• The Sons of God, Book I



    As western civilization races toward annihilation, a disparate group of young white people learn that they are the actual sons and daughters of God, supernatural royalty, destined to rule with Him forever -- provided they can endure a time of testing in the bloodiest, most cataclysmic period in history. Hounded by a satanic race of people who've planned their genocide, betrayed by friends and family, their lives in constant peril from marauding third-world hordes swarming over their lands, many of them will fail and fall, but some of them, a tiny remnant, will manage to struggle on. But for how long?

    This is chapter one of the first of three books, a kind of Dual Seedline Christian Identity cross between Lord of the Rings and the Twilight series of books if you will. Actually that's putting it very loosely. This really isn't anything like those books, but it is aimed at a similar audience, namely males and females aged between 12 and 25 or thereabouts.

    Why this age group?

    Because most Christian Identity literature is aimed at older readers, even if that's largely unintentional. There's precious little, if anything, written for younger readers. That's where this planned trilogy comes in and why it's a work of fiction: younger readers prefer fiction.

    The purpose of this first book, and the two books that are to follow it, is simply to make young white Israelites (that's Israelites, not Jews or Israelis), and maybe a few older ones, aware of their racial and spiritual roots.

    With this first chapter, I have committed what some may regard as an unpardonable sin when it comes to White Nationalist literature: I have made a female, one of the book's two leading characters, its sole focus. There's not a macho, gun-toting, bone-snapping, swastika-emblazoned, fantastically erudite, and amazingly resourceful white racist bloke to be read. I've done this because I want the book to appeal to females as much as males. Females too often get short shrift in Chirstian Identity and White Nationalist literature. Well, I happen to like females, and I'll be damned if they're going to be overlooked, or relegated to bit players, in any novel I write. But let not your heart be troubled. This is not a paen to feminism. There will be plenty of honorable, intrepid white men in this novel with whom you'd be happy to share a foxhole.

    The reason I'm posting the book chapter by chapter is that it motivates me to keep writing and to write faster. I'm a rather slow and ponderous writer, so if I waited until I finished the book before I posted (all of) it, I'd still be mulling over syntax and comma placement when the end of the age was but a faded memory.

    I've set the book in Australia in the near future. How near I'm leaving up to the reader to figure out. It could be as little as a year or as much as 10 years from now. Most dystopian racist books are set in the United States. I thought it was high time that Oz became the geographical center of one of them. Also, it saves me from having to do a mountain of research.

    Slow, ponderous, and plumb lazy.

    CHAPTER ONE
    This article was originally published in forum thread: The Sons of God, Book I started by Obadiah 1:18 View original post
    Comments 6 Comments
    1. Solomon's Avatar
      Solomon -
      This is great work, Obadiah!

      Looking forward to more.
    1. K-2's Avatar
      K-2 -
      Ditto. Rep +1
    1. Obadiah 1:18's Avatar
      Obadiah 1:18 -
      I have some competition from a Jew and a Teaspoon. May have to change the title.

      http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sons-of-God-ebook/dp/B001IKKYHA

      http://authonomy.com/books/43112/the...of-god-book-1/
    1. admin's Avatar
      admin -
      Obie announced on tonight's show that THE SONS OF GOD - Book II is under production!

      Predestination & Free Will (81.9 mb)

      We'll keep you posted.
    1. xBluxTunicx82's Avatar
      xBluxTunicx82 -
      I absolutely love it so far, i can't wait to read more as it is released. Thanks Obadiah, for your diligence and putting your gift of writing to pen. Yahweh bless
    1. Obadiah 1:18's Avatar
      Obadiah 1:18 -
      This is a rough draft of about the first third of Chapter 2, which is turning into quite the epic as far its length is concerned. It's been a while since I posted the first chapter, so I thought I'd better post something -- anything -- in case people were starting to think I'd abandoned the project. I haven't. I love writing it. And if I could do nothing but work on it all day, I'd be one very contented bloke. I'll rewrite what you're about to read and the rest of the chapter in due course, and hopefully sooner rather than later. It hasn't been proofread thoroughly as yet, and, as the chapter wears on, you'll probably notice that paragraphs are few and far between; copying and pasting the text from a Word doc hasn't helped matters any. All of that will be corrected in the PDF copy of the full chapter.

      Chapter 2

      Rosella's don't fly like that, he thought. They can't fly like that. That's not possible.
      Nathan watched the tiny feathered flash of blue and crimson from his unique and somewhat self-imposed vantage point as it performed its bizarre aerial acrobatics routine in front of a massive ghost gum. Somewhere behind the big albino the sun was descending into the horizon, and it was descending in style, splashing the sky and landscape with striking orange, red, and mustard hues and turning the ebony shadows into a somber gray which would meld with each successively darker veil of approaching dusk as Tulson's Stretch slowly bid daylight adieu.
      The Rosella tumbled over and over on the same patch of air, as though it were trying to move against the steadfast momentum of an invisible treadmill, then rolled sideways in a downward arc, stopped dead, flitted across the air in a straight line for about six feet, then rolled sideways in an upward arc until it reached the invisible treadmill, whereupon it would go tail over beak once more before performing its perplexing routine again.
      Poor thing must have cerebral palsy, Nathan thought with a wry smile.
      There was another, more disturbing possibility. The native bird may have dined on a tainted crop and was now having to deal with the business end of man's reckless and some might argue suicidal attempt to improve on God's creation.
      Almost the entire population of Tulson's Stretch was in attendance at the barbeque. It wasn't much of a barbeque as barbeques go, though. The feast of meat and beer that the Department of Agriculture or, more exactly, the Australian taxpayers were putting on for them couldn't compensate for the famine of hope that had laid waste to their souls. Most of the adults spoke in the dull drone of a people who'd been beaten into subjection by a cruel tyrant and were just going through the motions to forestall their inevitable deaths at his hand. These had once been the hardiest of people. Most were farmers who for years had endured the crippling rigors of drawing crops from the soil and bore the mental and physical scars, chronic back pain, skin cancers, and broken-down body parts and, in some cases, missing body parts to prove it. Yet none of these things had pulverized their spirit into cringing, vanquished nothingness. It had taken a deluge of imported foreign produce, the ever-decreasing pittance they received for their crops from the supermarket chains, and agricultural armageddon in the form of a genetically modified strain of tomato to do that.
      The first recorded instance of the standing death took place on July 13, 2013 in Guyana; the confluence of unlucky numbers in that date would become a white-hot topic of discussion among occultists and conspiracy theorists. Raphael Sosa, 56, was a farmer who grew lychees on a 3-acre plot of land which bordered the Amazon rainforest. At around 4:30pm in the afternoon of July 13, he plopped his jiggling bulk on a packing crate in front of the lopsided hovel where he lived. It had been a level-sided hovel but a monsoonal downpour the previous year had loosened the soil around some of the house stumps, causing the left side of the dwelling to sink 13 inches -- another instance of 13, which, when brought to light, would only serve to exacerbate the constant speculation about the devilish numerical symmetry of what was about to transpire. The day had been excruciatingly muggy, and Raphael, a fountain of sweat, had taken time out from his labors to rehydrate himself with a cool glass of lemonade and a mammoth orange he'd pinched from a neighboring orchard. Well, technically speaking, he didn't pinch the orange, because the branch from which he'd plucked it overhanged his property. He was only two bites into devouring the juice-spurting monster when a cramp locked up his left calf muscle, turning it into what felt like a searing lump of petrified wood. Grimacing and groaning in equal portions, he did what he always did when he got a leg cramp, he stood up to walk it off. Walking loosened up the muscle and dissipated the cramp, even though the first few steps were often more painful than they were worth. On this occasion, however, aggravating the pain wasn't an issue, for he didn't get to take a single step. As soon as he had wriggled to his feet, a bomb, metaphorical but just as devastating, exploded in his chest, sending him into cardiac arrest. Suds of spittle flew out of his mouth, and his eyes rolled toward the heavens, as he shook like a great blob of jelly in an aerobics class. The seizure-like rattling only lasted a couple of seconds, whereupon he belly flopped the rich Amazonian soil.
      He had risen as one of the living but had fallen as one of the dead.
      Raphael's death wasn't seen as anything out of the ordinary at first. He'd been lugging around almost twice as many kilos as the average man of his age and height, so his dying from a heart attack hadn't been unexpected. A day later, when another farmer in the area suffered a heart attack after eating a tomato and cheese sandwich, nobody saw any reason to connect the two incidents despite the fact that this new victim of the standing death was only 30 years old and in the best of health.
      By the end of the week, after the tally had soared to 26 dead -- a figure the online doomsayers noted was divisible by the number 13 -- including eight women and three children, all of whom lived within a 30-mile radius of each other, and reports of the strange spate of deaths began to be picked up by major news sources around the world, the Guyanan authorities, who as a rule crept rather than leapt into action when things went awry in their country, rallied to get to the bottom of what was causing the villagers in this finite area to drop like concrete bowling balls, but mostly they rallied to save face.
      Three weeks on, with the death toll now nudging 200, and the Guyanians no closer to explaining the sudden epidemic of fatal heart attacks, WHO agents escorted by heavily armed UN troops, quarantined the area, which had grown to encompass a 50-mile radius. Autopsies peformed on the corpses, which had been buried in a mass grave surrounded by a razor wire fence and patrolled by scowling soldiers clutching Ak-47s, failed to reveal any cause or contributing factor of death apart from what had already been determined, namely that all the victims had died of a coronary occlusion.
      One thing WHO's crack squad of microbiologists and forensic pathologists were able to ascertain was where the disease had originated. It had been born in a tomato farm right smack in the middle of that 50-mile radius. This was no regular tomato farm. It was host to a new strain of GMO tomato, christened TM10986F, by the biogeneticists who'd re-engineered the vegetable in the high-tech laboratory of Zidencorp, a multinational chemical corporation. The strain was an improved version of an old strain which had been withdrawn from the market a decade ago owing to "certain nutritional inconsistencies". Certain nutritional inconsistencies was how carcinogenic toxin read after it had been given a verbal beauty makeover by Zidenor's public affairs department. The toxin was a byproduct of the tomatoes' ability to self-coat its skin with pesticide. The pesticide killed tomato-craving bugs with ease. Unfortunately it also killed a handful of people who'd acquired a taste for that particular tomato. The number of deaths wasn't statistically significant enough for anyone to point his finger at the GMO vegetable. Nevertheless, Zidenor knew it was holding a ticking time bomb which could nuke the global concern's plans to monopolize the agricultural market and could wipe it off the map financially if a class action lawsuit were filed against it. The carcinogen was too potent for it not to cause an exponential spike in the number of lives lost to cancer, and sooner or later somebody in the medical or news industry was bound to link the spike to the consumption of the ubiquitous tomato.
      But that was then.
      After nine years of intensive experimentation, Zidencorp's biogeneticists had at last reworked the death-dealing tomato into what they were confident was a benign, life-affirming tomato. This one contained twice as much vitamin c as a non-GMO tomato and no carcinogens, nor anything else that might besmirch the multi-national's public image and obliterate its share price. It didn't even produce its own pesticide. None of the pesticides Zidencorp's range of GMO crops deployed proved to have long-term effectiveness anyway. The ability of insects to adapt to the most powerful pesticides was miraculous. Weeds and bugs. God had promised there would be plenty of both, and He was keeping His promise.
      While Zidencorp had done everything humanly and scientifically possible to ensure that TM10986F wouldn't hurt a fly, there was something profoundly out of whack with the new strain. Lurking somewhere in the complex lattice work of its chemical structure was an infinitesimal serial killer whose propensity for murder was limitless. All efforts to identify it had been unproductive. Zidencorp's and WHO's best brains still didn't know what it was, only that it dwelled inside the tomato. Where inside was as big a mystery as the elusive killer itself.
      Perhaps the red-shouldered macaws knew, for they were inextricably linked to the biological enigma. A flock of them had taken a fancy to the test crop, which their industrious beaks had swiftly reduced to crude balls of mush. Not long after, Villagers reported that macaws were exhibiting unusually aggressive behavior. Squadrons of the birds would divebomb the villagers and slam kamikaze-style into trees and buildings. Those that survived the impact would flop wildly upon the ground, pecking at the feet of anyone who approached them, until they expired. The remaining macaws flew erratically about jettisoning goodly amounts of feces on heads, rooftops, and sundry crops and orchards. WHO's investigative team theorized that the feces contained the deadly bacterium, which was absorbed by whatever fruit or vegetable it came into contact with, and was then passed onto those hapless individuals who ate that fruit or vegetable. But it was only a theory. Until they knew for sure what the bacterium was, if indeed it was a bacterium, how it was spread was purely a matter of conjecture. They weren't even sure whether the new strain was entirely to blame or whether the macaws were partly responsible. A popular but unproven theory was that the macaws' biochemistry had reacted adversely to that of the tomatoes and this bad reaction somehow spawned the deadly putative bacterium.
      The WHO junta managed to confine SAOS (sudden arterial occlusion syndrome), the official medical term for the standing death, within the 50-mile radius for a month, but then, confirmed reports of people dying of the sickness far outside the quarantined area began to emerge and multiply. Realizing there was no point trying to plug holes in the dam after it had burst, and with reporters baying for full disclosure, they called a press conference where they announced the arrival of a new plague on the earth, potentially one of the deadliest. Its official medical title was SAOS but it came to be known more popularly as The Standing Death.
      The Guyanian villagers came up with the name because bizarrely everyone who died of SAOS died standing up. Nobody had the foggiest why this was so. WHO's scientists speculated that the sudden shift in gravity in the victims' bodies caused a minute change in their biochemistry which precipitated the fatal occlusion. But this was based more on public relations than it was known fact. The authorities needed to save face and prevent a mass panic by tendering some sort of explanation, any explanation, and that was the best they could come up with at such short notice.
      Once news of the SAOS outbreak started to gain traction in the global media, there was no stopping the debates about what the sickness was and who was behind it. The Jews, the Illuminati, the Bildebergers, extraterrestrials, intraterrestrials, neo-nazis, old-time nazis, environmental activists, and Satan, all these and more fell into the cross-hairs of the trigger-happy conspiracy theorists who were itching to blow the perp or perps away with their hollow-point rhetoric and armor-piercing hypotheses.
      But Nathan knew who really was responsible. Even a wheelchair-fused 16-year-old spastic with cerebral palsy like him had brains enough to figure that out.
      It was God.
      The Standing Death was His way of giving those who worshiped the god of science the Finger. The Almighty had thrown them a biological Gordian Knot and said, "Here! Solve this!" And try to solve it they did -- and were -- but the sheer complexity of the conundrum was starting to shake their once unshakeable faith in their deity and causing them to question his infallibility. Afraid and as mortified as they were to admit it, he was clueless and so were they. Clueless.
      Nathan chuckled. Thanks to the random rewiring his disability had performed on his facial muscles, he was incapable of smiling -- although he could and often did smile on the inside -- but chuckling didn't present a problem to him. The thing was it didn't sound like chuckling. It sounded more like agonized grunting. To add to the confusion, saliva would bubble at the corners of his mouth, and his head would bobble like a Jack-in-the-box's, which gave people the impression he was having an epileptic seizure or motioning for them to get him to a toilet stat. His mum would have to allay their concern by explaining his tricky body language to them. She wasn't with him at the minute -- no one was -- so he was free to bubble and bobble all he liked.
      WHO's medical team and Zidencorp's biogeneticists made much ado about setting up a laboratory dedicated to finding a cure for SAOS. Unlike the proliferation of medical research labs that for decades have purportedly been trying to come up with a cure for cancer in its various mainfestations, but, truth be told, were merely seeking more effective ways to ease its symptoms long enough to milk its sufferers of money by cajoling them into buying exorbitant pharmaceuticals and endure criminally expensive and unnecessary surgical procedures and chemotherapy, an oxymoron for legalized poisoning, the scientific combine was working toward a bonafide cure and a way to prevent a recurrence of SAOS in the multinational's range of GMO fruit and veggies. SAOS was a Sword of Damocles dangling over the heart of the GMO seed industry. If the scientific saviors of mankind failed to cleanse the planet of the test-tube-born scourge, Zidencorp and a host of other multinationals with a finger in the genetically modified pie were history. There was also the small matter of TM10986F's hidden biological malware contaminating the entire planet's food chain.
      While some of the world's finest scientists labored night and day for a means to destroy Zidencorp's rampaging monster, SAOS found its way to the North American continent. Whether it was desposited there by a migratory bird or a tourist smuggling food across the Mexico border was anybody's guess. Either way, SAOS had killed hundreds in Texas -- and the body count in that state was rising exponentially -- and had spread to Arizona and New Mexico, where deaths were being reported with panic-stirring frequency. Inside of two months every state in the union would have to deal with a spate of deaths committed by an unstoppable, remorseless killer invisible to the naked eye and seemingly invulnerable.
      Thirteen weeks (13 again!) after Raphael Sosa's face slammed into the soil outside his lopsided hovel, SAOS arrived on antipodean shores, somehow managing to bypass a gauntlet of stringent security measures instituted by the Australian Customs Department in order to prevent such an occurrence. A head of lettuce purchased in a suburban supermarket in the state of Victoria was the instrument of death for the first recorded case of SAOS downunder. The second case occurred in situ when a famished fruit picker scarfed a handful of organic blueberries on a blueberry farm. A co-worker told reporters that no sooner had the poor fellow consumed the berries than his legs wobbled as though they were made of rubber and that he was lying on the ground dead an abbreviated heartbeat later.
      The Australian government placed an immediate embargo on the sale and transportation of all fruit and vegetables in Victoria. The embargo was extended to New South Wales and then to Queensland following outbreaks of The Standing Death in those states. Fruit and vegetables were off the dinner menu in Aussie households and restaurants for several months, and food like coleslaw and a salad roll couldn't be bought for love or money. Fearing the impairment to their immune systems that a diet bereft of all the vitamins, minerals, and enzymes found in fruit and vegetables would engender, a few intrepid souls continued to eat both food groups. All of them, bar a non-English-speaking Turkish octogenerian and his neurotically health-aware son, managed to survive that risky decision. While green grocers all over the country staggered from the near-fatal blow delivered to them by the defacto gods of Zidencorp, the manufacturers of health supplements were flinging themselves into the air with joy. Their range of herbal, mineral, and multivitamin tablets were flying off supermarket and health food store shelves faster than they could keep up with the demand. Supplements had taken the place of fruit and vegetables, for those who could afford to buy them. This excluded pensioners, the unemployed, and most people who had to get by on less than $40k per annum. Even before SAOS embarked on its global killing spree, health supplements were luxury items that only those fortunate folk living in the-lap-of could afford to buy regularly. Fruit and vegetables weren't as expensive, but they were expensive enough for the less affluent to balk at filling a shopping basket with them.
      The people who really struck it big during the SAOS scare were those who'd bought organic heirloom seeds prior to the outbreak. Packets of seeds which would normally have cost $5 to $10 were now fetching upwards of $1000 on eBay. A single packet of tomato seeds had sold for a record $5200. If the seeds were non-GMO, and you could keep birds and bugs away from them after you'd planted them, you stood an excellent chance of growing an uncontaminated crop. That said, a biodynamic farmer with years of experience behind him did everything and a bit more to coax a SAOS-free crop out of the ground but still fell victim to the sickness.
      Months of research by Zidencorp's and WHO's finest hadn't yielded a cure for SAOS or a means of preventing its spread, but they had come up with a blue dye which when painted on a piece of fruit or a vegetable would turn bright pink if the "bug" that caused the sickness was present in it. The dye worked for the most part, though it did have some drawbacks. Once the dye had been applied there was no washing it off. This meant that tomatoes, carrots, oranges, apples, and even string beans bore blue blotches, which discouraged a lot of consumers from buying them; a shiny red apple just didn't have the same appeal when it was defaced with what looked like matte-blue spray paint. The dye's inventors assured the public that it was tasteless and harmeless; however, many consumers claimed that it made some fruit and vegetables bitter. Others claimed the dye gave them headaches. A rumor that it contained nanobots which tracked and monitored the hearts of consumers who ate dyed food was doing the rounds of the Internet. In the face of such an outlandish phenomenon as The Standing Death, even the craziest theory seemed feasible. Notwithstanding, the Melbourne Herald Sun newspaper reported that an unnamed source within Zidencorp claimed to have seen official company documents stating there were nanobots in the dye. A spokeswoman for the multinational vociferously denied the claim.
      The biggest problem with the dye was that sometimes it didn't detect SAOS until weeks or months after its application. A bright pink blotch on a lettuce in a supermarket took three months to appear. This was in drastic contrast to the couple of minutes it took for shoppers and staff to flee the supermarket after an elderly Italian woman pointed at the offending lettuce and screamed "The Death! The Death!" As was now standard practice in this kind of situation, men in protective suits with their own oxygen supplies descended on the supermarket and deposited all of the produce in the fruit and vegetable department in a special biohazard dumpster, which was then transported to a place unknown where definitely contaminated and possibly uncontaminated produce were summarily cremated.
      Being primarily a farming community, Tulson's Stretch was one of the country towns hit hardest by the SAOS outbreak. Despite the fact that no SAOS-infected produce had been reported in the town, and none of the townsfolk had died of the sickness, the Department of Agriculture had classified the town as a level two risk. Level one meant that the town was in no risk of a SAOS outbreak, level three meant that the town was suffering or had suffered an outbreak, and level two meant that a SAOS outbreak was likely and that moderate quarantine precautions had to be instituted. These moderate precautions included, but were not limited to, restricting, completely, the harvesting and transportation of any and all crops for however long the Department of Agriculture deemed necessary. However long at this stage had amounted to two months for Tulson's Stretch, but the Department looked set to extend that to an indefinite period. The concern was that since the town was so close to the South Australia border, an outbreak in Tulson's would pretty much guarantee an outbreak in South Oz, something the government wanted to avoid at all costs.
      With farmer's unable to work their farms for the forseeable future, the unemployment rate in Tulson's Stretch had skyrocketed to a whopping 65 percent. Other farming communities were reporting similar jobless figures. Most of Tulson's farmers were on the dole. They were a defiantly proud and self-reliant lot who didn't accept government handouts with alacrity, even though they had been contributing to federally sanctioned charitable works for decades through generous gifts of taxation. Still, they had families that had to be fed and so ample portions of their pride had to be swallowed along with the fairly meager portions of food that their fortnightly payments afforded them.
      The Labour government, under the celebrated Eurasian lesbian Prime Minister Melanie Chong, had been dragged into the streets and soundly drawn and quartered by the Australian media for its appalling neglect of the agricultural sector. Not that the Aussie media, which was as far to the political left as the rest of the western media, gave a fat rat's clacker about the fate of farmers and farming communities. But what it did care about was the well-nigh incessant attempts by Chong and her cohorts to impose draconian restrictions on its right to report the news without fear or favor. Getting behind the plighted farmers was a means by which it could get some of its own back and push tacitly for the defeat of the incumbent government at the next federal election. The irony was that the media's reportage and commentary were profoundly skewed to the left irrespective of the government's efforts to codify that bias. The Australian media and world media were uniformly and fanatically pro-homosexual, pro-non-white-immigration, anti-Christian, anti-private-ownership-of-firearms, anti-alternative-medicine, and anti-anything-that-promoted-white-European-traditions-or-comradeship. Its left-leaning prejudice had been entrenched for many decades. What it objected to was being told what and whom it should be prejudiced toward, even if the targets of that prejudice had been in its firing line for years.
      So the Labour government, under crushing pressure from the media and the dwindling but still politically formidable white European electorate, suddenly developed a tremendous, albeit tremendously insincere, concern for the farming community. The government's long-term plan was to do away with all but a few Australian farms, which would be kept purely for the sake of appearance, just so nobody could say that Australia had no farms whatsoever, and import 99 percent of its fruit and vegetables from China and elsewhere overseas. But, for the time being, it would pander to the uncouth, ignorant, right-wing, rednecked workers of the land, promising them everything but giving them as little as possible, until the pressure was off and it could go back to being as unsympathetic to their plight as it had previously been. The free sausage sizzle, and the strident but hollow promises by the Minister for Agriculture, Larry Jones, who had addressed the attendees, to get Tulson's Stretch and other farming communities back on their feet was part of that pandering.
      A strange fellow was Jones. There was something about the bloke that made Nathan prickle with unease. It was the same kind of feeling he got when he was watching a horror movie in the dark and a floorboard creaked behind him. When Jones spoke to the crowd, he came across like Count Yorga Vampire presenting an infomercial for a steam mop. He was alternately charming and irritating and, like all politicians, reeked of insincerity, yet, beneath the layers of smarm and the roly-poly almost comical exterior, there lurked a flicker of menace as if he were a deranged serial killer grinning amiably at his next victim whom he was planning to murder in an unimaginably gruesome fashion. Nathan's Uncle Reg said that Jones, who's original name was Lawrence Goldfarb, was a mad bitzer, a self-conflicted racial spill of abo, pollack, and Jew. The abo component probably accounted for Jones's ball of frizzy hair, although abos didn't normally have frizzy hair. Jones, his uncle said, was orphaned when he was five years old after his parents died in a light plane crash. He was fostered into a family who ran a cattle farm in Warnambool. This was one of the worst things that could have happened to Jones, because the Jew part of him rebelled against farm life. Jews, according to his uncle, detested manual labor and were the world's worst farmers. The only place they could live was in a big city. Anywhere else would eventually kill them or drive them mad. Most Jews were mad to begin with, or so Uncle Reg said. As Jones had some abo blood in him, he had an affinity for the land. This led to a strange dichotomy within the Labour politician, for on the one hand, the abo side of him loved living in the country, but the Jew side of him loathed it with a passion. Legend has it that when Jones was in his teens he'd go roo-shooting with his mates in a pick-up at night. Only Jones would rarely participate in the actual roo-shoot, preferring to stand in the back of the pick-up, howling, literally, at the moon, sometimes for hours on end. His mates were usually too drunk to pay him any mind, except for one fateful night when one of them threatened to kick the crap out of him if he didn't shut the hell up. Jones stared at the guy, who was barely 18, for a couple of seconds, then picked up a rifle and pumped 4 bullets into his chest without exhibiting the faintest tremor of emotion. So shocked were his mates by the casually wrought atrocity that for several minutes they could do nothing but stare stupidly at the steam rising up into the cold night air from the bloody chest of their fallen comrade. When they finally came to their alcohol-impaired senses, they wrapped his body up in a tarpaulin and then dumped it into the reservoir that was the town's main water catchment. They later told the police that their dead friend went skinny-dipping in the reservoir on a bet and never surfaced after he dove in. A team of police divers scoured the water for a week but failed to recover the body. Charges were never laid against Jones or any of the other boys because the police could find no evidence of foul play. The homicide detectives who worked on the case knew that Jones was involved in the boy's disappearance but, without a body, they couldn't channel their suspicions into a conviction. Why Jones' mates didn't dob him in for his crime depended upon which version of the story you heard. In one version, he suborned them with a large stash of money he stole from a local drug pusher. In another, he slipped some sort of Mickey Finn into their beers, which turned them into raving yet pliable homicidal maniacs who murdered their fellow roo-shooter at his command. In still another, Jones threatened to produce video footage of them having sex with an 11-year-old girl if they told the cops what he'd done. Nathan knew which version he believed. Six months after the boy went missing, Jones moved out of his foster home, much to the relief of his foster parents, who were increasingly unnerved by Jones' disturbing behavior, and got himself a one-bedroom apartment in what for him was paradise on earth, the cosmopolitan city of Melbourne. Thanks to his part Torres Strait Islander heritage, he was welcomed into the prestigious law course at Melbourne University, and was soon dux of his class, or so he claimed. His former classmates, when interviewed by a journalist writing a feature article on the Minister for Agriculture, said that Jones was an average student at best and seemed to be more interested in heading the University's Gay and Lesbian Alliance, a militant group of Marxist sodomites. Although Jones insisted he wasn't a homosexual, he believed that championing the rights of minorities, that is, sexual degenerates and the planet-choking billions of non-whites whose life's work was to bring the third world to the first world, was a vital step to a successful career as a lawyer. Rumour pegged him as a bisexual with a weakness for underage girls -- boys too if they were overly effeminate -- so his dedication to upholding the human rights of perverts and darkies, but especially perverts, may have been unduly influenced by his alleged proclivities. Luckily for Jones, his Aboriginal and Jewish ancestry discouraged people from vocalizing their doubts about his moral character at a volume level above the softest of whispers. You didn't call an abo an abo, and you didn't call a kike a kike, unless you were prepared for a long stay in bluestone college. But calling somebody an abo-kike (or something similar)? They'd give you life or The Chair for that.
      Larry's racially diverse parents had handed him a get-out-of-jail-free card which he had used to extricate himself from a fix or three. Abos and Jews were two well-protected species in Australia. But somebody who was a hybrid of both was shielded like the President of the United States by the minions of the left. Step anywhere near him and you were going to be taken down, hard. In this crazy, topsy-turvy world, two of the most worthless races, Australian Aborigines and Jews, had been transmuted by liberal alchemists into ethnic gold bullion. Larry, with his diverse portfolio of DNA and copious stockpiles of paunch, was like a walking Fort Knox.