The Revenge of Johann Sebastian Bach
by Martin McBride (1986)
WASHINGTON, D.C.: Most Americans know their nation’s capital only from the picture-postcard image of it which appears in their living rooms nightly on the television screen. They are shown the halls of power: the White House, with its well-manicured lawns; Congress, with its imposing white dome; the Supreme Court, with its impressive neo-classical architecture. They are shown monuments to the authentic heroes of days gone by: Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln and others.
But what Americans don’t see of Washington is the grim reality: like every other US city, it is a dirty, dangerous, disgusting sinkhole of racial decay and corruption. It is pimps and prostitutes; dealers and junkies; legions of homeless bums of both sexes sleeping on steam-grates in the dead of winter. It is endless square blocks of urban squalor; teeming ghetto tenements full of angry and sullen Blacks, unemployed and unemployable. It is race-mixing; it is White degeneracy; it is Levantine merchants with bargain-basements filled to overflowing with shoddy goods.
It is the spawning ground for every social evil and toxin. Washington, D.C., is, if you will, a miniature New York City. It is what the Jews and plutocrats would like to see the whole country become: a hideous Third World nightmare; the rotting corpse of Western civilization; the death of our Race.
Basic wisdom: If you are White, stay away from the cities; there is nothing for you there anymore, except infection – spiritual, racial and sexual.
A few summers back I found myself trapped in Washington during the daily rush hour gridlock. I was stuck in traffic on 14th Street, Northwest – a major thoroughfare which is also an open sewer of racial pollution. It was just after 5:00 p.m., the time when most of the denizens of Washington’s night streets first begin to stir, and then stagger, blinking, into the smog-shrouded late afternoon light, to begin whatever hustle or scam they are involved in to keep themselves alive from one day to the next.
Although I was only three blocks from the White House, I was surrounded as far as I could see by porno shops, hookers, drug addicts and similar products of urban decay and capitalism. Now and then a rodent-like federal bureaucrat with his briefcase would scurry by, his eyes fixed on the pavement in front of him, never looking up or around at the ugly reality of which he was a part.
Washington in the summer is unearthly hot and humid, with the air thick and stifling. Partly as a defense against that, and partly to shut out the general unpleasantness, I had the windows of my car rolled up and the air conditioner turned on. To help drown out the unavoidable cacophony of city noises, I had my stereo turned on to a local classical music station.
The spot at which the following incident occurred was only a few steps away from the site where a luckless French tourist had been stabbed to death during a robbery by a drug-crazed Black a few nights earlier. The unfortunate visitor to our shores had doubtlessly perished under the misconception that he was safe walking on a well-lit busy street at night, for, after all, he was in the capital city of the most powerful country in the world, and he was less than a half-mile from the official residence of the chief executive of that country. “Poor misled bastard,” I mused to myself.
I waited impatiently for the traffic ahead of me to free up, so that I could escape this hellish scene. The light changed and then changed again. Still no movement. In front of me a 300-pound Negress exchanged obscenities with the Pakistani driver of a cab from which she had just exited. An anorexic Puerto Rican whore lounged listlessly in the doorway of a fast-food joint.
On the corner next to me stood a mulatto with an over-sized ghetto-blaster affixed to his shoulder, blaring out the latest pop hit by Michael Jackson or Prince or some other equally objectionable darling of the entertainment media. As one would expect, he had the volume turned up well past the point of distortion, so that the obnoxious screeching and rhythms of his radio penetrated even my little temperature modulated capsule of sanity.
As he shuffled down the street, mercifully passing out of earshot, I decided that the time had come for a counterattack. It would be no more than a token gesture of defiance, I realized, but at least it would afford me the personal satisfaction of cathartic release. I switched off my air conditioner, rolled down all my windows, and cranked my stereo up as loud as I could stand it.
Instantly, the filthy steel and concrete urban canyon was filled with the intricate and vaulting baroque harmonies of the Brandenburg Concerto Number Two in F Major by Johann Sebastian Bach.
As I expected, the raceless sludge occupying the sidewalks was stunned by the sudden turn of events. A light-complexioned Black, whom I assumed from his manner of dress was some sort of pimp, cupped his hands over his ears and retreated into the sanctuary of an X-rated bookstore. Slowly the sidewalk emptied, as the street people drifted away in pain and confusion from this audio intrusion into their fetid world.
A lone Negro/mestizo hybrid, dressed in a synthetic flowered shirt, unbuttoned to his navel, braved Bach’s exalted testament to Aryan genius. His eyes scanned the suddenly vacant sidewalk and the congested roadway in a frantic effort to discern the source of the agony that was assaulting him.
Our gazes met: my face was set in what I imagine was a slight smirk of self-satisfaction; his was contorted in revulsion and hatred at the horrible sound which he found so, so alien.
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Source: New Order