The Inevitable War

A reader submitted his encounter with Diversitopia in America, lived to tell the tale, and wants Chateau guests to know that they don’t need to fear they’ll be alone when the storm comes.

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The coming war that needs to happen

Seigneur de la Chateau Heartiste,

I have been considering this correspondence for some time now, my delay being in part to the rigors and schedule of my work as a welder and construction superintendent, and also in part due to my recovery which has been longer than anticipated.

In March of this year, I was attacked by a shining example of Diversity! (Inc.) in Baltimore, Maryland.  I had returned to my car after having a few drinks with friends in a recently gentrified artsy fartsy part of town– don’t ever let that fool you in Baltimore or any other major city with a significant black population where recently converted ghettos may have been sold to productive human beings for fire-sale real estate prices.  There is no part of this city where a “good” neighborhood is less than 500 to 1000 meters from a slice of Mogadishu.  Predators learn the travel patterns of its prey.  I see it every day when I drive to work through Liberty Heights and other squalid hells.  Since the attack I moved to Annapolis, the last big town in Maryland not connected to the others by way of subsidized transportation in the form of the Light Rail network, Amtrack-MARC lines, or regular bus shipments of the third world.  To live in Annapolis largely means to work elsewhere, and to work elsewhere means to have the capacity to own, register, inspect, and insure a private motor vehicle for which you are responsible for maintaining.  The automobile may be our salvation if we let the cattle cars crumble, as at least then we can largely immobilize the third world into their respective islands whilst we build walls around them with the machine gun sectors pointed in.

[ed: fyi this is one reason leftoids hate hate hate the privately owned automobile]

As a former US Marine, I am painfully aware of the security risks of Baltimore, and go out of my way to reduce my need to resort to force for survival.  At approximately 10 PM, I sat in the driver’s seat with the engine running and texted a few friends while I let the engine warm up (diesel car, cold night).  I was parked in the corner of a restaurant parking lot that is surrounded by fence on all sides save for the entrance– trapped.  Suddenly, to my left, a loud banging against my driver window caused me to drop my phone, and I looked up in horror at some young dindu punk with a cheap Hi-Point brand 9mm pistol leveled right at my chest ordering me to get out of my car.  I raised my left hand in a stop motion to show him I meant no harm as my right hand inconspicuously but instinctively went for my right hip where, if I were in Virginia or my native New York, my hand would have grasped the hilt of my Glock model 27 .40 caliber soul liberator.  The realization of its absence is when the blood truly drained from my face, and the icy cold reality of having to get out of my car and into the jaws of the beast to negotiate for my life set in.  Had I been able to drive off, I would have done so, and run this dindu down in the process by a fast reverse with the wheel hard to the right.

The instant I lowered the window to tell him to take the car, he started pulling on the glass (thanks for the fingerprints, asshole) and managed to force my window down to reach inside to pull the door handle. He grabbed me by the shirt, and pulled me out of the car but my seatbelt slowed my progress. He kept screaming, almost in a frightened manner, to “get out of the fucking car.” His pistol-whips came raining down on my head and somehow I was able to get out of the car when I tried to just run, but was on my knee with the door open and my right leg still in the car. He kept screaming for the keys, when I yelled, “they’re in the car, they’re in the car!” On about the fourth or fifth smash to my head and face with his crude instrument of an impoverished savage, I saw a starry flash and knew this cocksucker was going to kill me if he was able to get control of my car. I unclipped my Benchmade 4.5″ Stryker knife when I felt him lean over me to look into the car and plunged the glinting tip of my shiv directly into his abdomen somewhere near his spleen. I pulled the knife out to go for a second thrust when I barely got the edge of his blue hooded sweatshirt as he was in Jessie Owens mode running for the street nearby to make his escape back to the shadows. It just goes to show that we are ceding Western Civilization without so much as a whimper, because the instant I became a hard target capable of presenting danger to him and taking his life, he ran like a spearchucking skinny after the last gazelle on the grassy plain.

After driving off hurriedly to safety and dealing with the police, where my vehicle and knife were impounded for evidence for the night, I called my loved ones to let them know I was OK. The smiling southern belle who worked in the evidence lab gave me my knife back when I went to retrieve my car, smiling and thanking me for “marking” the son of a bitch while mentioning that she took the time to completely wash off all the blood for me. Had she not had a wedding band on, I might have asked her if she liked coffee, and if not, the company of handsome men.

The recovery was a bit longer than I expected. I went to see a neurologist and had an MRI in the coming week to check for bleeding, as my girlfriend said there were several times that I stopped mid-sentence and lost my train of thought completely. In addition to the headaches from the concussion, I went approximately three weeks with SEVERELY reduced libido– thankfully that has all worked itself out and I am functioning again as a physically fit man. That fucking dindu nearly made me a eunuch for a car whose resale value is less than ten grand, and one I tried to give him as the insurance company (one of those things that only white people have) would have paid me up in full when my car was found wrecked or parted out in some hole in the city. The black eye and swelling lasted for about two weeks.

Enclosed is a photo of my face that morning, as I decided to go get a line of cocaine’s worth of coffee before heading home to shower and clean up. [ed: injury status confirmed] Later that evening, my girlfriend and I went to a pub in Annapolis to just enjoy each other’s company and celebrate our love and my still being here on this earth– rather than her standing with my parents as my fellow Marines fire three volleys over my lifeless corpse. A gentleman sitting next to us with his girlfriend interrupted us to say that he was a photographer and graphic designer, gave me his card, and asked if he could take our picture for us because he “never sees the kind of affection in couples nowadays.” This wasn’t the first time we were complimented on being so “obviously in love,” so I know it wasn’t just the previous evening’s events that was causing this reaction. My girlfriend will always sit close to me, or in booth-seat restaurants, next to me. I give her the non-hoverhand, and occasional smile or peck on the cheek as I like to refrain from public displays, so what you recently wrote about a woman who has to fight to contain herself resonated that I must be doing something right. The body language in that photo is admittedly a bit beta, but the guy asked me to lean in and kiss her while she looked at him for the specific purpose of hiding my bloodied and bandaged left side of my mug. [ed: it was about as alpha as a peck on your girl’s cheek could look, so well done. cute girl, too 👌🏻] She insisted on being on top that night because of my bruised state. I let her have that request for about half the session.

The experience hasn’t really changed me, but it certainly has honed my resolve, Heartiste. If white men are to take back the cities they built, they will need to use the same weapon on the dindus as they do on us– fear. Civilization is starving for squads of proud, iron-pumping and steel-strapped shitlords to peaceably take to the streets in fearsome enough numbers to remind our squatting guests that transgressions will be met with the same but multiplied. Western Civilization is hungry for her men, and any political advocate of disarmament should be treated, verbally at first, as nothing more than someone who wishes you a terrible death. Do not be their friend. Do not play nice with them in the workplace lest your advancement or security rest upon it. Do not tolerate their bullshit, and remind them who are committing the murders (dindus). Ask them if they would buy an affordable house in the shit pit to live with the pets they so admire. Rub their fucking noses in the shit they have dropped on the floor in which to test white men and white civilization.

Please keep up the tireless work. I sincerely believe that Le Chateau is at the forefront of important work for the coming storm.

As always, you have my faith and support.

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Six decades of this equalism shit is enough. These lethal Diversity™ skirmishes are taking place all over America, and are routinely ignored, suppressed, or sanitized of relevant facts by our anti-White Gaystream Media. And our White foot soldiers who are out there on the front lines taking black flak and fighting back are targeted for silencing and intimidation by Creep State operatives who will allow nothing to stand between their cushy sinecures and their dream of a one world open borders globohomo dystopia.

Which is to say, lunatic libs are at the helm, and their disfigured morality has made war inevitable.