Child Murder In The Lost World

Child Killing In The Lost World

In Brotherhood, Culture, Essays, War by Ivan ThroneLeave a Comment


The murder of a lovely culture.

I was eleven years old when I quietly stepped from the shadows and softly placed the muzzle of my revolver at the base of the child’s head.

The report was loud, sudden, and the sharp detonation caused him to jerk his head away and his body spasmed in surprise. He sat abruptly down as I stood over him.

“That was really loud,” he said.

He shook his head, his ear ringing, and looked up at me as I brought the cap revolver to my face and inhaled the scent of burning powder. It smelled not just of a unique cordite fragrance but of the oil I kept my tools clean with, the air of the outdoors, and most importantly the satisfaction of a clear, unopposed kill.

“You all right?” I asked.

“Fuck,” he said. “I didn’t see you.”

“That makes it better,” I replied.

I looked around for the others on his side. They prowled the neighborhood, looking for me, searching for my own allies scattered through the hedges and lawns and fences of the suburban greenery of Long Island in the early 1980’s.

No sign, but I knew there wasn’t much time.

“Count,” I told him. “I got you.”

He laid back, wiggling a reassuring finger in his ear, and closed his eyes as he counted down. I made my way behind the fence that barricaded the next-door swimming pool, easing lithely between the pale green boards and the pine trees that surrounded them.

Two shots left, I reminded myself. As I stepped carefully down the narrow path I reached into a jeans pocket, pulled out a new ring of caps, reloaded the beautiful twelve-shot Edison Giaccatoli “Phantom” and moved off for more prey.

It was the Way, and I was the Man.

 

The joy of the hunt and the spirit of boys.

This is a joy that children today do not experience, and we are the worse for it.

In the spring, we delighted in the new, electric green foliage and yellow dogwood flowers that bloomed, providing cover as we sprawled in the dirt and opened fire at each other across the winding streets.

In the summer we cooled off in the various neighborhood pools in between incessant rounds of violent, exultant combat that ranged from house to house, within the unspoken borders of friendly neighbors who were not disturbed at play massacres unfolding with shocking suddenness on their lawns and porches and driveways.

In the fall dead leaves were sniper piles, easily moved from place to place where a child could burrow in and lay his sights across the lawn, waiting for the incoming assault.

In the winter we bundled up, layers of snow pants and boots and mittens barely protecting us from the deep and frozen snow. Our raw, red fingers were numb as we worked to load the machinery of glorious war and death that invigorated us all.

When the snow melted at the end of the season, the bright red ejected plastic caps, hardly more than a few millimeters across, seasoned the lawns and gutters as if they had rained down there in endless torrents from a sky that delighted in our roars of battle.

It taught us much, these mock slaughters and executions and fusillades traded through our upscale neighborhood of the Gold Coast.

It taught us that stalking human beings was difficult and risky.

It taught us that ingenuity and patience and deliberate planning was rewarded.

It taught us that there was joy in winning.

It taught us that no matter how good you were, no matter how shiny and oiled and magnificently new your equipment was, an unlucky step or a careless exposure resulted in death.

And we learned. We learned to use teamwork, to flank the unwary. We learned that moving fire beat fortified loners. We learned that it was good to run in the daylight, to take advantage of the dusk, to be dirty and tired and sweaty and happy in contest with each other. In the simple abandon of childhood we bonded over the smell of cordite, the yells of dispute over who missed and who didn’t.

That’s gone now, lost.

Put a cap gun to your friend’s head and blow his imaginary brains out and soon after aggrieved and horrified parents will send militarized police to your home to confiscate your toys, arrest you, assign Social Services investigators to your parents and characterize you as a threatening violent risk even as they drug you into stupefied compliance with the dictates of a petulant and humorless public school bureaucrat who marks your file for life.

The weakness of so many young men of today is in part attributable to this.

How do they release the exuberance of boyhood? With simulated beachheads and desperate last stands of glory?

They don’t.

They are muzzled, drugged, whipped, chastened, beaten, shackled, humiliated, and excoriated for being what they are.

Do young boys today lead raiding forays into adjacent properties with the goal of instantly gunning down surprised and chagrined friends, teaching them to pay attention to the quiet footfall of the hunter behind them?

They can’t.

They are mercilessly indoctrinated into the foul dogma that their happy aggression is toxic, ugly, dangerous, threatening, extremist, and destructive to tolerance and peace.

It is a lost world, those days of delightful mock slaughters and ambushes, of dramatic deaths on the open lawn and the sprawls of the annihilated as they tumbled, shattered, to earth in a happy theater of play that is gone perhaps forever.

My childhood was not spent in front of a screen. Video games did not exist. The Internet was undreamed of, and a VCR was an unusual thing to behold. We made our own entertainment. We died as Nazis and we killed as Indians. We slew GIs in their tens of thousands and carried the play into school, where as secret agents we used code books, stealing them from each other and translating messages even as we kept a loaded cap gun tucked securely under a shirt in case a fearsome, ready assassin waited at the bus stop to unleash a hail of explosive, giddy fire.

It is different today.

 

Learning the Way must begin in childhood.

Today children are taught that safety can be enforced. They are instructed that hurt feelings are a crime, and that they are only ever a word or micro expression away from triggering injury. Sticks and stones are terrorist acts, and words not only hurt but char the very psyche of eternally powerless victims.

What disgusting, contemptible degradation of the noble nature of boyhood!

We learned that fist-sized clumps of sun-dried mud would explode with satisfying fragments when hurled against a tree or a wall, simulating the burst of a fragmentation grenade. Soft fine ashes, secured from a neighbor’s iron fireplace door on the outside of her chimney, could be kept in a 30mm film canister and would generate a deeply satisfying cloud of smoke to mask an exit as you retreated through the thick greenery of Long Island.

All of us were magnificently armed. We knew that switching to a backup was faster than reloading, and a pistol secretly tucked away could prompt beautiful moments of transformation from disarmed, marching prisoner of war to the wonderful, celebrated hero of that happy afternoon.

“I got you!” was a soaring shout of victory.

Caught with a cap gun in your desk at school? “You know you’re not allowed to bring that in,” the teacher would say, and confiscate it until the end of school, along with a mild “knock it off” note to bring home to your parents.

Today?

Point a simple naked finger and say “bang” and your entire life is upended with psychologists and law enforcement and Social Services and public terror, spread through social media, complete with horrific and ugly labels of “dangerous” and “terroristic threats” applied to you and following you with crippling, ridiculous and evilly wrongful ugliness throughout life.

It is a tragic and unforgivable degradation of culture we have descended to.

Back then there were no blaze orange tips on cap guns. I can remember when they began putting dark red inserts into the muzzles; those were the first things we carefully removed with buck knives and pliers, to ensure that the Game was not degraded by idiots who didn’t think we were responsible enough not to walk up to a police officer and brandish it.

It was insulting when they began to sell cap guns with those red inserts, and today if I spot even a hint of blaze orange on a cap gun I want to spit with offended and unwavering contempt.

Thirty-six years later I look back on those days as formative, and also as an oasis of sanity and community that is long and terribly gone.

When I was a toddler, it was normal for me to walk through the gate into the neighbor’s yard, through their back door and into the kitchen, and sit at the table with a bowl of cherries and chat with the matriarch of the house while her retired husband did carpentry in the basement or smoked his pipe in the back yard.

When I was an elementary school child it was a favorite pastime to knock on the door of my other neighbor, and ask to come inside and read their books. I would settle into their couch and read 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea and marvel at the glory of Captain Nemo, his boldness, his dignity, and his terrible sadness and rage wrapped up into a magnificent figure of glory.

Today a parent would be aghast at their five-year-old crossing the street to sit down in a neighbor’s house unattended and expect to be taught chess. They would be outraged and terrified that he learned to shoot the bigger neighbor boy’s BB rifle at plastic models in their backyard.

Today both those parents and neighbors would be liable to arrest for it.

Has our society improved? I will tell you that it has changed, in a way that cultural Marxists and social justice warriors could never have possibly imagined.

Today it is not preadolescents learning to win as allies in a running, seasons-long game of cap guns with delight and glory and theater, burying those lessons into their mind and heart as they grow into young men who face the trials of adulthood.

Now it is young men in their early twenties who know the reality of multiple tours of duty as roving, ferocious fire teams in ambush and killing, blowing apart the meat and bone of enemies who have no dignity, no mercy, no uniforms, and no honor.

There is no play, only brutality.

Today those young men come home, their values of duty and service and brotherhood in the maelstrom of fire and blood and horror met with the corrupt and disgracefully castrated song of helpless cucks and transgendered eunuchs, declaring them toxic and dangerous and ill.

There are consequences for this.

 

Karma takes the shape of cultural consequences.

My generation has waited many decades for the opportunity to rule.

Now it is here, and the men of Generation X have vast and merciless pools of grim and hardened talent to draw upon as we reshape the new age into a return of Western values and triumphs.

The Left took pains to destroy the happy play of games of war, believing that my generation would be the last to experience it, and that future generations would grow compliant and complacent and unattuned to the thrill of contest between men.

Their mistake was existential.

For in place of play, has come real war.

Instead of a shouted “I got you!” the new generation knows the silent, sudden, validating pink cloud that bursts in the wind, seen through the scope of the rifleman.

Instead of littered caps on sunny spring lawns, left behind in rivulets and channels from the melting snows of Christmas, the new generation knows scattered, burnt brass and the gobbets of exploded human beings who had been convinced, not through claims of accuracy, but by deliberate and passionless killing.

To the Left, I say this:

You have stolen from the young, and you have done so to dominate and destroy the apex of Western civilization and the happy glory of the winner.

We know what you have done, and the new generation is far more fearsome than you can possibly imagine. And it loathes you, and your emasculated weakness, and holds you responsible for it.

It waits, aching and raging, for us to issue the orders to destroy you.

We will take great pleasure in it.

For glory comes again, inexorably, and there will be no chance for countdown to your resurrection. It is a game no longer, and that is because of you.

The last time I played guns with my friends was when I was thirteen.

Down the hill from my home, perhaps a hundred yards off, I saw three of them talking. The hunt was on, the afternoon was fading, and I wanted them all.

I waved down and stopped a car that had turned onto the block. It slowed, the driver’s window rolling down, and there was a teenager at the wheel. His friend was beside him, and two pretty girls in the back.

“What’s up,” he asked.

“See those kids down there?” I asked.

“Yeah. So?”

I looked at the girls in the back, then back at him. I showed him the cap revolver under my shirt.

“I’m going to surprise and kill them all.”

I spat in the street. “Give me a ride down there.”

He grinned, looked at his friend, and jerked his head at the back seat.

“Get in.”

I went around to the passenger side as the girls scooted over. I drew my revolver and slid in next to them. They giggled and chattered over me as the car rolled downwards to the small group of children still standing at the intersection.

I remember well the giggles and perfume, the amusement and interest of the girls, but was focused on the descent of the vehicle towards the intersection.

“Call them over when we get there,” I said.

The car slowed at the bottom of the hill, paused at the stop sign, and then rolled forward slowly and halted. The passenger called out.

“Hey! Come over here.”

My friends looked cautiously, but curiosity won over. They approached.

“Got something for you,” the driver said as I opened the rear door and stepped out.

I emptied the gun. Twelve rapid shots, aimed at chests and faces, echoing through the leaves and the quiet suburban streets amid laughter and cheering from the car.

“Thanks,” I said, leaning into the window. The girls were smiling, and I could smell again the perfume, observing it from a very different part of my brain, an unfamiliar and hungry one.

“No problem,” he replied. The car drove off and I turned to my friends, their own cap guns half drawn and a look of incredulity on their faces.

It was the last time we played.

But I never forgot the lessons.

Innovate. Stalk. Surprise. Determination. Cold assessment. Practice. Care. Caution.

Winning.

And above all, understanding the dynamics of the hunt.

 

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Today I do not hunt my friends with games and laughter.

Today I hunt the Left, and those who have made the destruction of the West through cultural degradation their hideous and unforgivable method.

I hunt them hard, and with grim and serious men who follow me.

Vengeance for the murder of culture is coming.

It is the Way. And I am the Dark Triad Man.

Regards,

Ivan Throne Signature

About the Author

Ivan Throne

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IVAN THRONE is the bestselling author of The Nine Laws. He is a powerful speaker, business manager and seasoned veteran of the financial industry with over thirty years of study in the classical Japanese military fighting arts. His vivid lessons and ruthless mentoring for the hard and often cruel demands of our pitiless high performance world have helped millions of people across social media deeply connect with radical, authentic success to the joys of partners, lovers, colleagues and clients.