But You’re White! Don’t You Want to Preserve Our Heritage?

Sneak preview of my dystopian thriller/paramilitary TEOTWAWKI novel.




It was determined some years ago that 0300 was the ideal time to raid a home.
That was when normal people enjoyed their deepest sleep. They would be slower to wake. When they did wake, they’d be disoriented for a few crucial moments.
The assault transports, which looked like unmarked SWAT vans, rolled up on the gate at 0245. The gate was simply a cable hanging across the driveway, suspended from trees on either side. Hanging from the cable was a metal sign which read: “NO TRESSPASSING.” An officer hopped down from the van, unhitched the cable and let it fall across the road, taking no small satisfaction that the sign would be run over by multiple vehicles momentarily. He jumped back into his seat and the small convoy rolled onto the rough snow-covered dirt drive.
The DomTer’s house was a ways up the mountain from the road, and isolated enough that it made surprise more difficult than normal. The sound of engines straining to pull heavy vehicles up the steep drive could potentially give warning to the perps. Helicopters would be faster to put boots on the ground, but were even louder than their assault transports. Helicopters were also of limited availability, and in high demand these days. In any event, somebody high up had decreed this operation go in on wheels.
The assault transports and the supporting armored vehicle and communications van arrived at the end of the drive at 0303. Doors flew open and a full platoon of federal agents burst out of the transport to deploy.
It was supposed to be an especially cold winter this year, and up here it already was. Thick white clouds hung overhead, threatening more snow any time now. Their black uniforms stood out in stark contrast to the white landscape.
All was quiet. No lights were on. Good–likely the perp was still asleep or only just stirring–if he heard the truck engines at all. Either way, there was nothing he could do now that wasn’t suicidal.
Satellite imagery of this property hadn’t been a terrific help, as the buildings were well-camouflaged. It took a few confused moments for the agents to locate the house–a dome-shaped structure back in the trees.
Funny though—no sign of the dogs. They’d been worried that shooting them would also tip off the perp prematurely, but that seemed to be a non-issue. Everything was working out in their favor today.
The breech team went forward, bristling with weapons, explosives, armor and night vision devices. The blocking team circled around to close off any escape routes in back. The other teams dispersed to search the barn, sheds, and the rest of the property. The breach team leader got confirmation via his radio headset that the blocking force was in place. His team stacked on the front door, primed and chomping at the bit. The ram was passed forward.
The two agents closest to the door swung the ram back, then forward with all their strength, at the door.
The door didn’t give way, but they never had a chance to wonder why, or batter at it a second time.
From a distance the explosions didn’t seem that impressive. There was no fireball, and though the blasts all occurred simultaneously, the report was loud but not ear-splitting.
Up where the breach team stood, however, it was hell on Earth for a split second that would forever alter their lives permanently…and end some of them.
Big bore armor-piercing rounds tore through them from the front, sheering the bone of one agent’s arm, passing between armored sections of another and punching through his torso. But the worst of it was underneath them.
The very ground they stood on erupted. White-hot shrapnel streaked upward all over the kill zone. It ripped through boot soles and feet, through legs, buttocks, and at angles through their bodies, blowing tunnels through vital organs allegedly protected by their state-of-the-art body armor.
Other blasts sounded around the property as agents evidently stepped on mines or tripped booby-traps.
The commander, sitting in the passenger seat of the communication van, surveyed the scene in wide-eyed horror. “Ambush!” he cried. “It’s an ambush!”


Jimmy and Bill stopped by the game warden’s office, went through the usual routine, then headed for their favorite diner with the eight-point white tail gutted and wrapped in a tarp in the back of Jimmy’s pickup.
At the diner, the two ravenous hunters ordered coffee and lunch.
Jimmy and Bill knew each other from high school, but hadn’t been especially close friends. After 9/11 Bill joined the Marines and Jimmy became a medic in the Army. After returning home they ran into each other at the V.A. Since agonizingly long waits were standard at veteran’s hospitals, they had plenty of time and nothing better to do than talk.
It turned out they had a lot in common. Both liked to hunt. Both were firearms enthusiasts. Both were disillusioned about the “war on terror.” Neither of them liked the way V.A. doctors were trying to classify them as PTSD. Nor did they like nurses and doctors asking them if they owned firearms. And both were pissed off about what was happening to their country.
A strong friendship developed after that, and many of their conversations centered around speculations on what kind of country America was going to be in a few more years, how the transformation might take place and what, if anything, they could do about it.
They hunted together; went to the range together; introduced girlfriends; invited each other over for Superbowl parties. Now and then one of them met others who shared a lot of their concerns over the state of the Union. Sometimes those others made it a habit to join them at the range and at bull sessions in the diner. Sometimes they brought wives and/or sons. A few times they asked Bill to talk about what he’d done and seen in the Sandbox. He obliged by explaining small unit tactics at length. A few quizzed Jimmy on combat medicine, and techniques he’d used in Ass-Crackistan. A lot of those folks bought weapons and gear, showing it off to the two veterans, or sometimes seeking advice and approval before buying. All of them bought ammunition with every available dollar, including Jimmy and Bill.
When the two friends entered the diner, they left their cellphones in the truck–even though both phones were rooted, and they had removed the hidden backup batteries which allowed third parties to remotely turn the microphones on.
As they discussed the hunt, the buck, and what Jimmy would do with the hide, the meat, and the antlers, a Toyota Titan swung into the parking lot and pulled up right next to the GMC. They sat facing each other in the booth, but both noticed the new arrival through the window.
Arden Thatcher exited the Toyota’s cab and wandered up to lean over and look into the bed of the GMC, flipping up the tarp to snoop under it. He was a little below average height, thin and bowlegged, but compensated with cocky swagger for what he lacked in stature. With clod-kickers, a cowboy hat and a Rebel flag on his Levi jacket, he was the poster boy for Texas rednecks.
Arden had come upon Bill engaged in a conversation with some other folks at a survival expo, and jumped right in. He talked like a gun enthusiast, who hated the present administration. After that first meeting he bumped into one or the other of them by coincidence–like the way he just happened to show up at the diner just now.
Jimmy and Bill watched him turn from the GMC and saunter toward the diner’s front entrance.


Arden Thatcher didn’t leave his smartphone in the truck. Nor had he taken it apart and removed the hidden backup battery. He stepped inside the diner and swept his gaze over the patrons until he found Jimmy and Bill. Jimmy was dark-haired, with a big crooked nose. Bill was a redhead with Scotch-Irish features. Both still wore woodland cammies with matching baseball caps.
Arden smiled and nodded before heading their way.
Jimmy nodded back. That was a good sign. Maybe they were warming up to him. They still hadn’t invited him to go shooting with them or otherwise hang out with their local gang.
He felt sure he could earn their confidence in time.
“Hey Jimmy,” he said. “Howdy Bill. Mind if I pull up a chair?”
“Howdy Arden,” they mumbled, neither of them scooting over to make room on their booth seat.
Arden found an unoccupied chair at a nearby table and slid it over to sit perpendicular to the two veterans. “About due for a bad winter, I hear.”
Jimmy and Bill nodded, chewing their food.
“Who bagged the eight-pointer?” Arden asked.
Bill chinned toward Jimmy, who grinned. “We knew it would be winner-take-all,” Bill said. “That first shot would scatter all the game for 20 grid squares.”
“I hear the mating cry of the sore loser,” Jimmy remarked, smirking.
“Grid squares,” Arden repeated. “Does that mean you had a military topo map of the area?” He seemed to be a little proud that he knew about military grid, and had shown them he knew his stuff.
“Naw, USGS,” Bill said, blowing on a spoonful of soup. “Gotta use latitude, longitude and minutes. It’s just habit to think in military grid.”
“Oh,” Arden said.
Silence fell over the table for a moment. The waitress came over and asked Arden what he’d like. He ordered a cup of coffee and a slice of cherry pie.
“Y’all hear this latest thing about the illegal aliens?” Arden asked.
Both men grumbled in the affirmative.
“More and more people are rejecting the mass media brainwashing,” Jimmy said, finishing off his enchilada. “The globalists have to bring in more illegals to cancel out their votes.”
“Ain’t enough that the sheeple get to vote five or six times every election,” Bill added.
“Elections are a total sham anymore,” Jimmy said. “And what choice do we get every time? Communist or Communist Lite.”
“Tastes great!” Bill blustered, drunkenly.
“Less filling!” Jimmy blustered back, pounding his fist on the table and adding a hiccup for effect.
Arden’s coffee arrived and he took a big gulp, oblivious to the once-famous beer commercial referenced. “It ain’t just about elections,” he said. “It’s genocide against white Europeans.”
Jimmy and Bill both raised their eyebrows, shared a glance and looked back to Arden.
“Genocide?” Jimmy asked.
“Sure,” Arden replied. “It don’t always take gas chambers—if that even happened. They’ll breed the white outa’ the world if they have to. The whole country’ll be one shade a brown or ‘nother, it keeps goin’ the way it is now.”
“What ‘they’ are you talking about?” Jimmy asked.
“You know,” Arden said. “The NWO. ZOG, or whatever you wanna call ’em.”
“NWO are lily-white Europeans themselves,” Bill said. “Why would they want to ‘breed out’ their own race?”
Arden shook his head. “Most of ’em are Jews. Don’t you know that? Besides, even the ones that are truly white protect their own blood lines. They just want the rest of us to lose our racial purity.”
Jimmy fidgeted, visibly uncomfortable. “What is ‘ZOG,’ anyway?”
“Zionist Occupational Government,” Arden explained. “Our government is controlled by the Israelis. Ain’t it obvious?”
Bill set his coffee cup down, leaned back in his seat, and wiped his face with a napkin, exchanging another glance with Jimmy. “Arden,” he said, “We got nothin’ against you. But it’s fairly plain there’s some matters we don’t see eye-to-eye on. If you’re lookin’ for like-minded people to hang out with, you should go on and look somewhere else.”
Arden looked crestfallen, his jaw slack. “What? What’s the matter?”
“Nothing’s the matter,” Jimmy said. We believe what we believe. You’ve got different opinions, and you’re welcome to them. We’d prefer not to argue with you or anybody who believes like you do. We just want to do our own thing.”
“What are you?” Arden demanded, blushing. “Jew lovers?”
Maybe Jimmy was a Jew. He sure did have a big nose. The dark hair might mean he had a Mex somewhere in his family tree. Arden had determined to let that slide. But if they were going to cop an attitude just because he was fed up with the Z.O.G…
“No offense, Arden,” Bill said, staring hard into Arden’s eyes. “But it’d be best for everybody all around if you just left us alone.”
The waitress arrived with the slice of pie. Jimmy smiled at her and said, “If you would, please, serve that to him at a different table.”


Many miles away in a secure commo room, Jason Macmillan, along with the comm tech on monitoring duty, sat listening to the conversation via the microphone in Arden Thatcher’s cellphone.
McMillan’s power and fortunes had increased significantly over the last 20 years. Too bad his health hadn’t prospered proportionately. He had most of the ailments common to men in their middle age now, including a degree of obesity, high blood pressure, and erectile dysfunction. What hair hadn’t fallen out all turned gray. But people respected him more than ever. He had the power to step on just about anybody from 95% of the population, should he need to. And even if he retired today, he’d be set to live comfortably for the rest of his life. Not that he wanted to retire. Ever.
Macmillan tore off his headset and swore. “More candy-asses,” he declared, shot to his feet, and marched to the door. He turned back to tell the comm tech, “They wouldn’t even let him eat a slice of pie at their table. When he gets far enough away, tell that stupid redneck the assignment is terminated.”
“Should he report to his handler for a new assignment?” the comm tech asked.
“No. Let him cool his heels for a while. Tell him we’ll be in touch if another assignment comes along.”
“Yes sir,” the comm tech said, and Macmillan shut the door.
Macmillan cussed under his breath as he made his way to his own office-away-from-home. They had wasted months working their informant into the confidence of that DomTer cell, and Thatcher blew it over the course of a few minutes.
Every potential target city had its challenges. Around Amarillo it was infiltrating the organized groups. Not the racially motivated gangs–those were easy, and conventional departments already had informants planted. But the groups that posed a real threat were proving tough nuts to crack.
The problem this time was, Thatcher had a long enough leash to improvise. But he wasn’t smart enough to improvise. He didn’t know the marks as well as he should have. Plus he actually believed in all that Jewish conspiracy business; so he assumed others would, too.
Macmillan didn’t care whether there was a Jewish conspiracy or not. It didn’t change the parameters of his job. But it occurred to him how he might be able to turn Thatcher’s belief in it from a liability into an asset. He would work on it with the handler before they attempted to give Thatcher another assignment.


Chapter 2

House of the Rising Sun/Land of the Impending Wrath

We warned you that Virtual Pulp is more free-wheeling than before.

We pose the following questions:

Are Democrats really “liberal?” Or are they socialists?

Are establishment Republicans (RINOs, NeoCons) fundamentally different from the Democrats?

How intelligent is the average Obamunist?

Was the 2012 election legitimate?

Where is our nation going?

Remember The Animals’ cover of “House of the Rising Sun?”

If you’ve never entertained any of those questions…you might after watching this video.

A Right-Winger’s Adventures in Welfareland

All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.
George Orwell, Animal Farm

In 1992, I ended a promising Navy career in order to be with my wife, who had refused to move to my next duty station. After a few blissful months of loving togetherness, she blindsided me with a divorce and I found myself marooned in one of the last places I wanted to be: the San Francisco Bay Area—the Land of Flakes, Fruits, and Nuts. Yes, they are just as crazy as they seem on TV. There’s a reason Nancy Pelosi keeps getting reelected.

As a newly created single father in a land where a $16 an hour job paid $7 an hour and a $45,000 house cost $175,000, I had to pull a rabbit out of my hat, and fast. Out of options, I swallowed my pride, asked my family for help and moved back to my home state where I enrolled at the main campus of the state university. Between my GI Bill and some educational grants, my son and I were able to make it, though it was a mighty struggle.

After a few months, something bizarre happened. My family insisted that I apply for welfare. Now, this was wildly out of character because in my family we had always considered nothing to be skeezier, slimier, more contemptible, and just plain parasitic than someone who went on welfare. I refused on principle, but they used Kryptonite on me: my son. My pride, it seems, was causing my child to suffer unnecessarily. I protested that it would be futile anyway because there was no way an able-bodied white male was going to be allowed on the dole in order to attend college. “Nonsense,” they said. “Single mothers go to college on welfare all the time. They can’t turn you down. It would be discrimination.”

Yeah, right.


So, I began my experience in the previously unknown Tenth Circle of Dante’s Hell—the welfare office. I really stood out, there. The only other white person was a morbidly obese woman accompanied by a small army of mulatto children. Being that we were in the Southwest, everyone that worked there wanted to speak to me in Spanish. When I requested to be addressed in English, there was much eye-rolling and exasperated sighing. Eventually, the paperwork was done and we sat in the waiting room, an incongruous blue-eyed blond-haired pair in a hostile sea of brown eyes and black hair.

After an eternity, my name was called by my assigned caseworker, a stunningly attractive Latina with a penchant for skintight western-style clothes. We exchanged a few pleasantries as I settled in my chair, then she got down to business. “You’re not eligible.”

“Could you at least read my paperwork first?” I suggested.

“Doesn’t matter. You’re not eligible.”

There was no swaying her so I returned to the waiting room to explain to my son that we would continue to struggle. As we were talking, the caseworker stepped out of her office and saw us. After a brief hesitation, she walked over and asked, “Is this your son?” I admitted that he was and she engaged him in a brief conversation. When she was done, she said, “Come back to my office.” I did and, wham-bam, within a few minutes I—the welfare state’s greatest enemy—was a burden on society. I was allotted a generous amount of food stamps. She apologized that it wasn’t more.

welfarequeenA strange thing happened. At first, I followed my usual food budget and leftover food stamps started piling up. Already corrupted into thinking like a welfare bum, I began to worry that they might be tracked and that I would lose some of my allotment if it didn’t seem like I needed them. So, I bought meat. A lot of meat. We had steak three times a week on average. Up until then we had been eating only a pound of hamburger per week. The food stamps were still piling up so I started buying name brands instead of store brands and bringing home a lot of treats.

Meanwhile, an even stranger thing happened. The checks started coming. Checks for benefits that I hadn’t applied for. I called my caseworker to report the mistake and she told me, “It doesn’t matter. You’re entitled.” So, I deposited the checks. Eventually, a check arrived that was an energy assistance subsidy for heating and cooling costs. This was certainly a mistake because all my utilities were paid by my landlord. So, I called my caseworker again and was told, “It doesn’t matter. You’re entitled.” She then told me to stop bothering her and I did.

Now, I wasn’t getting the full welfare ride that some people get. Nonetheless, it was a cozy existence. I’ve never lived more comfortably with less stress in my life. All I had to do was go to school and do my single-dad thing. This continued until I remarried and my new wife’s income bumped me into ineligibility.welfare

The experience taught me a few things. First, white men aren’t supposed to get public assistance, they’re supposed to pay for other people’s public assistance. Second, welfare corrupts quickly and stifles initiative and self-responsibility just as fast as right-wing “racists” say. Third, the welfare system is as bloated, insane and arbitrary as it seems. Fourth, if you’re getting the full ride and still live in squalor, that’s on you. In fact, I recently read a report revealing that a job had to pay at least $50,000 a year just to break even with the full ride. In other words, if you can’t live a comfortable life on the full ride, you’re an incompetent idiot.

Just for the record, I’ve long since paid back all my benefits with the confiscatory taxes that I pay.

The World Through Pinko-Tinted Glasses

Nothing is more fun than trying to find logic in a neo-Marxist’s rhetoric, right? I never heard of Wordsmouthwick Court before, but the blogger had some astute summaries of assumptions made by the typical leftard (read that: “liberal” if you don’t care what words mean). Here are some I found worthy of comment:

Humans in the past were on average more stupid and ignorant than at any point later.

Yup. Talk to any leftard and you’ll find out that the present day (whether you talk to them today or 40 years from now) is the pinnacle of human intellect and everything there is to understand about science, for instance, is known (by the people who publish scholastic textbooks, at least). The higher literacy and academic savvy in generations past proves they were dummies compared to us—just look at how much tax revenue gets flushed down the bureaucratic toilet spent on education now, versus those dark days. That is proof that we are smarter.

Education can solve all social issues.

And by “education” they mean state-controlled compulsory indoctrination/socialization that requires more money than the astronomical amount paid the year before…and every year since they began turning America into the academic laughingstock of the world.

Carbon Dioxide being released in to the atmosphere is always very bad and very serious.

Right. Because plants need it. And plants are bad for the environment. Photosynthesis contributes to global warming. The science is settled.

All religions are or have been equally violent.

If you ever pay attention during debates, aitheists/Darwinists will attack Biblical Christianity by attributing to it the track record of other religions. And sooner or later, the following assertion will surface:

Christianity was made up as a tool to control people with.

Which, if true, and given their fetish for controlling people, should make it their favorite institution.

Men and women are easily interchangeable.

Except in entertainment, where women are obviously superior…and yet victims at the same time.

If a corporation is big, it is doing something evil.

Unless Democrats voted to bail it out with money extorted from the proletariat (taxpayers), and said corporation shovels contributions back into Democrat coffers.

Government is very much less corruptible/evil than business is, if at all.

Because all the nice people go into politics, while all the mean people go into business. Earning money=bad. Confiscating/wasting other people’s money=good.

Terrorism is caused by the US and UK bullying and policing other countries.

Well, to be more accurate, all the problems in world history have been caused by the USA.

All music and art have equal value.

But some is more equal than others. Just ask the anti-puppies (during the B Phase of their self-contradicting tirades).


Nice (BETA) Guys Finish Last…But Society Grants Approval

…But is that “attaboy” of societal approval much of a consolation prize? Watch the two excerpts in this clip:

The first guy did everything our feminized society tells us a man is supposed to do to keep a “good” woman. What is his reward for all the sacrifice and servicing of the woman on his pedestal? You red-pillers know all too well: she got bored, contemptuous, and found excuses to dump him. “All his cooking made me get fat!”

That’s what happens to chumps. But at least you have the approval of a TV judge, huh?

I don’t watch TV, unless it’s a show on Netflix or Amazon Instant Video. I’ve certainly never wasted my time watching court shows, except when I’m in a waiting room. So I don’t know the story of the second couple. Maybe the guy is a scumbag—I never heard the particulars of what he did or didn’t do. But he’s an alpha dog, and that alone was probably enough to prejudice this TV judge against him.

Exhibit C–another “strong independent womyn” who grew contemptuous of her beta provider:

And again, the simp earns the approval of society. Go let yourself be taken advantage of by the next entitled princess and flush another few years of your life down the toilet. Maybe she’ll turn out to be “the one.” Or maybe the entitled, egotistical shrew after her.

Exhibit D: “That Guy.”

This guy obviously let himself go physically, emotionally and mentally.

At least he’ll be able to see his kids, sounds like. Trouble is, observing their weak beta provider father get walked all over as they grow up is going to damage his kids anyway.

Memorial Day – the Unmemorable Movie

Memorial Day opens with Kyle Vogel stateside, going to visit his grandfather, a holstered Walther P-38 in hand. From there we flash back to Iraq in 2005, with SSgt Kyle Vogel’s squad encountering an IED. Then we flash back even further to 1993, when a young Kyle discovers his grandfather’s footlocker full of souvenirs from WWII.
Kyle strikes a bargain with the WWII veteran: He will select three items from the footlocker, and his grandfather will tell him the story behind them.
Not a bad way to spend Memorial Day. Not a bad gimmick to juxtapose soldier’s stories from World War Two and Gulf War Two, either. Loaded with potential, in fact.

For a low-budget film, the producers managed to round up some nice costumes and props, as well as a name actor and his son (to play the grandfather “Opaw” as a young soldier). A good flick could have been made with what they had to work with. Maybe even a great one. It’s been done before and could have been done this time. Overcoming the budget constraints would have been possible, but the film makers seem, to me, to be stuck in the “B” movie mindset. Or maybe that’s all they’re capable of.
First off, they desperately needed a competent technical advisor. This was obvious from the first scene in Iraq and only became more painful as the flashbacks mounted. But that’s not the only aspect of the film that grew increasingly tiresome.  Add the acting, writing and direction to that abominable snowball.
The director really wanted to make this a sentimental tearjerker, but fell on his cinematic face. The movie has a lot of positive Amazon reviews, and I have no explanation for that. I found all the hamfisted dramatic contrivances so inept that it took what remaining discipline my crotchety old civilian self still has to watch it all the way through.
This might be a Hallmark Movie Channel late night special some day, but even if it isn’t, I advise against paying money to watch it.

By Men, For Men, About Men

Maybe some of you have noticed we’re much more free-wheeling at VP than we used to be. We still aren’t intentionally offensive, but we don’t worry about offending anymore, either. There is a growing subculture that makes a lifetime hobby (or profession, in some cases) of finding excuses to be offended. Such individuals were never part of our target audience, nor will they ever be.

Virtual Pulp never was intended to be all things to all people.

With that in mind, I thought it was time to reassess our “mission statement,” and here’s what I came up with:

Virtual Pulp began as an intended second advent of pulp fiction/men’s adventure in an electronic format–somewhat motivated by the quixotic desire to lure men away from internet porn and the Breast Cancer Awareness, Pro-Homosexual, Anti-Gun Football League (called “NFL” for short), back to the written word.

That’s still part of what we’re about, but we’re in an ongoing process of removing self-imposed restrictions.

In our fiction, we don’t merely duplicate the material we enjoyed as boys and young men. Our efforts concentrate on retaining the attractive elements (namely action, adventure, and larger-than-life characters) while perfecting the weak links in much pulp and men’s fiction in years gone by (plotting, character development, accuracy in details, etc.). Our fiction also provides readers a respite from the obligatory feminist tropes and typical left-wing bias which permeates nearly every form and item of entertainment available today. (Available anywhere else, that is.)

We’re expanding into some non-fiction and even videos. But in addition to generating our own material, we’re always on the lookout for those diamonds in the rough…and of course we share our findings with those of similar tastes–mostly through this blog.

We’ll be putting that on the “About Us” page.

Our freedoms are being stolen from us. But while we still have them, we’re going to use them. In a perfect world, there would be no politics, no evil to point out and no sides to take. We won’t pretend to live in such a world.


Mad Maxine and the Culture War

Andrew Klavan has weighed in on the destruction reboot of Mad Max. The reaction to this flick could be fairly summed up as “A Tale of Two Worldviews.”

It would appear that the $200 million social conditioning tool is flopping—actually being outperformed by the sequel to some heretofore forgettable chick-flick about a singing group. (There must be some blog-worthy irony in a Grrrl Power flick targeted at guys losing out to a Grrrl Power flick for girls, but I’ll let somebody else report on that.)

However, if you perform an Internet search, you’ll find all the “mainstream” (left-wing) sources claiming that Max is strong at the box office. “Nyah-nyah! In your FACE, all you misogynistic naysayers! Your Y-Chromosome Ilk are falling for the brilliant bait-and-switch all according to plan!”

Andrew Klavan brings up a point that is related to part of Virtual Pulp’s mission (contesting the left’s monopoly on the culture):

As long as you conservatives stay on the sidelines, the left will win the culture and the culture wars.  As long as you refuse to build a critical and award-giving infrastructure to celebrate great liberty-loving works, as long as you praise only G-rated films while watching the R-rated ones in secret, as long as you dismiss freedom-supporting art because it’s naughty or contains violence and sex or four-letter words or sympathetic gay characters…

Boy, Klavan was really going in! Then he had to slip in the obligatory “gay” element.  Sorry Andrew: you can sneak mushrooms, onions, and even hot sauce into my bowl and, if the stew was tasty enough to begin with, I’ll dodge my spoon around those unwanted ingredients. But when you plop in steaming heaps of dogshit, I not only won’t eat the stew (or drink the Kool-Aid), but I will no longer trust the cook, either.

…or whatever makes you wrinkle your righteous little nose — as long as you do those things, the left will continue to use the culture to eat away the free earth beneath your feet.

And now Klavan has sufficiently recovered from his Pavlovian pander to the pervert lobby. His sights swing back on the target and he mauls it with a sledgehammer:

The results are already plain to see. Only a nation in which the left had monopolized the arts for 50 years could have elected a mean-spirited little anti-American incompetent like Barack Obama to the presidency while honestly believing him a messiah bringing Hope and Change. Only a nation that has been taught to believe what Shelby Steele calls “poetic truth” over actual truth could make that stupid a mistake. We learned to believe the Obama mythology at the movies.

For decades, feministas and white knights have been slipping their amazon superninja fantasies into action adventures. To a large degree, this has had the desired effect. More men have been assimilated into white-knighthood and the ridiculous ideas planted into the subconscious from entertainment have convinced people, for instance, that women in the military—even in the combat arms—is a great idea.

But this isn’t enough. Now the cultural programmers are trying to take it a step further. They’re gonna take an iconic hero, put his name on the marquis to draw fans in, then shove him to the sidelines to showcase the amazon superninja trope that they really care about, mix in plenty of explosions as camouflage, and assume you’re too stupid to notice their bait-and-switch.

Movies like this are an attempt at a transition. What they really wish we would do is make blockbuster successes out of overt feminista flicks like Tank Girl, Barbed Wire and Elektra, without needing to be tricked. Until then, though, they’ll hijack the heroic icons that have earned our admiration, to try programming us into liking what they think we should like.

If they had the confidence they pretend (much less some artistic integrity), the Ministers of the Propaganda Corps would come up with their own stories and characters, instead of hijacking, say, a historical figure like Noah to pimp their bankrupt mythologies. Instead they fawn in masturbatory glee over Frank Miller introducing a female Robin, and Marvel giving Thor a sex-change.

What’s sad is, George Miller himself has assimilated to the point that he willingly ruined his own creation in order to prove himself a loyal conformist.

In the past, I might have gone to see the movie anyway, in hopes that something good accidently survived to the final cut.  But the truth is, we’ve all seen this movie a zillion times already, only with different titles, actors, and camera angles. And all the desperate hype from the Marxosphere about how great it is only confirms what we knew well before it was released. Fool me once, Hollywood…

I refuse to pay for a ticket to Fury Road precisely because I am a fan of Mad Max and The Road Warrior.

Looks like some other men are finally wising up, too

Testosterone-Dripping Cover Art

“You can’t judge a book by its cover.” We all know the cliche is true. And yet when we’re browsing for a good book, we forget or ignore that wise adage (I’m including myself here). I’ve made perhaps every mistake an indie author can make in this business, and one of them was publishing a novel with a weak cover design.

Subsequently I learned a few things about Photoshop, and took more time, making the cover better…but it still wasn’t great. Same goes for a few of my e-books.

Recently Virtual Pulp has enjoyed working with Logotecture, who designed the cover for the newest Retreads novel False Flag, and replaced the cover design for the first novel, Hell and Gone.

It's almost a crime to obscure any part of this image with text.
It’s almost a crime to obscure any part of this image with text.

We’ve found them to be accommodating, fast, reasonably-priced…and, best of all, Logotecture does darn good work.

Two decent images were merged and tweaked here to form something flat-out amazing.
Two decent images were merged and tweaked here to form something flat-out amazing.

The paperback version of False Flag will be published soon, and this is what it looks like. You can see they added the barcode already. From the tinting to the font, the designer did it all right the first time with no suggestions from us. He just knew what it should look like.

We are very fortunate to have found Logotecture and can’t recommend them highly enough. Whether you need a cover for a new book, a redesign for an old cover, formatting of a manuscript, banners or advertising art, they’ve got you covered.

Mission Veritas by John Murphy

In the future, the USA and other countries have surrendered their sovereignty to the Global Alliance—which is the puppet organization for E.T. imperialists (the Carthenogens).

Vaughn Killian’s life and parents are part of the collateral damage in the Carthenogens’ brutal occupation of Thailand. A naive teenage gamer when the story begins, he becomes part of the guerrilla resistance in Bangkok, learning to fight and survive on the streets.

Killian is eventually rescued out of there by a Tier-One American unit known as Black Saber. Once stateside he enlists in the regular military and is quickly disgusted by the PC attitude, couch-potato standards, and social engineering purposes of the whole fiasco (pretty much how the Armed Forces are right now, extrapolated a few years forward). Lucky for him, he is offered a chance to qualify for Black Saber.

Black Saber transports him and some other candidates to a planet called Veritas, where they will be evaluated based on their performance during one training mission.


Where this novel really shines is in the characterization. I guess we’ve all seen basic training/academy type movies (most recent in my memory, Ender’s Game had such a segment), and read such stories in books (Starship Troopers had this element) so it’s nothing new. There’s a reason it’s done so often—probably the same reason “reality shows” are so popular: all those different personalities crammed together can generate a whole lot of drama. In this book Murphy exploits that quite well.

There were a few technical details that gave me pause, and I really believe readers would have been happier had Kerrington and a couple other candidates received the dressing-down they deserved after all was said and done.


As a whole, Mission Veritas is far superior to anything the Hugo-nominated authors of the last two decades have foisted on us. It’s nice that the democratization of publishing has allowed entertaining fiction like this to slip past the gatekeepers and into the hands of readers.

Final judgement: A strong start to a military sci-fi series that promises much drama, surprises, and adventure to come