By Billy Roper
I sat reading my military history book quietly, thinking about the impact of the battle of Tours on Western Europe and minding my own business, when a lady walked in who made my day. No, this isn’t that kind of story. I was in a doctor’s office waiting room, doing just that while my wife and the kiddo were finding out how serious his persistent cough was and what modern medicine could do about it, and she was pushing eighty.
She plopped down next to me and picked up two news magazines on the small table between us, both displaying President Trump on the cover. That triggered her.
“You know the news media is all so biased against him, it’s a wonder anybody knows anything any more”, she declared. When I smiled and nodded, saying, “Yes, ma’am, they’re all liberals, aren’t they?”, that was all the encouragement she needed. She cut loose.
“I just love it here, do you know why?” (No, ma’am.)
“Well, let me tell you, I moved here from Atlanta. Have you ever been to Atlanta?” she asked. She looked over the room, judging the people there. Then she went on.
“Yes, ma’am, I have. I guess you felt kind of outnumbered there, huh?” I answered. She was fair complexioned with graying blonde hair and blue eyes. She nodded and grinned, winking at me. A finger wagged my way.
“You know when I called the realtor here after I found a little house on four and a half acres that I could afford on Zillow, I asked them, you know, if this place was MULTICULTURAL.” I grinned back, shaking my head. “They’re really not supposed to say that, you know, but the girl kind of paused and then said “Not really”. I knew this was the place for me.”
This was amazing. I told her that was why a lot of people moved here, from both the north and the south, just to be among their own kind. All people naturally wanted to be among their own kind, we both agreed. We had the attention of everyone in the waiting room, by now. Her name was Dorothy. Dorothy did not speak softly.
“My granddaughter is in her twenties. She served a year in Afghanistan in the Army. She came back telling me that the war is not about what we think it’s about, it’s about oil. I told her that there might be a revolution in this country. She said, “Good, we need one!”. She says that she wishes that she could go back in time with me to when I was a girl and we had our own schools, our own water fountains and bathrooms, before…”
(Another lady two rows of chairs away, facing her): “Well, I don’t know about a revolution, more like another civil war, and I can tell you what side I’m gonna be on!”
I noticed that the three other men in the room were staring down at their gun magazines and newspapers grinning like possums, just enjoying hearing it. A couple of other women nodded along. In the corner a County Sheriff’s Deputy sat watching over his shackled female prisoner. He was paying close attention, but didn’t seem to be in disagreement.
“Those paid protesters, they’re just Communists and minorities all trying to destroy America!” she exclaimed. Nobody countered this assertion. The deputy caught my eye, and nodded, then looked back down.
“Well, if those Black Lives Matter folks come here, I’ll run over them. Then I’ll back up just to see what I hit. Whomp, whomp,!” Dorothy imitated the sound of a human speed bump being flattened. The other lady laughed out loud, and the deputy just shook his head, still smiling down at his lap.
One of the men spoke up, a gentleman in his fifties: “There ain’t enough of’em around here to do nothin’. What, one in the Wal-Mart, one at that health food store? You can count’em on one hand in the County!”
Dorothy was unconvinced. “Maybe so, but if they think we’re soft, like a bunch of sheep, and weak, when stuff happens, they might come. When they do, I’ll be ready.” She then proceeded to describe in detail the guns that she had and how often she shot them and what she planned to do when the time came, her and everybody on her road. They’d talked about it.
“I didn’t ever call myself racist, not until this last election, but I reckon I am, now. THEY want to rule over US. THEY want to outnumber US. It’s all a bunch of gimmee, gimmee, gimmee!”
The younger brunette lady across from Dorothy spoke up again. “Me, too, I always voted Democrat until this time, but I just couldn’t. Why, I’d never even heard of that Soros before, but I just couldn’t.”
“I don’t hate nobody,” the baseball capped gentleman added, “but I believe in taking care of my own, and letting others take care of theirs.” Everybody nodded their agreement at that, and he went back to his paper.
It was my turn to help out a bit. “Yes, Sir. But they don’t take care of their own, and they won’t leave us alone. The Mexicans want the whole southwest of the country for their own…”
Dorothy took back over. I let her. “And they’re doing it, too, just like the…the BLACKS are doing in Atlanta. Taking over!” A third of the room had moved to the Ozarks from the deep south. Another third had moved down from northern cities. They weren’t about to argue with her. Then she threw long.
“The way I see it, we’re gonna HAVE to fight, as much as I don’t want it. Us, or our kids and grandkids,” she added.
“By then it might be too late, if we wait that long,” I piled on for good measure, to add to the psychological effect pulling the others along in compliance. They chewed on that.
“I know it. ‘Cause by then, THEY’LL be the majority, and we’ll be done for, unless we just each take a part of the country and go our separate ways,” she went full balkanizer on me. There it was.
I nodded, weighing in my mind how much more the room could take, how much further to push it, what to add, were they ready for the Jewish Question…I didn’t think so, but they were silently in assent that multiracialism had failed, and the sad, inevitable conclusion about to unfold might include civil war and the breakup of America.
Usually I’m the one gently leading people along, helping them say more and more politically incorrect things. I’m the radical flank effect. Me, remember? Not some courageous lady older than my mom. Yeah. She was hard to keep up with. In fact, I’d have had to start sieg-heiling and goose-stepping around right there in the doctor’s office to right wing virtue signal past her.
Even now, I can’t remember how many red pills she plopped out as the whole room listened, spellbound. She had sat her grandson down and told him not wear those pants saggin’, that’s what blacks did in prison to let each other know they were ready and willing to take a man, did he want to take a man that way? One hit after another, I can’t remember them all. They were soaking it up. Heck, so was I. It felt good to be in the damn audience for a change, and feel the waves of it rolling around me. So, this is what it’s like, Well, I’ll be. Huh. It’s been a while.
I kept hoping fervently that my wife would finish up with the doctor and come back out so she could witness this. She’d think I just made it up, I feared. She didn’t. Miss Dorothy got called back to see the nurse before my wife and the kiddo came out. I tried to do her justice in describing the episode, but I felt like I hadn’t done a convincing job explaining the experience. Then, an hour later, we were walking out of the Wal-Mart with the kiddo’s prescription in hand as Dorothy was walking in. We stopped and I introduced her to my family, and there in the center of the Wally World parking lot she vented some more about how rap music is just a drumbeat away from hopping around a fire in a loincloth and all of the Mexicans need to go back whether they were born here or not. Oh, and the Muslims, we had enough problems with the blacks and the Mexicans without letting in those murdering Muslims.
Now, I introduced myself to her by name, and I didn’t see any flicker of recognition in her eyes like I sometimes do when people have heard of me. There was neither the fear that the hand they had just shaken might still have Zyklon B stains on it, nor the awe of being confronted with a small-time celebrity. I’m reasonably confident that she didn’t know me from Adam. So, she wasn’t performing for my benefit. We got the real deal. So did everyone in the doctor’s office, and I’d hazard a guess, so do many of the people whom she encounters.
I’m going to recruit her for The ShieldWall Network.
Her strength of personality, her bold character, and her forthrightness were captivating, not just to me, but obviously to the entire room. It doesn’t matter whether some of them didn’t agree and stayed silent to avoid an argument. If they did, it was nice to be on that side of things, for a change. It doesn’t matter if any of them were red-pilled much, or how deeply the encouragement to be more open and politically incorrect seeped. If they were hostile to White interests, they shut up. And really, that’s all we need them to do, is shut up and get out of our way. They followed the bandwagon effect, because it cuts both ways. I’ve done it. Dorothy did it. You can do it, too.
I’ve written for years about the courage of the little black girl in the pink dress who marched down the street in Selma while White adults cursed at her, compared to the average White man of today who’d rather die than be called a racist. If that offends you, compare your level of testicular fortitude instead to the old White lady I met in the doctor’s office yesterday morning. If, like me, you feel driven to do more for our people because of her example, then Dorothy and I will be content that we did our jobs for the day.