded by self-critical Hispanic Americans who found that Hispanic and Latin cultures are incompatible with Western Enlightenment values. Though both were ethnically inferior to the Anglo-Teutonic Patriots, they were the smartest of their kinds, for they knew their place in the world.

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Julia, like the filthy traitorous whore she was, moved to Dublin with Liam, the Irish terrorist brute, and the two even began DATING. It was a horrendous display of miscegenation, for even though she had betrayed her kind, she was still a pure white Englishwoman, but her red blood would be tainted by the green sewage that ran within Hibernian scum, creating a bloodline of horrific mutants that were already too common in the British Isles. The worst part was that Julia did this of her own volition, and was not commanded to do so by a superior.

Julia joined Liam and several of his vile republican comrades in organizing a memorial to Bhivan. The Catholic Taliban radicals drew parallels between the selfish struggles of the Irish and the Indians against noble and beneficial British rule, and falsely claimed that Bhivan was an “innocent” life, taken by a “ruthless bigot” like Lord Rockford. The truth was that they were the bigots, and Lord Rockford was the most noble man in the world. After the memorial, the degenerates went to a pub and toasted to Bhivan’s memory. This disgusting drunken display of praising violence was appreciated by the rest of the savages in the pub, and many vulgar rebel songs were sung that night, tasteless songs about bitches and blow, that slandered the good patriots in the colonial British army.

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Once the rest of the Patriots were settled back into their normal lives, Lord Rockford secretly managed to retrieve the remains of one Cecil Graves from the Wayne County Police Department, and made a clandestine voyage into the wilds of the former Rhodesia, with the help of several white Afrikaner mercenaries. He arrived at the former Graves farmstead, which was now owned by a dreaded black Zimbabwean named Ruckus Mutsweka. When talking to this Ruckus, he was surprised that he was accepting of interring Cecil’s remains at the farmstead.

“Mr. Mutsweka,” Lord Rockford began. “You understand who Mr. Graves was, correct?”

“Why yes, I do,” Ruckus replied, in a hideous Bantoid babble. “I honestly miss the days of Rhodesia, funny enough. Sure, it was not great for black people like me, but Mugabe ran this country’s economy into the ground. Also, I am Shona, and I absolutely hate the Ndebele, so what the Graves family did to Ndebele here does not affect me in the slightest.”

“I see,” Lord Rockford uttered. He and his group of mercenaries proceeded to dig a grave for the late Cecil, burying him and reading him his funeral rites.

“Now, Mr. Mutsweka, I hate to entrust a negroid like you with guarding a white hero’s grave, but please, can you make sure that your socialist government doesn’t defile his resting place?”

“Of course, I will, sir,” Ruckus nodded. “But he shall only rest momentarily. Like the old song said, Rhodesians never die.”

“Good day to you then.” When Ruckus left, Lord Rockford laid down a rifle on Cecil’s grave, the same rifle he had used to attempt to slay the terrible black dictator of America, Barack Hussein Obama. Lord Rockford tipped his hat to the grave before commanding his men to head out, retreating to parts unknown. As he left, a great thunderstorm began to form in the sky. The ground began shaking, and in a flash, lightning struck Cecil’s rifle.

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It was 8:30 am on a Saturday morning in Miami. Connor Hughes had already awoken at 5:30. Though he did not work today, he still liked to maintain a rigid routine. He had dressed himself in boxers, basketball shorts, and a 1980s Metro-Dade Police T-shirt, honoring the old law enforcement of his city. He ate a breakfast of oatmeal and orange juice. The oatmeal was too sugary for him, and the orange juice had too little pulp for his tastes. After this, he went to brush his teeth, spending a good five minutes scrubbing away until his gums were bleeding.

Connor was currently watching the news, where he heard about a breaking event in London, where several enhanced individuals subdued a glowing blue giant. The blue giant had destroyed the Rockford Hotel, and its owner, the Right Honourable Lord George Henry Rockford was a suspect in the murder of one Bhivan Singh, a British Indian social worker.

“That is highly illogical,” Connor scoffed, eating his soggy oatmeal. “It’s probably visual effects, like the plotline in one of my favorite Disney properties, Spider-Man: Far From Home (2019, directed by Jon Watts).”

The news report went on to discuss Lord Rockford’s charity, the Rockford Caretaking Foundation, and some of its associates. There was famous rock star Lance D’Arcy, who Connor remembered as a liberal icon who preached empty leftist platitudes. However, there was Walter Francis Tadworth, the CEO of Tadworth Technologies, formerly known as Tadworth’s Toy Factory. Connor remembered thoroughly enjoying Tadworth Toys when he was a child, and almost felt a bit emotional that the company was moving into more mature business forays as he progressed into adulthood. It was almost like his favorite company was growing up with him. Of course, he was stuck at Wellington-Schmidt Bookseller Company, which he believed was a failing business, with the Miami branch in particular being run by boorish ingrates like Frank Giordano and Antonio Rodriguez. Sighing, he went online and began to compose an email to Tadworth Technologies, inquiring about an accounting position within their company, and attached his resume to the email. Whatever would get him out of this liberal Latin hellhole of Miami, he was willing to strive for. It would be a change in routine, but he would be making the American Dream come true, and doing his patriotic duty.

FIN