The Order: A Drama (Part Eight)

[Douglas Mercer]

Douglas Mercer
February 2 2025

Continued from The Order: A Drama (Part Seven)

Ah, the road to Whidbey Island my brothers, it has been a long one. It is very silent here now, though I know that will soon end. It is now late November 1984 and it has been six days since my narrow escape from the Capri Hotel in Portland. I do not know if I killed the FBI agent or merely wounded him, but they had to know by the way I eluded their grasp that I am not a man to be trifled with.

I am not going into hiding rather I will press the FBI and let them know what it is like to become the hunted. Doing so it is only logical to assume that my days on this planet are rapidly drawing to a close. Even so, I have no fear. For the reality of my life is death, and the worst the enemy can do to me is shorten my tour of duty in this world. I will leave knowing that I have made the ultimate sacrifice to ensure the future of my children and my race.

So wrote I and so I stand by it. I have declared war on the Unite States Of America and have done so in name of my race, the Aryan race. How many plans I had, from bombing dams to obtaining lasers and disrupting power grids, sending billions in false dollars to undermine the currency, assassinations, day light robberies, our perfect paradise in Metaline Falls, once secured, might have become impregnable.

For once we got our security and our footing we would have struck with purpose and precision, leaving nothing to chance. And like a roaming band of Knights we might have roamed the countryside in search or pure justice, striking at will and with impunity. It would have been halcyon and salad days for us; we would pay a monthly salary of 20,000 and an extra 20,000 when a man went on one of our extracurriculars or expeditions as we termed them, let me tell you my brothers once we got everything organized and got smart about it and found the right men—the sky, it was the limit.

***

What we did in Ukiah was a model—we had two men on the inside who informed us what the route would be that the Armored Vehicle would take, the amount of money on board, and what to look for and what to do when we got inside the truck—how to distinguish the bags that contained checks which we did not want from the bags that contained cash which we did. These insiders would also soon provide blueprints of vaults and access to the vaults themselves which we would have used at later date. Had we been able to achieve this we could have executed a robbery just after a large cash shipment had arrived and what we would have hauled in would have made the 3.4 million from Ukiah look like a beggars banquet.

On July 19 1984 eleven men of the sacred group The Order met at sunrise in a motel room in Santa Rosa, California. We were about to make history. What we did that day will certainly be the piece de resistance of the movie they make of us—Hollywood cannot resist that kind of Old West derring do, Cowboys out on day light rides, you know when the guys on horses overtake the stage coach; though I can tell you my brothers nothing is so exhilarating as the real thing.

We left by two and three to board Flat Bed Pick Ups wearing white t-shirts and holding bandanas which would cover our faces----and we were all armed to the teeth, or loaded for bear as my mother was wont to say; pulling out on the road to an objective observer we must have looked like a highly mobile, highly agile and highly nimble, and highly tactical disciplined and steeled army set to roam the countryside in search of prey, and defend and protect the innocent. We drove off like this, in the direction of Ukiah, California, located near the Pacific Ocean about fifty miles north of Santa Rosa.

We had insiders at Brinks so we knew exactly what we were doing. We had it timed perfectly down to the letter. We knew that some twenty minutes behind us was a Brinks truck, a Brinks truck containing the future of our group, containing millions of dollars, real dollars, not the ones that flowed from our counterfeiting machines. Trailing it was a worn down Oldsmobile driven by one of our own, wearing a wig, make up, and female clothing, we had become masters of disguise as was proven by how I had easily I had been able to change my hair to an eerie platinum blonde, making my Donny Osmond smile even more uncanny; and in the future with all our money we would have availed ourselves of plastic surgery and nose reconstructions, made Hollywood look straight laced, as with ever new and proliferating names and new faces branched out from our Earl Turner Fortress and anonymously struck terror in the System, playing a game of catch us if you can.

There would have been no tracking us, no tracing us, no finding us, we would have been an all-powerful and invisible army, acting and then melting into the vast swaths of the American Landscape. It would have been a continual life during war time, and no sooner were we there then we would have danced away, no sooner were we there than we were not there, we would have dressed like students, or housewives, or like Mr. Businessman in a suit and a tie. And no one can fight an enemy they cannot identify or see, a will o the wisp army of Northern Lights which when you reach for it eludes your grasp.

When the Brinks Truck turned off the road and onto a ramp our man in the worn down Oldsmobile said over the Citizens Band Radio the preordained words which were the go signal: Have A Good Day, this being a variant of Have a Nice Day, an insipid phrase which began to sprout up in California some ten years ago, its origin, though shrouded in some mystery, is of course, being Jewish to the core, a phrase meant to weaken the population by its light brained stupidity. I try to imagine my ancestors on the Oregon Trail waking up pre-dawn and telling their confederates to Have A Nice Day but, hell’s bells brothers, I cannot.

This was the signal the men in the pickup trucks (myself included) had been waiting for. At our earlier arrival at the ramp we he had parked our trucks just behind the exit, and several of us got out and began to mill casually about as though we were members of a highway work crew. But when the word came in we got back in our trucks, two in each cab; and others laying flat on the flatbeds. Soon the Brinks truck reached the top of the ramp, its driver stopping to look for traffic; and our stellar brinksmanship was set to commence. As he did our truck careened and headed right for him; my car came up directly alongside it and my passenger held up simple sign the intent of which could not be mistaken: GET OUT OR YOU DIE.

Foolishly the driver of the Brinks Trucked decided to step on the gas, not heeding the message, but his way was forestalled immediately by one or our other trucks the driver of which had positioned the vehicle at a skew angle across the highway, trapping the quarry and neatly boxing it in. From the back of this truck a dozen men armed to the teeth rose in unison, faces disguised by bandanas, leveled all their rifles and let out an unmistakable announcement by means of a single burst of fire. Screeching to a halt the Brinks truck stopped in its tracks.

Two of our men from a latter truck jumped out behind this scene and laid down several tracks of nails across the road to halt passing intruders from our well-choreographed scene. From a third truck I emerged into the always luminous California sunlight wielding my weapon: like Beowulf of old I was ready to slay dragons. With a single well-timed leap I was up on the bumper of the Brinks Truck and leveled my steely blue Aryan eyes at the driver and passenger and then proceeded to fire a single bullet into the window over the heads of the occupants. You can bet at that they surrendered--the message being clear.

A third guard made the mistake of trying to play the hero and picked up her walkie talkie shouting Mayday! Mayday! No sooner were the foolish words uttered than one of our men, so calm that he could crack a joke in the middle of this whirlwind of motion, cut in smoothly saying don’t be doing that on this line Lady. What, are you trying to start a riot? Quickly each guard was hauled out of the truck and were lying face down on the road. An Order member was selected to smile and wave passing cars by on the shoulder, saluting them, I am sure that more than one of the passersby thought that it was a movie scene being filmed. We were California after all, were we not? And so ordered and calm was it that it easily could have passed for a blocked out shot though no director with a bull horn was to be seen.

I got the key from the woman who had made her hail mary outburst and was through the open door. The information we got from our inside men earlier now paid off in spades and we knew which was which and what what, which saved us the time of sorting. Leaving the checks alone I began furiously tossing the bags of cash into the road to my confederates who swiftly loaded them in the flat beds. Leaving the truck and its former occupants behind we all drove off in different directions. Just like that, quicker than you can say Jim Crow, we had just pulled off the largest armored car robbery in American History. We had captured 3.6 million dollars. Which can buy a lot more than an army. It can buy a future, a future in paradise. And the whole thing had taken just five minutes. Hell's bells it was a thing of pure beauty.

***

Assassination of course has become cottage industry in America. In the old days they hacked the noble Caesar to death, and then the traitor Lincoln got his well deserved bullet. Closer to today the Kennedys got their comeuppance, the nigger King was taken out, and Sadat was extinguished for getting in the pig sty with Jews. Even that old coot Reagan had a pot shot taken at him, and when a bullet paralyzed Wallace he turned into a nigger lover though, I suspect, his White racial pride was always only a show.

The say that in this long list the only entertainer who has ever been assassinated is the obviously schizophrenic John Lennon; but if one were being amusing one might say that George Lincoln Rockwell was an entertainer as well, he was after a fashion, but his intent was always as serious as you can get, and that is deadly serious. Whether Alan Berg can rightly be considered an entertainer is questionable; technically the answer is probably yes and it was the erstwhile Beatle who said that Show Business is nothing but an extension of the Jewish Religion, which was very well put indeed.

What Alan Berg was (was!) was a foul mouthed and loud-mouthed Jew who most definitely had it coming. That we were able to do the honors and perform the rite in the Sacred Grove is something which we all very are proud of. What Alan Berg was was an ugly and sickly Jew, who chain smoked, and took to the radio and aired his foul opinions to infect the minds of the population. Naturally as a Jew his principle and primary target was the Aryan Race and racists and hate mongers whom he accused of wanting to blame someone and not being able to get their lives together. As for the latter one look at Metaline Falls will dispel that notion, if any group of people ever had their acts together it was us. As for the former if an intruder broke into your home and murdered your wife and children, would you blame them?

Who was not on our list? We had Morris Dees, we had a Rothschild, we had Jewish officials. I have always believed that the primary function of leaderless resistance, other than to assure their territories and homeland and stability, was to destabilize society, to send the System reeling. And the simplest and single more effective way to do this is by assassination. If the ones killed are targeted according to the proper ideology so the incisive message is sent clear like a clarion bell, and sent at the right time, then there can be no mistake about it. Of course you have not to get caught. We revere our martyrs but we the living have no interest in making new ones.

It is this will o the wisp, and phantom like action where the killer disappears without a trace or a testimony which scares the daylights out of people, and instilling fear in the population and rendering them off balance is the goal, with an eye to get them to think about first principles. In this silent and stealth-like manner the killer or killers creates that most potent and portentous of capital: a name and a mystique. Though his aims were psychopathic Jack The Ripper is a good example of this, for if any name other than his rings more grandly down the corridors of time I for one am unaware of it. In the novel that Pierce told me he was planning it was mysterious, secretive, stealth and untraceable assassination which propelled the story line, thus instantiating the dictum that one must make the dramatic fiction full of adventure and action and gore. It is after all what the people want, nay, what they crave. And if you have to strike terror into their hearts so they can have it is just the price of doing business, and you only get what you pay for. And if his killing proves anything it is that we are patient men of course; but we are not infinitely patient.

As for the vile Jew Berg we had an inconspicuous female member of The Order case his life, which was pretty sorry. Other than smoking endless cigarettes and screeching about the evil of White Racists he mostly puttered around the house sad, alone and ate frozen dinners. The men tell me that when they got there what most surprised them was how sleazy the neighborhood he lived in was, but then pigs always flock to slop. They also said it was as easy as cake and like taking candy from a baby, that when he stepped out of his Volkswagen Beetle at 9:30PM at his apartment in Denver he lit another cigarette; and as he did one of our men stepped out up right in front of him holding a MAC 10 machine gun fitted with a silencer, a gun that can fire thirty bullets in a clip. Unfortunately it jammed at the twelfth but nevertheless a single squeeze of the trigger had sent a hail of bullets into his upper body and arms while the rest blew his ugly face away. The one who killed him later told me that after the deed was complete he noticed two things. That one of Berg’s feet was still inside the car and the fallen cigarette was smoldering next to the body. We had butchered him like an animal. To create a mystique and a name, and so it was a message that no one could mistake, to light a match that makes the fire smolder; and send them reeling.

Continued at The Order: A Drama (Part Nine)

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