(((The Plan)))
(This is probably best read in the Cindy theme)

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The Plan had come to Nick in a fit of manic brilliance. A thought whose manifestation existed beyond the circumscription of the possible. At the outer limits of probability, the feasible is indiscernable from the magical. Jaden, doubter and Judas, once snicked it would occur only on a chance of 

1 to 489,241,754,471,235

But Nick, spurred on only by a profound generosity of spirit, only sighed. 

Brother — he had whispered — we were born to exist beyond the zeroes.

Six Sigma. 

We were going to break through it.

Recall the genesis of The Plan: Winter 2015. Boston University. 80mg Lisdexamfetamine. Ideas clicking in a rapid undulating succession, coalescing into elliptical chains. Infinity was an opening door: Reimu and Flandre, four-winged and sparkling in their burnished bronze, descended as the stars self-organized in sigillum dei. The Crimson King became the harbinger. In a cosmic instant, the Black Sun was rendered a Black Body, as sulfuric infusions cleared to reveal a human cast in the purest Carbon, a form darker than black. Phantasmal - at once Caesar, Napoleon, and Hitler too - with a hand of pure darkness reaching out. Fingers caressed gently Nick’s cheek, and all unearthed truths of tetragrammaton erupted as if from a violent sea and words flashed in red.

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And thus the Eschaton was unveiled: It was going to be a beautiful death.

That was it. From the inception of inspiration - infinity collapsed to mere seconds. The resulting transcription took weeks, as divine madness retreated, peeling back to reveal a most untimely logic. As it turned out: The heroes of the White Race would not be found amongst the ‘European Men’, those higher types -  but in places simultaneously lower and darker. What a pill to swallow! But understand this: In service of his own distant dream, Hitler had once ventured into a gay bar in Munich. The Plan was destined to likewise lead Nick down similar low roads. Thus it would be that the saviors would rise amongst the wretched of the earth — a dramatis personae running from Ethan Ralph to Kanye West and Ali Alexander. Every one essential. Every piece necessary. Understand this & you will understand the rest.

It is not to say that The Plan was to be easy.

Nothing of worth ever comes easy.

The first step? Twenty-three Catboy catamites. Amongst them, the leading lights of America First. Each ready and willing to give life and body for the sake of the White Nation to come.

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But still... I wish to remember now the way Nick cried then.

We had stayed up all night, filing applications for internship positions - twenty-three in number - at the Lincoln Project. Understand that I was already a believer by then, without a shred of doubt to temper a steeled heart. In time, I had come to mistake the coldness of purpose for strength. Yet when Nick collapsed before the deluge of his own stream and overflowing heart, I understood how profoundly I had erred.

Nick whispered that he had loved those boys. He spoke on their profound beauty, on their swarthy Cider'd skin, darkened hair, and on their fully fleshed-out lips. He understood fully what they would soon endure, and in his love - he wept for them. For each of them. For all of them.

That was when I knew.

This was the man I would give my body for.

This was the man I would die for.

Where the sons of Arya had wandered West, the daughters of Turan had wandered East past the Bering strait. Together they composed jointly the truest lineage of Hyperborea. Like Nick, I hold that only Hitler had understood full the esoteric significance of this, having infused it in his praise of the noble savages of the American continents. What was practical hyperborean atavism but Castizo-praxis? And where better was the spirit of Europa best preserved than on abuela’s altar, than in the hearts of La Raza?

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Of course, such thoughts required a higher mind. Syphilitic BAPtists, functionaries and beaucrats for the Eternal Talmudic Jew, brought low in their glycine-progestrone-PrEP addled thoughts could not be made to understand. Worse yet, nor could the Amarnite autists, trapped as they were within the logic of some unending Kafkaesque cosmic dialogue with the eternal Gigachad. Mikka — well —  Mikka might have understood, but then Mikka had his own Plan.

Where Nick had foreseen a united North and South, one Nation, one People, one Pope —- running from the heights of the Cascades all the way to the tip of Cape Horn. The eternal Meritocrat had rejected this manifest destiny in favor of a debased return to Europa. Now, these two visions were fighting to occupy a singular future. As with Goku and Broly at the end of Dragon Ball Super, the two had long been fate-bound to clash — and it was known to all that the winner would inherit the world.

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Smiley remembered now his Oneitis, Juanita. Raven-kissed and olive skinned, her brown eyes glittered as phosphorescent marbles. Spicy, with a tongue that would slice the butter clean, she possessed the truest Latin temper.

She had been his Rin.

She had been his Asuka.

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Smiley was back in the middle school gym now, remembering glass beads slipping into her tanktop during volleyball. In truth, that had been a mere three years ago, and Smiley had still been a boy. But time had passed, stretched on in accordance with that peculiar time dilation appreciated only in retrospect. Smiley had been sweet with inexperience, and the lesson came hard. Juanita had chosen Carlos, not him; and thus his heart hardened, before he emerged from this crucible as a fully formed man. Nick had always said that women are the first blackpill.

The clock was ticking.

At this very moment, The Plan was converging toward it’s final act. By an impossible, an unimaginable sequence of sheer synchronicities, the pieces had arranged themselves exactly as Nick had long predicted. With Beardon’s sacrifice at the Baltimore Walmart parking lot two months prior, Ali Alexander had finally managed to infiltrate the NSA. Under the assumed alias Pooja Kumar, Ali had tactically, effortlessly, positioned himself within the White House IT department. Yes… it is true that Ali was no pajeet, but he played the role well enough. Appearance and dress came easy, but the accent took no small effort. Ralph had masterfully suggested that Ali should try imitating Raj from The Big Bang Theory. Nick may have been skeptical, but he held his tongue. Never paying a heed to the naysayers, Nick gave his faith to Ralph unconditionally, recognizing that the man possessed a certain uncanny intuition.

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Smiley understood his own part. In a way, this was the role that Nick had always groomed him for. To be a knight on this endless board of seventh dimensional chess - Smiley could imagine nothing more noble. Having now obtained the nuclear launch codes, Ali had surpassed every hope and expectation. Could he be anything less than the honorary-Aryan hero of legend? All that he had asked in a return was a certain favor from Nick — a certain Gentleman’s agreement. If Nick had been revolted by the proposition, he never let it be known.

When Smiley arrived at Ali’s motel, the music of Boyz II Men had cut the quiet of the wet night. Inside, Ali was sitting on his couch, eyes imbued with the dark warmth of a distant jungle.

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And so Smiley got on his knees. He prayed his abuela would forgive him for what he was about to do. At stake was nothing short of Total White Victory. What was Smiley’s innocence in comparison to that? What was the innocence of the twenty-three? What was the innocence of a hundred thousand white boys? Sacrifices had to be made.

Yes, it would have been easier… if it had been Nick instead. Nick was beautiful after all. No one could deny it & there was nothing gay in acknowledging it. If it had been Nick, Smiley may have even enjoyed it. Certainly, it would have been degrading and disgusting, as all loathsome homosexual behavior was - but would it have made Nick smile? No one shined or smiled quite brightly as Nick did. Not even Smiley himself. And was it truly debasing if it was an act of love?

Instead, it was Ali Alexander, whose visage recalled some degenerate Mumbai streetshitter. A fact made all the more jarring with the knowledge that Ali ‘Pooja’ Alexander still wasn’t a genuine pajeet. Smiley could not imagine a single cock he would desire sucking less. Even Ralph would have been preferable. At least Ralph was White… with a stout and plump build, distantly reminiscent of some Nordic blacksmith.

As Ali Amazon’s Echo shifted the track to Marvin Gaye, the soulful R&B rolled through the apartment like buttered gravy. At that moment, Ali caught Smiley’s eye, and guided his hand towards the zipper.

I've been really tryin', baby
Tryin' to hold back this feeling for so long
And if you feel like I feel, baby
Then, c'mon, oh, c'mon, whoa

Now unzipped, Ali’s engorged primitive root weiner bulged loose its denim prison. Smiley was overcome by a primordial terror at the threshold. It was monstrous. No, no-, no-o... It was far worse —  it was utterly totemic.

Let's get it on
Ah, baby, let's get it on
Let's love, baby
Let's get it on, sugar
Let's get it on, woo hoo

As Smiley puckered his lips, he let his heart meld to cold iron, steeling himself before for his final duty.

This was the final price of Total White Victory. Unbidden, an old fantasy came on like a spectre: Smiley recalled his old fantasy of Juanita engaging in mouth-sodomy on him. As the images arose within, he felt a warm stirring in his boxers. He imagined how pleased she looked as her lips caressed his member. 

Though he had not realized it until this final moment - his angel, his Juanita, had been with him all long. 

Thus Smiley let his fantasy manifest reality, and allowed himself to be her. Smiley had become Juanita, and Ali Smiley.

Taking a deep breath, Smiley smiled. Then she opened wide.

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