We’ve all daydreamed about the kind of unity and resolve it would take to turn the tide on the refugee hordes in Europe… now comes a serial novel about it all coming true. In “Hailstorm: The Saga of the New SS” I have created a meditation of pure Aryan vengeance in novel form. Follow the path of Karl Delling, American merchant sailor and National Socialist, as he struggles to reform the Hyperborean death-knights of old Wewelsburg in a struggle to purge northern Sweden of the swarthy hordes of Muslim invaders. The story is just beginning, but victory is already written in the stars…
The first Part in this serial novel is available on Amazon. Here is a sample. Support our shared vision of a victorious vengeance.
Part 1: The Frozen River
Karl’s breath billowed in the frost like blasts of steam from an old black-iron locomotive. He smiled as the icicles began forming in his beard. He was the kind of man who loved the cold. He looked forward to his evening walks out in the arctic darkness the way he used to thirst for the sight of land after many long weeks at sea. The cold was a chalice of silence into which Karl was pouring a deep and inadmissible secret. He had sworn an oath to himself to take his first human life this winter. All his years of silent rage were opening up like a womb of wonder. It felt so good to admit the necessity of it all to himself. On these night walks he found respite and solace. He could plan. He could open his heart to the chill it would take to become a merciless death knight of nature’s vengeance in this Christ-softened world of bleating humanitarian sheep.
Karl didn’t think of himself as crazy. His desire to deal death was purely that of a soldier and guardian. The seeds of his burgeoning warrior ethos bloomed deep, like skulls grinning deep in an ancient burial mound. Rivulets of the timeless pagan spirit seeped in like rain to feed the roots at the core of his sense of martial responsibility. He was no longer bound by a meek, apologetic paradigm. His inner growth was aggressive, his stance was bold. Karl exhaled a sigh of relief. What was happening within him was nothing short of…right. Karl gazed up in admiration at Polaris as it blazed white on the black plain of the night sky. The Big Dipper swung at a right angle to it, forming the foremost bent leg of the legendary Germanic swastika. It was the changing, wheeling position of the Dipper throughout the night that had given birth to the feared but misunderstood symbol which Karl held so dear to his heart. Without the sorcery of that solar sigil, Karl would never have found the freedom to become what he now needed to become.
He clenched a sweating fist inside his mitten, shaking hands in a subconscious pact with his inner sense of resolve. It wasn’t a question of “If” but “When.” Karl walked on, relishing the snow-blanket of primordial tranquility. His thoughts swam in the icy calm brought forth by these rare moments of fresh air and reflection. The joy he felt to be out of the house was made so precious and poignant because it took him all day to get to it. As a father of two rampaging toddler-age boys, Karl had nearly forsaken the struggle to think during the day. His sons screamed and chattered, sang and roared through the house with such a stubborn allegiance to chaos that his mind had to lie in wait like a famished hunter, the hunger in its eyes as keen as its stomach was empty.
Everything else had to take a back seat to rearing the boys. The creation of their confidence was his full-time job. It was a lesson Karl was teaching himself. Duty and fatherhood came first. It seemed a shame to crush his sons’ little wild manly spirits at such a delicate, formative age. They could pick up discipline and learn the value of silence later. For now, let their lust for life prevail.
All that said, it was difficult. Karl’s secret burned at his mind. His tethered wrath seethed like a hateful star, radiant and impetuous. By the time he and his wife had finished reading to the boys in bed at night he was like a nocked arrow on a taut bowstring. Karl begrudged the tug of his impatience because he wanted, more than anything, to be a good father.
He never skipped their nightly ritual of listening to the 13th Warrior theme song together. He took the pursuit of consistency to a plateau bordering religious devotion. First they had their song. They held their foreheads together, hands clasped, and sang the melody like a magical incantation to the sun, praying for a surge of its strength. Almost every night, it brought tears welling up in his eyes. Afterwards, it was always time for random questions. Could Frankenstein kill Odin? Do Germans brush their teeth? How many years would it take to grow big as a frost giant? Karl answered them all. No matter how bottomless their pit of curiosity, Karl took it in stride, even if he felt like a corked champagne bottle shaken too early for a party that felt like it would never start.
Life as a wandering deck seaman in the Merchant Marine hadn’t done much to prepare Karl for family life. He was forty now. It had taken almost fifteen years to find his way back to the bastion of his beginnings. He hated to admit it, but the better part of his adult life had been a massive looping detour back to where he started from as a teenager. Before his first wayward underage beer, he had been his small Kansas town’s only Nazi. Karl had been drawn to Hitler and the SS like a jackboot to the ribs of a die-hard Communist. The gravity had been elemental, unexplainable, and utterly undeniable.
It had been Karl’s curse that his fascination with and love for the Third Reich, at that critical age, didn’t have the buoyancy to save him from the flood of youth’s folly. Karl discovered that all it took, for him, was a twelve-pack of beer to become a superman. Before he knew it, booze had become his Fuhrer. His brain went into the pickle jar of self-absorption. He shelved the sacrificial legacy of the SS and picked up his first Jack Kerouac novel. It was wild and full of wanderlust. It enticed with the promise of freedom and rebellion. It made being young seem like the streak of a one-in-a-million shooting star. All of these separate threads had the stickiness of a man-eating spider’s web. Thus Karl was caught and began his fifteen year pursuit after the frayed coat-tails of the absurd Beatnik legend, that indelible cornerstone of cultural Marxism that so wickedly seduced and poisoned the naive American youth with degenerate Jewish ideology.
The irony wasn’t lost on Karl. He liked to think now that he had spent all of those years behind enemy lines, so to speak. In the same way, Hermann the Cherusker had served in the Roman legions before using the military training he had received in Rome to annihilate the invaders later in the battle of the Teutobergerwald. Karl was at peace with his mistakes now. They were hallmarks of his bravery and hammer blows that had hardened his inner steel core.
In the years since he had quit drinking, Karl had only one true regret. His transformation and recovery had turned him into a warrior without a war. His battle with the bottle had been a way to prove his toughness and test his mettle in a paunchy world neutered by pacifist ideology. Karl had slogged through the minefields of degeneracy in a campaign of self-destruction as brutal as the World War II conflict on the Eastern Front. He shelled himself with hangovers. He was stabbed and beaten and his bones were broken. Nothing kept him down or out of the trench for long. The glory of this spectral combat kept him glued to the front lines, a ghost of himself, haunting the craters of an eternally failed offensive into No Man’s Land. His sense of honor craved the bombardment. He felt like he deserved it for what he had become.
Then one day, a decade and a half later, he had woken up, looked down, and saw the blue eyes of his oldest son twinkling up at him, looking for a hero and example. Becoming a father was Karl’s awakening, a cataclysmic blast from the holy 88mm flak cannon of truth. Fuck Jack Kerouac, Fuck Jim Morrison, Fuck Shane MacGowan and all these other drunken superfluous assholes sitting on socially-glorified barstools of fame. How had he idolized such wastrels? How had he fallen so hard for the Marxist siren song? Here, now, looking at his son, this was something real to fight for. The enemy was not himself, it was the International Jew and his minions: every liberal loser and Shabbos goy, and every last destructive, parasitic negroid welfare pet brought in by their malign schemes and immigration policies to degrade and destroy any prospects his white children had for a hopeful future.
Karl had gone spinning back to the swastika like the captain of a ship steering north by the ironclad reliability of the Pole Star. He was tough as nails, now, and he knew better. His immunity against the Jew had become absolute. In the four years since Sigfrid’s birth, he had spent hours uncounted at sea as a lookout to support his family. He had grown keen and vigilant, like Heimdall, the Nordic God-Sentinel who stood as watch-warden over the approach to Bifrost, the mythical Nordic rainbow bridge. The ship he worked on was like an iron cocoon. Karl’s warrior spirit grew its wings there as his old sharpness returned. He was like a twenty year old in a forty year old body. His youth had been robbed, but he relished the motivation he got from feeling like he was running out of time. He had to become relevant and he had to do it fast.
Karl dried out like ironwood and became strong. When he wasn’t lifting weights, he sifted through the growing constellation of National Socialist websites on the Internet, gaining knowledge and gaining ground. His quest to find others like himself obsessed the lonely press of his off-watch hours. He had a hard time forcing himself to sleep. There were so many books to read. It was easy now to find translations of the Reich literature first hand. The morals were hard and eternal. They fed his soul like charcoal heaped on a hot fire.
More than from anything else, Karl took joy in the fact that he wasn’t the only one in the world who felt like World War II wasn’t over with. Looking back, it had been lack of community and support that had led to the downfall of his teenage Nazi revelations. There had been no one to share them with. It had all been ancient history, and it felt like a dead end. Now the story was different. An irrefutable storm surge of white pride and retributive righteousness was rising across Europe and America alike. It shone like the Allfather’s tower of Hlidskjalf, with Odin’s eye, like the beam of a lighthouse, soaring high and white and true over the limitless ocean of Talmudic lies.